Who

Zeyta, Th'bek

What

Featured in the dragonhealer courtyard, two brownriders converge. Kczyslawborth's dieting. No one wins.

When

It is the first day of Spring and 67 degrees. It is a clear evening.

Where

Dragonhealer Yard

OOC Date

 

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Dragonhealer Yard

Painfully elegant, a stubborn brand of cleanliness is retained in the gentle colors of faded murals and various curtains hung from the rusted metal poles meant to shelter injured dragons on spacious couches lining the permanently soot-stained limestone walls. Of a dusty no-color somewhere between brown and gold, the floor extends onward, fading beneath ragged cabinets built to withstand anything from lashing draconic tails to various medicinal spills.


"What do you mean you released them. I gave specific instructions that their wingleader was to be present for their final physical examination before you declared them fit for fighting. You're an imbecile." Outright with the ad hominem abusive, Zeyta minces no words in ridiculing the poor dragonhealer on duty. Intolerant of disobedience, the stiff-necked hauteur of the brooding brownrider emanates outward, complemented by the hostile recline of her lifemate, arranged so his spined back bristles and teeth gnash together in a ferocious display of terror. The berated, cowing under the harsh reprimands, stutters and struggles to defend himself, cut off by an interjecting: "I don't care."

The early bird got the worm or was eaten by Threadfall, depends on who you ask and the circumstances at large. The younger litter of weyrlings is penciled in for a dragonhealing seminar that Th'bek arrived early to. Early without provocation. He's got 'homework' rolled in his hand, a detailed drawing and labeling of dragon parts Every Good Rider Ought To Know. His dragon looks a little pig-like but the recycled piece of hide was oblong to start with. As Zeyta stands Wrathful before him Th'bek feels pity for the poor sap and joy it's not him getting his asshole redesigned. Ergo the salute forthcoming is exemplary. Especially notice the heels.

"Be gone. Out of my face. I'll track the dimglow moronic enough to heed you without my approval myself. Does anyone in this Weyr have a brain." Zeyta lapses into rhetorical questioning, volume dropping to its displeased mutter, monotone leveling out her ire. The animosity lingers there in her tightly masked expression, as she pivots to hail her dragon, invoking a telepathic summons of her absentee wing rider to carry on her evisceration of lessers. Th'bek's salute attracts but a passing glance and a begrudging nod; Kczyslawborth develops more of a keen interest, sucking in air over his many rows of teeth as if tasting the scent of the weyrling.

To the world Th'bek's gained a dragon, muscle, temperance (maybe), and his hair's slightly less mangy. To Zeyta he's background just ahead of the caldera wall in positioning. M'dont also had intentions to be early but upon seeing the head of Arroyo aborts that plan and keeps on walking back the way he came. "Evenin' ma'am, Kczyslawborth," scalp feeling the air vacuumed overhead, the weyrling tries to see into the cavern that is Coleslaw's gullet with squinty eyes. "How many caprines you got in there?"

Always the scene-stirrer, Zeyta, channeling her vehemence into the more subtle cues cultivated to ward off the approach of others. Faced fully toward Th'bek, nothing hides the swell of her stomach, the child growing within. "What." Lip curled in a snarl, the brownrider forces herself to backtrack, accepting the greeting with a, "Weyrling," as she matches the face to the one of the past: the shepherd by the standing stones, the bold youth in the cantina. "Mmm. None. He's dieting and quite upset about it." Whether true or not, he demonstrates his penchant for intimidation via a whip-crack of his tail and jaw clamping shut.

There's a tightening of the trapezius on one side of Rev's neck and his head freezes in place until it passes. Then it's a matter of pinching the offending tissue to judge how much ache is left in it. The small roll of hide then taps the side of his thigh. Is this going to be a class of one? That is, if the instructor even presents himself. Considering the time still early, he bides it. It is wise, always, to provide space to Kczyslawborth and now bona fide that he's on food restriction. One, two, three, ten, yes all fingers are accounted for. "I can imagine he's outraged." Eyebrows climbing as his eyes do along the immense brown. "Ma'am are you expecting?" Couth? No. But he's calling it as he sees it. Only twice were those women just fond of sweet almond paste and candied dates. 'Who's the unlucky father' is thought but masks his face as if rewriting 'congratulations!' for something more Zeyta tailored. "May your bloodline flourish."

"Mm, fury little suits a dragon like Kczyslawborth. Have no doubt, he shall enact his revenge in far more effective a way." Working dysfunction at its finest: Zeyta peels away from the vicinity of the pale monster she rides, oblivious to his antics. Given the attentions of another, he fans his ghost-ship 'sails, the bleached bone-white of him flung out in spars trailing their ecru canvas. "Excuse me, weyrling." She lets her gaze become a half-lidded affair, "This is the dragon healer's yard, and you are to be in strict professional observance of rank and hierarchy in the Weyr while here and awaiting your lesson. I rather think my physical condition concerns you not at all, even given a more mmm, casual environment. Furthermore, to presume as much demonstrates little tact on your part."

A desk bell for service. That's what this yard needs. Limbs gathered for parade rest, Th'bek pulls his face from the last spring residues of Rukbat and at least appears humbled. "I think they really hammer tact home on week seven when we're seniors, ma'am." Sarcasm isn't his trademark so this could very well be honest to god truth or stupid blatant cockiness. "At any rate, congratulations and I'll keep my tongue about it." See, he's even looking afield like they aren't even talking about anything of great interest. Th'bek breathes evenly and watches the clouds thin, patience something else Ay'den's beating into his head.

"Is that so," Zeyta muses, no softening warmth to the unnerving twist of her lips into a cruel sneer. "I suppose I'll have to bespeak the Weyrlingmaster. I'll be sure to cite your insolence as evidence for learning etiquette earlier in weyrlinghood." Nothing to be gleaned from that cement assurance other than impending doom; if only you could blame it on the hormones. Alas, she always interacts so cutting.

There's this perversity to sacrifice himself on Zeyta's altar every time they meet. It's a sick bit of sadism that might be a genetic flaw. Sure Th'bek can try to avoid pain but when Zeyta guarantees the outcome regardless of behavior (the tests are rigged, man) he resolves to go down swinging or smiling and get right back on that metal wheel. Ay'den will likely inflict a lecture or extra lap so Zeyta should be mildly content in what her wrath earns others. "I'd better so check on the instructor if you don't mind, ma'am." Little do they know there could be a CLOSED sign on the door so he doesn't have to encounter Someone Specific.

"Yes, do so. I'd congratulate you on your Impression as we part, but you've done little to inspire confidence in your generation. Instead, I'll wish Faranth help us all once you take to the skies." Poor Th'bek, trying so valiantly to conquer the beast. Zeyta compresses her expression down into a presiding apathy of no-nonsensicality. Whether she intends to follow through on her threats is a mystery in itself too: certainly she is distracted by many a thing this evening. Chief among them: the wingrider she sought out in the first place. Dismissing Th'bek with a dip of her chin, she turns to stalk down her prey, claws at the ready.

"Aye, ma'am! Fair winds." All the same THOUGH HIS HEART MIGHT BE BREAKING Th'bek salutes the wingleader and follows through with his task.

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