Cha'el, Thierry


A little act of honesty amidst an awesome Igen storm.


It is sunrise of the twenty-fifth day of the third month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Igen Weyr Star Stones

OOC Date



Star Stones

The climb up here on foot is steep, narrow stone steps carved high into the sandstone, and from the top the precipice-drop to the jagged-craggy stones far, far below is treacherous. It's a wide sweep of ledge, a dragonlength and a half jutting out from a rough cliff wall. The wind here is ceaseless, dusty-dry during daytimes and biting at night. But for those who brave the climb to this lookout perched high above the Weyr's bowl, the view from these sandy-red rocks is breathtaking. Igen stretches wide-wide-wide around, a vast expanse of deep blue lake and lush green swamp and the myriad rust-rich colours of desert and rock. The real purpose of this spot, though, is highlighted not in its view of what is below but its view of what is above. Three tall rocks stand, one balanced across the tops of the other two, at the focal point of the ledge, perpetually framing one slice of the desert sky beyond.

It might be sunrise, but the weather makes it hard to tell; thick clouds block out any hint of Rukbat's rays, with the world below illuminated by the lightning streaks that whip across the sky. The rain, for the moment at least, has eased from deluge to light downpour, though that doesn't make the climb up to the Star Stones any easier for Thierry - and yet he manages it, dragging his sodden ass up the steps to the wind-whipped top. Winded, wet, and aching, he ignores the soaked ground to splatter down into the mud at the base of the fingerrock, tugging his coat's hood as far down over his face as he can while trying to get his breath back - hopefully, by the time the Weyrsecond arrives, he'll be capable of /not/ wheezing once more.

Sikorth is like the postal services. Come Thread or high water, blizzard or sandstorm, he insists his rider gets his daily workout in. Thus it is that one very grumpy and very WET Weyrsecond is but a few paces behind Thierry after having run laps around the bowl first. "Do yourself a favor kid," he huffs, swiping the rain from his face, hair plastered flat against his skull. "Find a lazy fuck for a dragon on the sands." Because this enforced routine SUCKS ASS!!

/Nearly/ with his breath back, Thierry pushes his hood back just enough to see Cha'el, squinting up against the rain that lashes against his face. There's a hint of dull-gleam gold that peeps out from a level with his jaw; firelizard-eyes whirl orange-yellow, and with a tiny creel the little one ducks away again into the rain-protected safety. Thi huffs out a laugh, pushing himself back up to his feet - though only so he can lean back against the rock behind him. "D'you reckon one's gonna pick me, Weyrsecond?" Still a little wheezy, but he's almost caught his breath.

Cha'el long since gave up with the hood of his sweatshirt, the thing now lying limp and sad down his back. Limp noodle. The quick peek of gold and whirly eyes is noted and draws a brief twist of lips. "Least she sticks with you. Mine's probably face down in a vat of cream somewhere." With his breath clouding the air in front of him, the Weyrsecond shoots the former guard recruit a smirk. "Aye. A green with a love for all things lace and purple."

"Only cos I stuff her fat face with shit," Thierry snorts, though not without affection. "Dunno where Rat's at. Probably with yours." That dragon comment, though, makes him scoff; he raises his fists, taking a sparring swing at the brownrider's shoulder. "Betcha you want me on a green so's you can get yours to chase her." He brings his fists back up, taking another swing - a little higher, this time. "Though I also betcha them dragons don't want us lot from the bazaar. Betcha half a mark on it."

Stretching his arms above his head and then folding them about his chest to tuck his hands in under his armpits, Cha'el snorts and releases one, his left, to pretend to swat a smack to the side of the candidate's head. "Keep dreaming, kid." Is his retort on Sikorth chasing green. "You need tits for what he chases." Grin. Duck. And up come his hands curled into loose fists, weight transferring to the balls of his feet, a sparring jab aimed low at Thierry's kidneys. "I've given up trying to figure why dragons choose who they do."

Cha'el gets his swat in with Thierry only wincing, though the teen dances aside to avoid the jab, while swinging around with one of his own. Then he holds up his hands for a pause, taking a half-step back. His hands dig into his pockets - he's wearing trousers today, having learnt his scraped-knees lesson - possibly seeking his tokes. "Hey, Weyrsecond? I gotta confession." Out comes one hand, tokes-free - but with a teaspoon clasped between his thumb and forefinger. It's held out to Cha'el, while Thierry looks anywhere /but/ the brownrider. The flush on his rain-streaked cheeks can't still be from the climb up, can it?

Readying himself to possibly take the impact of a sneaked punch, Cha'el cocks a brow when the teen calls a pause. "Told you those tokes would fuck with your lungs." An assumption made. However, when Thierry produces a teaspoon, the brownrider stares blankly at it before taking it and flicking a wary look his way. "Look, you're a decent looking kid and all but if this is some weird kind of proposition for wanting to spoon then I'm gonna have to pass."

"I cut back." On the tokes, that is. Thierry shrugs that away, though, glancing shiftily at Cha'el to see his reaction to the spoon. The one he gets makes his eyes narrow, and he sweeps his hand across his forehead to wipe the rain away from his frown - not that it makes any real difference, since there's plenty more falling to replace it. "Yeah yeah, you /wish/ I'd let you get me to bed," he retorts after a moment's thought, cheekily sticking his middle finger up at the brownrider. "Thought I oughta give that back. Since this could be /my/ Weyr, in, well, however long it takes them eggs hatch. Ain't good to be pilfering from your own home." He shrugs awkwardly, digging his hands back into his pockets, shoulders hunched in anticipation of an oncoming reprimand.

Relieved to find that indeed the presentation of the spoon wasn't some sort of odd token of attraction, Cha'el utters a snort designed to swipe away his assumption. The middle fingered salute draws a smirk and he bites back on the comment that rises to mind. The further explanation that Thierry provides however, goes a ways to helping connect the dots and up jerks a brow. "You lifted this from the council chambers?" Drippy bearded features pull toward the idea of a stern line. "You know what this means, aye?"

Thierry shrugs his shoulders again, peering up from beneath the hem of his hoodie. Snake's there, peeping out again with her eyes still-whirling; she doesn't like the thunder and lightning any more than she likes the rain though, so she ducks back away with a hiss of unhappiness. "Found it in my pocket in the infirmary." His shoulders are still hunched, the playful openness of his expression earlier drawing more closed - more typically streetrat, really. The expectation of trouble has him jutting out his chin stubbornly, and he frowns up at Cha'el, waiting. "You're gonna tell me what it means, aren't you?"

Tucking the spoon into the pocket of his sweatshirt, Cha'el continues to maintain that unyielding expression. "Aye, you're gonna head yourself down to Sadie and…" a glimmer of amusement breaks through, "ask her for a cloth and polish every single teaspoon, fork, knife and desert spoon, in the living caverns." Humor continues to rise and now glints in sea-blue eyes. "Found it in your pocket, eh?" Taking the spoon out again the Weyrsecond studies it closely, turning it this way and that, "I can't see 'em." The spoon is held out for Thierry's inspection. "Can you?"

That clearly wasn't as bad as Thierry was expecting, and he seems surprised. "What?" Then, a half-beat later: "That Weyrwoman don't like me." He's still looking warily at Cha'el; even more so after the brownrider peers into the spoon. "Can't see what?" When it's held towards him, he squints at the rainy metal, shaking his head and shrugging. "Can't see /shit/. Dunno whatcha looking for."

Waiting until Thierry is in close examination of the spoon, the Weyrsecond lifts it on knocks him on the forehead with it. "Legs." The answer to what he's looking for. "Musta had legs to get from the klah tray to your pocket, aye?" Snort. Slipping it back into his pocket, Chae'l swipes a soggy sleeve across his face. "Take her something shiny, smile at her and compliment her on her hair." A few ideas for how the teen might try to win the Weyrwoman over. "Ugh. Fuck this shit! I'm done. Sikorth can go kiss a wher's arse. I'm going for a hot bath."

"Legs." Thierry doesn't look amused. "Teaspoons don't… huh." No no, he doesn't find it funny, and he slow-motion play-swings at Cha'el's jaw for the joke attempt. "Baths're why she /doesn't/ like me." Perhaps the Weyrsecond's noticed Thi's been entirely absent from them of late? "You gonna be free later sometime, Weyrsecond? I've got the afternoon free. Wanna talk to you about some… shit." He scratches at his bearded chin - or his attempt at a bearded chin, anyway. It's not great. "Dragony shit."

Jerking his head back just enough so that Thierry's fist grazes harmlessly along the bristles of his bears, the Weyrsecond eyes him. "What you do? Piss in her pool?" A shake of head that sends droplets of water back out into the rain follows. "Got a meeting this afternoon. You wanna talk, then you gonna have to do it in the baths." Ha!

Thierry blows a raspberry through the rain at Cha'el. "Told her I reckon guys and girls oughta have /separate/ bathing pools. Mebbe she wants to ogle everyone's /bare bits/, but I don't. All them fucking girls are /mad/." Thi shoves his hands into his pockets, huffing grumpily up at the brownrider. "Can'tcha just talk /here/? Them baths're full of… there's /girls/ in 'em, Cha'el." And he looks /terrified/. Terrified enough to call the Weyrsecond by his name, for the first time!

Amusement begins to etch across water-logged features on the matter of separate bathing pools. "In Ista there were a few pools screened off for those that wanted privacy." In other words, he gets it. Until Thierry's show of utter terror of having to re-enter the place of jiggly woman bits on bobbing display that is. "Aw c'mon, don't be such a pussy." Cha'el chides not bothering to hide his amusement and turns to start heading back down the steep wind of steps. "Tell you what. I'll watch your back and beat the females off before they can infect the water. Deal?" Flung over his back. "If helps any, I'll even shake my ass for 'em so's you can bathe in peace." Yeah-no. Not gonna happen.

"'m not a fucking pussy," Thierry grumbles, falling in behind Cha'el to follow him down the steps. "You din't /see/ them, man. They were fucking /vicious/. All of 'em. All baying for blood like fighting bitches." He does smirk though at the thought of the brownrider shaking his ass; while that may not be visible, his snort of laughter will at least be audible over the rain and thunder. "They'll make /you/ run next. A fucking huge sea of tits and bitching's gonna wash you outta the baths too, Weyrsecond." He picks up his pace to get closer, only a step behind the brownrider to make talking easier. "Thought I mighta punched one've them. Don't even /know/ her, but I didn't like her mouth. Not that I /would/, but I /wish/ I could."

A snort filters up along the wet air. "Women hunt in posses, kid. Any time you see a group of 'em together, its time to turn tail and get the fuck outta there because you're always gonna lose." There's a pause and then Cha'el barks out a laugh at Thierry's comment about the sea of tits. "We fight with fists, women fight with their mouths. Any time you show any sign of fear, or try to meet 'em on their own terms in a verbal sparring match, they're gonna eat you for breakfast and spit you out. Best to just keep your head down and nod and smile until they go away." So sayeth the Weyrsecond.

Thierry groans, displeased with the advice to just /give up/. "Fuck 'em," he grumbles. "And their stupid fucking mouths. They oughta use 'em more for, y'know… that thing they do that makes us feel /good/. Fill 'em up so they can't talk. Then we'd all be fucking happy." There's more grumbling from him, but it's lost beneath the sound of thunder crashing through the sky overhead, followed by a flash of lightning. "Even /Snake's/ all waah waah waah at me all the damned time. Fuck, I hope I don't Impress a green. What'd happen then, Weyrsecond?"

Although he should expect such comments from the teen by now, Cha'el stumbles and almost misses a step. Thankfully, he's in front of Thierry so he can't see the amount of effort it takes for the Weyrsecond to school back the laughter that threatens for the sentiment behind remark made. "Watch it, kid. We might not get what goes on in those heads of there's but nine times outta ten when it comes to the complicated stuff," such as relationships and stuff he totally sucks at, "they're the ones that can figure their way out of a firestone sack." Cringing as lightning streaks overhead, he quickens his pace. "You impress a green, you'll get an inside edge into the female mind that a lot of us don't have. So count yourself lucky for that one."

"Eurgh." Teenaged drama-sigh. Thierry even sticks his tongue out in disgust - not that Cha'el can see it from in front, of course. He quickens to match the new-set pace, keeping close behind the brownrider. "Still don't reckon no dragon's gonna want a streetrat." There's a soft creel from Snake, who sounds annoyed; possibly at being bounced about so much with the trotting down the stairs and all. "Mebbe all the greens in the clutch'll like the girls. Barracks're fucking /full/ of 'em, y'know? It's like a /plague/ of girls. Some're alright," /yes/, Thierry /did/ say that, "but there's some Holdery ones who're just /stupid/."

"There's always a lot of females searched when there's a gold egg on the sands," Cha'el notes, the reward of a hot bath at the end chivvying the pace along. "Hold girls are just closeted to keep their parents' precious sensibilities intact. They tend to struggle the most when dropped into a situation like candidacy. A streetrat like you with street smarts might want to take one of them under his wing. Could be she's the next goldrider, aye?" Another few steps and then they're briefly under cover and squelching their way toward the exit that spills out into the bowl. "In this life, its often not what you know, but who." Connections. They count. "As for dragons and streetrats. Don't sell yourself short, kid. You've got a lot to offer and dragons tend to be wiser than we are."

"How d'you even know it really /is/ a gold egg? Can't see what's in it. Could be a big-ass blue or something that'll pop outta it." Once under shelter, Thierry flips his soaked hood down off his head, shaking out his hair and reaching back to squeeze what water he can from it. "Mebbe I'd help out one've them Holder boys, or summat. They're not all as dumb. Like there's one, right? Met him in the bazaar before he was shoved into the barracks, but he's not from around here. Reckon he mighta been alright as one've my boys." He hop-steps, pulling up alongside Cha'el once there's room to allow it, matching his step to the brownrider's. "I'll kiss arse whenever one've them's /got/ a gold dragon, Weyrsecond, not before. Pretty sure they all hate me anyway." Because he's so /charming/ - especially as he turns his head to spit. "Y'know you're the only one who reckons I've got shit to offer, yeah? One've you versus a whole fucking /Weyr/. Don'tcha think you might be wrong?"

"The golds know." Cha'el reveals though the idea of a massive blue cracking shell from the egg reported to contain gold does draw a chuff of laughter from the brownrider. "Ah. Forget goldrider and straight to potential Weyrleader, huh? Good thinking. What's this Hold kid's name?" Shaking himself off like a big wet canine, the Weyrsecond braces to head back out into the rain again for the short jaunt to the bazaar and the blissful warmth of the bathing pools. "Me? Yes. Often. Sikorth? Not so much." He freely admit to Thierry about being wrong. "He's been watching you from the get go. Figures if you can channel that piss and vinegar into something constructive, you might get somewhere in life. Actually," there's a pause followed by a grumbled curse when a spill of water from the overhang of rock canopying the exit to the bowl, drops down his back, "you remind me of someone else I know. Good man beneath all the bitch and snarl. Damn fine, wingsecond too."

"Alec. Oughta be something like Vtol, though. That's what I'd call him." Thierry squints out at the rain they're about to head back into, then frowns up at Cha'el. Apparently, he didn't expect the Weyrsecond to /admit/ to thinking he was wrong. His frown deepens, and he crosses his arms over his chest, dropping his gaze down to the sodden, rain-splashed ground. "Huh." His pause means he's out of the way of that sloshing water, but he steps out after it's cleared. "Thought you mighta been in my corner," he says with quiet sullenness once he catches up, splashing through puddles. "Dunno what it means for a dragon to think that shit. I've got nowhere in life to /go/."

"Worm, Vtol, almost makes me wonder what you call me behind my back." Cha'el muses aloud while he forges forward, breaking into a light jog with his head ducked against the sheeting rain. Only once they reach the warm steamy embrace of the bathing caverns does he stop and with breathing even, turn a soggy but intent look onto Thierry. "I'm not wrong about you." That having been said the brawny brownrider angles his squelchy path toward a bathing pool conveniently free of female occupants. "What makes you think I'm not in your corner?" He asks hauling his sodden sweatshirt off over his head in a ripple of muscle and dropping it onto the floor.

"Gay," Thierry snorts playfully, giving the rider's arm a playful punch before pushing into a pace to match his; he's got to work a little harder at it than than the brownrider, leaving him more puffed out when they finally get to the baths. He looks up through a fringe that's plastered to his forehead, frowning in confusion. "Didn't you say you thought you were wrong about me?" Thi follows his path, a half-pace behind Cha'el. The muscles revealed when the Weyrsecond begins stripping off earn an admiring look from Thierry; a look that's a few seconds longer than it strictly should be, really. His own undressing starts with his soggy boots. "You said you think you're wrong. Don't that mean you're not backing me up?"

Public Baths

Stout walls have been erected around several naturally formed pools, serving to provide a semblance of privacy and protection from the harsh wind and sand. Above the pools, well cleaned walkways criss-cross beneath tiled arches and descend with a stairway or two leading down to each pool to provide one means of slip-free access through the area. Surrounding the pools there are benches, receptacles to put used clothing and towels in, and areas to get sweetsand and towels from - if you didn't bring your own.

"I'm not." Cha'el idly notes to Thierry's first while running shoes are shucked. Drenched sweatpants clinging like a second skin are peeled off and dropped with a wet splat into the dismal pile of storm soaked clothing. Sauntering over to the steps leading down into the pool, the brownrider shakes his head. "No, I admitted to being wrong sometimes. I didn't say I was wrong about you. Because I'm not. And so long as you keep your nose clean and your fists to yourself, you'll have my backing." By this time, he's already hip deep in the soothing embrace of heated water and moving over to a hidden ledge where sinking down onto it and bracing thickly muscled arms along the sides of the pool, the Weyrsecond tilts his head back and exhales a blissful sigh.

Thierry's slower in peeling off his layers, because he's got a clingy Snake to detangle from his hoodie. Once he's removed his layers, he picks up the little gold - who's not long out of her shell, by the size of her - and slips into the pool next to Cha'el. "Thought you said something else," he says with a sheepish shrug; it's a reluctant admission that he was wrong. Snake's set free to bob and float about as she will, while he sinks into the water with a relaxed huff. "Thought all riders had to be a little gay," he admits after a moment of silent soaking, looking side-on at the brownrider.

From under hooded lids, Cha'el watches the little gold go bobbing by, another brought to mind that pulls a brief frown into place. Sideways his gaze drifts to Thierry. "Why? Because of flights?" Lids drop fully, a short patch of silence spooling out broken only by the splashing of younglings in one of the larger pools being overseen by a pair of nannies. "It's not about being gay, straight or otherwise when it comes to flights. Its about what the dragons want," beat, "and get. If you impress to green…" Another more recent memory slams into place dragging a deeper twitch of brows into place. This is so not a conversation he wants to be having. "You should know what to expect if the dragon that catches has a male rider." The Weyrsecond's baritone cast at the edges with discomfort.

Lucky for Cha'el, it's not a conversation Thierry wants, either - especially not when it takes the greenrider turn. "Fuck that." He's /blushing/, and he sinks as low in the water as he can, while it's still possible to talk. He's grumpily quiet for a few minutes, before quietly asking a question; "What's it like?" Tehn, after a beat, "I mean Impressing. Not flight-fucking. What's it like, having a dragon?"

Lucky for Thierry that Cha'el's eyes are closed and he misses that blush or he might have had a teasing comment to make to try and break the awkward turn of conversation. As it is the lead up to the question posed finds the brownrider's entire body stiffening. What's it like!? Aw hell no! He is SO not answering that one. But then the question is qualified and he releases the breath he'd been holding. "Blows your mind. You go about your life thinking you're in control and you've got it all figured out, right? And then suddenly, there's this whole other personality in your head and your heart and you realize that you'd only been living half a life up until then. Its like…your heart suddenly starts beating for the first time."

Thierry scratches at his ear, frowning as he tries to process the apparent enormity of what he's signed up for. "Ok." That's a somewhat hesitant 'ok'; he can't quite fathom it. "It sounds… big." The ear-scratching evolves into sideburn scratching, which, in turn, becomes goatee-scrubbing. "And every dragon is different, right? Why does yours… think that way about me? Like how you said he does? How does he think that about me, when I'm… not… you?"

"It is." Comes the drowsy drawl from Cha'el as the warmth seeps into his bones undoing the cold soaking of the rain. "Aye, they're each different. Just like people are." A languid chuckle greets Thierry's last. "Sikorth is always on the watch for recruits to his case. He reckons you'd make a good one." Threadbait.

"Sikorth." Perhaps repeating the name helps Thierry to commit it to memory. "What's he like? I've only met, um… Sienna's dragon, and this crazy greenrider's dragon, too. And… well, Elicheritath doesn't count. It wasn't /meeting/ so much as… er… something else, I guess." He frowns, scrubbing fingers through his rain-wet hair; it ends up sticking up messily atop his head. "What's his cause? Why'm I good for it?"

"Sikorth?" A chuff of amusement. "It's like having a Weyrlingmaster or a Wingleader at drills in your head twenty-four-seven. He's loud and borderline obnoxious and then at other times like this heavy weight of silence that feels ancient. Ambitious. Always pushing to improve. Highly competitive." Lids lift and Cha'el fixes Thierry with an unreadable look. "The fight against Thread. He thinks you have what it takes. Ballsy, and not scared to get your hands dirty."

Thierry turns to Cha'el, meeting that unreadable look with a narrowed-eye one of his own. "That's why I took that white knot… that, and Tuli. How the fuck d'you say no to her?" He squirms uncomfortably, no doubt thinking about the goldrider. "I wanna fuck thread over, Weyrsecond. It's not gonna come ruin /my/ home." He looks away then, watching Snake splashing and diving further across the pool. "'S'all good being on the groundcrew and all, but I don't wanna be pansying away behind stone and shit when thread's falling; I want to be /out/ there, blasting the shit outta it."

Approval is evident in the glint to blue eyes and the curve of lips within the frame of beard. Sikorth is generally, never wrong in identifying the ones with the passion for it. "Tuli's a law unto herself," Cha'el agrees with a crooked twitch of mouth. Thankfully he's never had reason to go head to head with the indomitable weyrwoman. And now comes a question for Thierry. "What you gonna do if you don't find your dragon this time round?"

"Get a flamethrower and burn shit up with it?" Thierry's joking… right? It's perhaps hard to tell from the look he gives Cha'el as he shrugs. "Go back to the guard and make sure none of them /women/ guards are gonna get promoted over me. Fuck that shit, man - they're fucking unbearable as it is. Don't want one turning out to be my boss. Nu-uh. Reckon I might pick exile over that." He flicks at the water, ducking under it real quick to scrub at his hair. When he emerges, fringe pushed back and sticking up, he looks up at Cha'el. "Did you find Sikorth on your first go?"

A short laugh emitted in a low rumble of sound. "You're gonna be okay, kid. You're one of those that lands on his feet." As to women in the guard, Cha'el's lips purse but after the reaming he'd gotten from W'rin about putting opinions that conflict with the Weyrwoman's orders out into public hearing, he says nothing and merely grunts. The last from Thierry he replies to without reserve. "Aye. Got scooped straight off the ship just after we docked. Greenrider with a nice pair of assets I figured I might have a chance at pulling into. Cockblocked me with a white knot instead." Amused.

"Then maybe I will, too." Thierry shrugs, sitting up higher in the bath now that he's soaked himself properly. He sits quietly, resting his hands in his lap beneath the water, looking thoughtfully down at them. "It's ok to want it, isn't it? And it's ok to not be too bothered if you don't get it, too? I feel kinda weird about it all, Weyrsecond. I'm from the /bazaar/. I shouldn't have a white knot. Da won't let me home, y'know? He hates that I say yes. And living in the Weyr is fucking /weird/. Plus, it stinks."

Jerking upright as if someone had just slapped him upside the head, Cha'el snatches at the sweetsand set out on a tray of bathing accessories for those that haven't brought their own and quickly sets about scrubbing himself. "I'm coming! Don't get your tai in a twist!" Apparently relaxation time is over. "Its more than okay on both counts. Means you've got your head on straight," he tells Thierry before dunking himself beneath the water. Coming up again, hair is attacked with the same vigor. "Your da's a dick. Having a son as a rider buys him opportunities he might not have had otherwise." What they might be, he doesn't divulge but instead slips back under the water, rinses off and shoves off the hidden seating. "Sikorth's having a conniption about being late for drills. I need to go." Wading out of the pool, a towel is wrapped about lean hips. "The Weyr smells better than the midden." Cha'el retorts scooping up his puddle of drenched clothing. "Later, kid." And with that, he saunters out wearing nothing but that towel which hopefully means his dragon is meeting him just outside to take him back to his weyr for clothing or else drills could get VERY breezy.

Thierry nods in agreement. "Yeah. Da's a dick." He shrugs, following Cha'el's lead with the soapsand, though at a slower pace. He's got time to spend scrubbing down properly, in this girls-free section of the baths! "Don't think I'd be sleeping in the midden, Weyrsecond, but the way the barracks stink of mildew now? Heh." Can't be far off the midden, from that look. When the brownrider gets up to go, dressed so similarly to Thierry's own bathtime escapes, the candidate smirks. "Don'tchoo catch a cold now, sir! Good flying!" On his own, he speeds up his cleansing process - just in case any /girls/ decide to drop on by to ruin it.

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