Who

K'lir, Cha'el

What

RPTAG - Cha’el mistakenly attacks an innocent man

Language and some violence

When

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

Where

Barrier Hold, Mirror Hall

OOC Date

 

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Mirror Hall

Shadows dance and flicker from the stolen light of those who dare brave past the risky turbulence of the ice stream: stolen light, bouncing and reflecting at odd angles in this strange, winding way. Surrounding the path in surreality, sheets of translucent ice tower at every angle as the stream dives under the glacier proper and out of sight. The effect is having one's reflection constantly tossed back from all directions, a dizzyingly discombobulating phenomenon. Curves hide where this passageway leads, though a strange, far-off light seems to promise more room if only one continues to move forward. Careful of the step, here ice reigns supreme and only the most fleet footed walk without the devilish ice seeking to cause footfalls to stumble.


It's a restday … or was supposed to be, at least. However, K'lir isn't all that great at resting on his restdays. As has happened the past several times the young bronzerider has had time off from drills and duties, the young man can be found prowling the Ice Fields and helping the wildlings he's made friends with run the trap and snare lines he had originally set for the new residents of the Hold. His path had taken him back toward the courtyard where his bronze basks in the faint sunlight until he had been distracted by scuffed tracks in the thin layer of snow until he found himself in this cavern. He is hunkered down at the base of one of the icy sheets that reflects his image oddly, his ice cleats keeping him from slipping, and is examining something and muttering to himself.

Coiled tightly against the pale form of Dhiammarath, is Sikorth, the two wound about the Hold like a pair of menacing, enormous, living, fire-breathing gargoyles, challenging any that come or go from the Hold with baleful stares. Which means that somewhere in the vicinity is one grim-faced, tight-lipped Weyrleader wound tighter than a spring. With his business conducted and about to head back to the Weyr, the Weyr’s leading fighting dragon catches sight of something moving through the snow toward a cave and relays it to his rider. Sharply Cha’el changes direction, palms the knife that has become a permanent fixture on his belt and follows the bundled figure of fur creeping stealthily inward.

Head down and steps slow and careful through the faint traces of snow as he follows those scuffed tracks, K'lir ends up crouched at the base of that reflective sheet as he pokes at the pile of dark frozen stones with the tip of his belt knife. The layers of fur swathing his head and face muffles any sounds that might occur in the silent, frozen cave. Tugging off one glove, he fishes in the pocket of his outer coat to pull out a small leather pouch. Holding the pouch open so that he can flick a couple of those stones into the mouth with his knife blade, he gathers a sample of what he knows is scat but can't figure out what animal it comes from. Sample gathered, the small pouch is tucked safely into that pocket the pouch had come from and the young man struggles to pull his glove back onto his chilled fingers, the large, darkly tanned hand with white scars almost livid in the cold stiff and fumbling as the thick fur slides back over it to hide his identity once more.

Having paused in the dark shadows provided by a jut rock at the cave’s mouth, Cha’el closely observes the furred figure few a moments, his mouth curving about a deadly grin. Finally, he would have his retribution for the carnage wrought against his people and end the stalker’s reign of terror. While he’s fairly quiet on his feet for a big guy what he doesn’t have, are kleats or any kind of traction beneath boots more suited to fighting thread. And so, changing his mind and sheathing the knife in his hand, preferring the fists-to-face approach, the Weyrleader makes his move. Were it not for the treacherous ice beneath his feet, it would have been a fairly good attack with him holding the element of surprise that he does. Instead, right at the last minute when he launches himself at the back of the man hunkered down, his boots lose purchase and rather than grabbing his prey around the neck in a chokehold, he ends up body-slamming into the back of him.

Just starting to rise to his feet, K'lir is still looking down at the frozen pile of scat as his hand moves automatically to sheath his belt knife, the blade reversed in his hand but still bare. His flight goggles blurr his peripheral vision but as he gets partway to his feet, ice cleats keeping him steady, he catches a flicker of movement in the icy sheet beside him just before he is bodyslammed by something just as large as himself. The only advantage the tracker-turned-rider has over the other is the ability to move without slipping on the smooth ice. While he is knocked off balance, the young man manages to keep his feet and twist to face the other as the memory of the attacks said to be going on here at the Hold. His gloved hands ball into hard fists though he doesn't lose his long belt knife, ready to use it should the situation require such. Behind his mask, he snarls as his upper lip pulls away from his teeth as fists are applied to the body attempting to take him down. The other's lack of steadying footwear allows the young bronzerider to step backwards as he tries to shove his attacker away, hoping to put the other on his (or her) ass.

Sorry, K’lir. This bugger’s not letting go. Partly due to being enraged but mostly because if Cha’el lets go of the fistful of fur he’s managed to grab onto, he’s going down and probably hard. “You sick, fucking sonoffabitch!!” The Weyleader grunts between the fists that land hitting him in the chest and stomach. Hauling back with his free hand, he ducks one coming in at his head, the blow catching and sweeping back his hood, and aims right for the masked man’s jaw. “Too chickenshit to show your face, huh!!?? Fucking pussy! Preying on defenseless people!!” The bellows of rage fill the cavern bouncing off the walls and glossy ice and slinging back, while the brownrider struggles to keep his footing.

As one of his blows misses but sweeps the hood off his attacker's face, K'lir is so startled to see the Weyrleader bellowing at him in rage, the younger man fails to see the blow coming in from the side. That fist lands on his jaw and rocks his head back and causes his sight to haze momentarily though he doesn't go down. His dagger falls from his hand, not wanting to accidentally stab his Weyr and wingleader before he can identify himself. The face covering mask muffles his words as he tries to make himself heard, his surprise making him somewhat breathless which robs his voice of some of its force. "Sur … ssur! S'me! Issnahwhayethin!" Realising his words are garbled by the thick fur mask swathing his face, one hand scrabbles at the seam between goggles and face covering but his gloved fingers are too clumsy to pull it away. The younger bronzerider doesn't want to hurt his Leader so the young man backs away, his hands upraised hoping the enraged man will calm down somewhat though he knows that is not likely when the blood boils like this.

Satisfaction sings its siren song through the hard crack of knuckles to bone, the pain that flashes feeding the fires of rage that burn bright and hot. Cha'el isn't able to discern the words poor K'lir flings back at him and merely assumes the supposed Hold stalker to be pleading for mercy. All that does is close features about a thunderous expression that speaks of unspeakable pain about to be meted out. "FIGHT!!" The brownrider roars at the other man when he lifts his hands in surrender. "WHAT? NOT SO MUCH FUN WHEN THEY FUCKING FIGHT BACK!!??" Head down and powerful shoulders hunched his brawny frame collects to play human battering ram. Except that, once again, the ice beneath his boots is his undoing and instead of his head connecting with the bemasked figure's solar plexis, his feet shoot out from under him and Cha'el connects head first with the ice. Stunned - Stars!! Tweety birds! Oh look, is that a pudding cup circling his head too? Pity about that lovely big egg that's going to form right in the middle of his forehead.

Ice 1- Cha’el 0!!

That expression and the challenging words nearly do exactly what the Weyrleader wanted as K'lir begins to become frustrated at what he feels is his body's betrayal to let him do what he wants though it is more the furs fumbling his movements. The hunched frame tells him that he's about to get bodyslammed again and instinctively he crouches slightly, ready for the impact that never comes. The young bronzerider winces as he sees the older man's feet slip from beneath him and his forehead crack against the ice floor. Taking advantage of the other's stunned condition, the ex-hunter strips his gloves from his hands so that he can pull his mask away from his face and shove the goggles up onto his forehead before kneeling beside his Weyrleader to help the man roll onto his back. "Y' okay, sir?" he asks, not sure if the man is going to be rational once the daze wears off or not.

One, two, three. Tweet, tweet, tweet. Twinkle, twinkle… The supposed Hold stalker’s voice RIGHT at his shoulder sends a rush of adrenaline flowing through Cha’el. Going limp as a ragdoll, he plays ‘dead’ until the other man rolls him over and then he surges upward, fist first. Too late, the young bronzerider’s features take form in front of slightly glazed eyes and depending on how close he’s gotten, he might get clocked for the Weyrleader is unable to pull the punch in time. “Fuck!! Why…What the fuck!!??” Shock bleaches some of the color from the brownrider’s face and douses rage with a bucket of ice when he realizes how close he’s just come to killing one of his wingriders.

Oops! K'lir failed to remember that this man has nearly the same reach he himself has and though he'd pulled back a bit, it wasn't quite enough to avoid that blow he'd half expected. That hard fist rockets up and catches him high on the cheekbone, snapping his head back and toppling him from his precarious position. The young man grunts as his breath leaves his lungs as he lands flat on his back and takes a turn at staring at pretty stars. Groaning softly, he simply lays there for a few moments as he contemplates the ceiling and regains his breath before rolling to his side, head hanging as he wills the spinning to stop. "Fuckin'ell … y' shure gotta punch in ya …"

“Shit!” Torn free from Cha’el with a grunt when his fist connects once again with hard bone. The moment K’lir goes over onto his back, the Weyrleader scrambles to his knees, slipping and sliding and now he’s the one hovering over what has turned out to be one of his wingriders. “K’lir.” There’s a rough tap to the dazed bronzerider’s cheek. The one he didn’t just try to pulverize. “Hey, kid. You okay?” As for the blows the former hunter had landed, those now check in with an aching of ribs and chest to match the throbbing in the center of his forehead. “Aye, well, you ain’t too soft on the love taps yourself.”

K'lir chuckles softly at the question and peels back eyelids from still wavering vision to lift his head enough to grin lopsidedly at the older man. "Yeah … I'm good. Gonna feel it in the morning though." Shifting to his knees, he gets his feet under him with the cleats digging into the ice to steady himself before pushing upward. Reaching down, he offers a hand to the brownrider since the other doesn't have the footwear to keep himself from sliding on the glassy surface. "Well … you did just bodyslam me. I thought you were that knife wielding maniac. Damn'd lucky I didn't lead with the blade, y'know. Umm … sir." A blush colors his cheeks as ducks his head slightly though he doesn't apologize for nearly knifing his Weyrleader since technically he didn't do anything wrong.

“Aye.” Cha’el agrees turning over onto his ass and gingerly testing the line of his ribs beneath his heavy jacket. If not for that, that punch he took might well have broken one. Reaching up a hand once K’lir is on his feet he hauls himself up, slithers about a bit and then finds his footing. He totally wasn’t clinging to the younger bronzerider like a wobbly-legged calf. Nope. “Ha! Ow.” Hand to side, the Weyrleader lends the other rider a wry grin. “S’what I thought you were when I saw you coming in here dressed up like one of them snow monsters the old folk whisper about. Guess we’re all a little jumpy these days.” Darkness laces through the set of his baritone his breath fogging the air in front of his face. “If you’re done here, I could do with a drink.” Unspoken invitation for K’lir to join him in that.

K'lir manages to steady the older man as he slithers and wobbles about a bit. The thought that he was thought to be that self-same maniac that's been stalking through the Hold pulls a snort of amusement from the bronzerider. "Yeah, I suppose so. I was runnin' traps for Lidor since he doesn't want to leave his womenfolk unprotected and found some tracks I didn't recognize." He glances at the Weyrleader and gnaws his lip as he moves away to retrieve his discarded gloves and belt knife, the latter sheathed at his waist as he pulls the former onto his stiffening hands. "I could use a drink. To chase the chill away at least." Not to mention the coldness in his guts that he nearly knifed the Weyrleader and the still unknown stalker that seems to terrorize the icy Hold and some of the Weyr residents too, especially since their senior weyrwoman is still laid up in the Infirmary.

Eyes of ocean’s blue have lost the blue fire of earlier and now narrow intently onto K’lir. “Animal or human?” The Weyrleader asks of the tracks his wingrider makes mention of. Carefully, starting to get a feel for the treacherous ice beneath his boots, he begins to shuffle his way toward the mouth of the cave from where a finger of rock extends while the other rider retrieves his things. “She’s gonna pull through.” Cha’el quietly states as if he can read K’lir’s mind though it probably has more to do with his needing to hear the words spoken aloud. “C’mon. I’m done with this ball busting cold and I hear the Kitten’s just got a new shipment of rum in from Ista.”

K'lir shrugs slightly at the question and pats his pocket where that still frozen lump resides so that he can examine it later when it has thawed. "I'm pretty sure it's animal rather than human … followed the tracks to a pile of scat and got a sample. Gonna ask the weyrherder what he thinks. But I'm thinking it's some kind of canine." Following the older man toward the mouth of the cave, he catches up easily with the other rider. "I'm glad to hear it. I wasn't sure if … well, if I should ask." Amber eyes shine at the mention of a new shipment of rum at the Kitten as he grins at the Leader. "Well, let's go see if we can't put a dent in it."

“Canine?” Interest deepens and as the pair makes their way out to their dragons and Cha’el has to almost physically peel Sikorth away from his protective curve about the pale gold of Dhiammarath, conversation will likely follow this course. Before he mounts the Weyrleader claps a hand to the younger bronzerider’s shoulder. “She’s your Weyrwoman, K’lir. You’ve as much right as the rest of us to worry about her and want to know how she’s doing. But you make a good point. I’ll address the wings before drills in the morning.” And with that, they’re up and off though the ominous goings on at the Hold and the fragile goldrider convalescing in what is akin to the belly of the beast, are never far from the Weyrleader’s mind.

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