Who

Ksenia, G'tan

What

G'tan decides to drop something off at Cha'el's weyr…and forgets there's someone else there.

When

It is evening of the sixteenth day of the twelfth month of the first Turn of the 12th Pass.

Where

Sanctum Sanctorum (Cha'el's weyr), Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Sanctum Sanctorum

It is undeniable. A man does live in this cave. There is a musk that hangs in the air which tickles the nose of those who enter. The clues are subtle. No clutter hides in corners. In fact, the simpleness of the weyr is what makes it have that manly vibe. Table and chairs are cleared off of clutter, though the occasional out-of-place nick-nack speaks of the sentimentality of the man who lives here. The large bed is neatly made, the soft touch of white linen sheets contrasting with the military precision which they are folded into. A gentle fire flickers on cold nights, with a kitchenette area nearby so that the weyrsecond can entertain. Perhaps it is the cabinet standing just slightly open, bottles of rum peaking out, or maybe the lack of lace anywhere which completes the manliness of this space.


That traitorous Rukbat has risen and slowly sunk across the sky, sending shafts of light across an empty ledge and serving to remind the weyr's sole occupant of the lazy and somnolent life she leads now. As the ledge chills to a temperature not comfortable to be outside in, Ksenia's slow drift into the weyr has left the woman perched on a bed she's clearly claimed as her own, the covers in disarray from where she's done whatever it is that one does to absolve boredom: jumping on it, putting crafts on it, ate on it, etc. She is dressed in a large, crisp white shirt that could be a man's shirt or just a unisex one, it's hard to tell for how she has it tied around her waist. Dark skirt rides high on honey legs, and is low enough to show a glimmer of gold that loops around narrow hips. She is currenly sitting, legs folded, on the bed and reading what appears to be a bodice ripper — freshly pressed — book. She has a small section of the Weyrsecond's weyr where there are several things on display: ribbons, clothing, a pretty fur-lined coat whose fur matches a cute little feline cub that's resting in the security of her lap, a pretty pink bow around it's neck. Her hair is unbound, tousled and ultimately, she looks like a woman who's trapped in two rooms without a care to dress for the outside world. The woman yawns and flips a page. "I could eat a juicy steak right now," she mutters in ill-disguised discontent.

So where does the Weyrsecond get to this late in the day, if not a bar or the Council Chambers or his own weyr? Beats the heck out of G'tan, who's had no luck tracking the man down this evening in his quest to make good on visiting with something from Ista - something fragile and wrapped in an aged leather pouch and likely stoppered with a wax-sealed cork, to be precise. That's what the bronzerider is holding as he slides down from Zinakoth's neck onto Sikorth's currently unoccupied ledge, slapping out creases from his black cold-weather leathers as he wanders toward the weyr entrance. No, there's no big brown looming outside, but that doesn't stop G'tan from calling a drawled, "Hellooooo," as he approaches. "Cha'el?" Maybe? He pokes his head juuuust past the threshold and glances around, blinking as his eyes fall on…a woman. Oh. "Oh! Uh…" Right. They'd talked about this. "Hi. Seen Cha'el lately?" There's a crooked smile given, but the bronzer doesn't venture any closer. Or let his eyes wander too much. He might want to keep his hide, after what he's heard thus far.

Reading, reading, reading; suddenly, there's another man in this weyr sanctuary of hers and it is not the 'cousin' that keeps her trapped here. Ksenia slowly raises her head and blinks owlishly, blurting out, "Who the fuck are you?" That book sloooooooooowly falls down to the bed, where her hand bounces on the mattress. Unwinding her legs just enough to shift positions, she looks to her right and then slowly looks at G'tan. Her eyes are wide and tawny-caramel color that seem to be narrowing in on the man in front of her, but she doesn't move. Not really, not yet. Wait: "Are you Cha'el's whore?" Just what kind of information does this woman have?

"His…what? No! Fuck no!" is blurted quickly, and now it's G'tan's turn to blink like an owl. He just stares at the woman for a moment, nonplussed, before clearing his throat and straightening, standing just at the entrance but most definitely not moving to pass it. "G'tan. Friend of his from Ista. I was just droppin' something off." Raising a brow, he folds his arms. "You'd be his cousin, right? Forgot he said you were here." For the most part. He doesn't offer to leave, or move to; he just stands there propping the threshold up with his right shoulder, pouch gripped in his right fist on the other side of his body. Maybe he's a bit interested to see if she'll affirm that relationship to Cha'el…or if she'll even deign to do that much.

"Are you sure?" Ksenia liquidly moves off the bed, tossing the book aside and gathering up that pure-white stuffed feline cub that seems to be made of actual feline fur. The pink bow around it's neck is a bright splash of color against so much white. She stalks him with the feral grace of a feline, tawny eyes latched onto the interloper. "Because if you are here for a slap and tickle, I should warn you that Cousin Cha'el has a touch of the," she hazards a fat little satisfied smile for the man, "crotch rot. I hear him moaning at night saying it burns like fire." Brows lift, silver-tongue spilling her words with no more effort than she would at normal conversation. "Did he say I was here? How interesting because he utterly ignores me all day long." Her eyes narrow again, coming an arm's length away, her eyes falling to his package — and not the one down south, the one from Ista. "What, exactly, are you dropping off?" Does she invite him in? Nope, but neither does she chase him out. She seems to be regarding him with a laconic interest born of ennui.

G'tan watches Ksenia as she moves from the bed, unable to help the smirk that rises from observing the grace with which she does so. Her words, however - and probably that weird stuffed feline - are enough to distract him right out of any such business. "Pretty damn sure," he returns, both thick brows arching high. "Ever heard of 'too much information'? Faranth, woman… He's Weyrsecond, by the way; it's not like he's about to stay up here all day." He ignores her last question for the moment, instead giving a small, curious tilt to his head. "He said your father had him keepin' an eye on you. He afraid you're gonna run off?"

"I consider it my duty to give his lovers the utmost honesty," Ksenia's tone is bored, carefully neutral crafted around the way she looks at the cuticles of her nails. The little feline is tucked under her armpit, the beady little eyes angled towards G'tan judgmentally. "Besides, my cousin has enough dragonrider pride. A little bit knocked off won't hurt him." She flashes him a smile that has way too much tooth, brows raising. "Don't woman me." A hint of ire bubbles to the surface. "Weyrsecond." Something in the man's rank rankles, if her voice gives any indication. "His rank be hanged." Perhaps it's a strange little smile that briefly comes to play, but then she's holding out her hand, leveling G'tan with an intense look. "Just where am I going to run to, baba? Am I to sprout wings and fly? You can deposit your gift," a smirk, "right here." She wiggles her fingers. Not blinking an eye at the story G'tan gives her, she allows her smile to grow wide, "My father can hang too. I don't need someone to keep an eye on me."

"I'm not beddin' the guy," G'tan snarls, though it's hard to do it seriously while trying not to stare back at that damned unnerving feline-thing. "Not my type. And I wouldn't be 'woman'-ing you if I knew your name," he adds, smirking at her and adding a touch more nonchalance to the lean he's taken. Then he catches that word she uses - something unique to some of the more southerly caravaners - and raises a brow. "You're a trader," he observes, idly tugging off his gloves. "That'd explain you goin' stir-crazy up here. It's a fair point, I'll give you that." There's no offer made to try reasoning that to Cha'el, however. He eyes her wiggled fingers and gives a light snort, giving a small, lopsided smile as he shifts to hold the pouch behind his back. "Nah, that's okay. Don't wanna risk it gettin' tossed of his ledge. It'd be a shame to waste like that."

Ksenia stills, the little feline's beady eyes still angled right AT G'tan. Eyes narrow dangerously as she withdraws her hand and now it's her turn to fold her arms across her chest, which causes that little stuffed cat to squeeze a little since it's still tucked under her arm, only now its more at her elbow. The stance also causes the glowlight to catch on the length of delicate chain worn about her hips, above the cloth of the skirt she wears. "Anyone," she sniffs, "would go stir-crazy up here with nothing to do but contemplate one's circumstances." With casual disdain, she casts her tawny gaze from the top of G'tan's head down to the tips of his boots. "Don't know how you got the idea that it would get tossed off the edge of the ledge." Challenge glitters in her eyes as she determines whether G'tan is friend or foe, as she shifts a casual lean against Cha'el's desk. "Awful touchy, aren't we, about bedding the Weyrsecond." Ksenia sniffs a soft spot to rake her verbal claws through. A different tactic is taken, "You think he's not good enough for your lofty lordship? Your hide better than my cousin's? That it?"

G'tan sets one bootheel against the stony wall at the entry, the pouch transferred to his left hand but still more or less behind him. "Awful set, aren't we, on the idea that anyone comin' up here must be bedding the Weyrsecond," he counters, mimicking her tone as he reaches up to pick at a divot in the rock the curves slightly above his head. Her last jab is ignored in favor of that. Her disdain doesn't faze him much; G'tan's been regarded with disdain as much as admiration from women for much of his life. The glint of glowlight off the chain about her hips draws his gaze downward, and there it lingers for a moment. "Considering other things have gone flying off his ledge since you got here…" he notes with a shrug, eyes rising to her face again. "Suppose I did decide to leave it here, though," he says, reaching up to shove fingers through cropped blonde hair. "What would stop you from gettin' to it?"

"It's better that than the idea of my cousin sending men up here to look at his poor, abused ward," Ksenia states, her tone holding a note of something buried within the bored tone that she holds onto. His bootheel is glanced at, ensuring that he's not stepping into her sanctuary, before her eyes find his again. She flashes a sharp, sharp smile and shrugs easily, "What can I say? Cha'el is clumsy." Pulling one hand free, she wiggles her fingers at the bronzerider, "Got a touch of the palsy these days too. Butter fingers." She makes it sound like the Weyrsecond is falling apart, here. Oh, she notes the fall of his eyes, and while she doesn't call him out in words, when he finds her face again G'tan will find her expression closed, neutral. "What do you think will happen to it, boyo? Do you think I'm going to eat it? Stomp on it?" This gets a roll of her eyes.

G'tan just shakes his head as he regards Ksenia with one brow still arched, his arms returning to their previously folded state. She really is wherryshit insane! "You can make up all the stories you want about Cha'el to whoever happens to be around to listen to you," he drawls, "but it's not gonna convince me or anyone else to take your view. And as for this…" He holds up the pouch for a moment, waggling it back and forth just enough for a light, liquid sloshing to be heard. "You might be doin' all that, you catch one whiff of this. Y'know," he says, looking down to a toggle on his belt and starting to carefully wrap the closure of the pouch around it, "usually when I meet a good-looking woman, I offer to take her for a drink, maybe a bite to eat, wander around, a little friendly conversation. You, though…" He finishes, looking up and shrugging as a little curl comes to his lip. "Got enough bite to you without the encouragement. Sorry to bother you." He gives a little bow and then turns to start sauntering back out to the ledge - slowly.

"Me? Make up stories?" Ksenia stares at G'tan, brows lifting in mock surprise. "You think I want you to take my view?" This causes surprise to flicker across her features before laughter comes rolling free. "You are," she clucks her tongue, "so cute." Now she's just patronizing the bronzerider. Waving her hand, "I don't want your stinky pouch, whatever is in it." The enigmatic look she shoots the man is hard to decipher with the shifting shadows of the glows and hearth fire of the weyr itself. The only thing it highlights is the chain-of-gold 'round her waist. "I would have just given it to him." Pulling the little white feline from her arms has her flashing her teeth at him in a bared smile, "Boyo. You ain't got enough bite to you to handle me." Wiggling the cat with the beady, judgmental eyes, she adds in sing-song, "Besides, my intended would probably chew you up and spit you out like a little boy." It's time to give the man the cut direct and so she does the only thing she can do and that is saunter over to the big bed and plop right back on it, curling up with that little feline in her lap once more. Picking up her book, her expression carries a self-satisfied smile to it. She does, however, keep a hairy eyeball on the bronzerider lest he change his mind on going.

G'tan just keeps walking, though he does cast one last glance over his shoulder at the woman when she goes about patronizing him. Really? How old is she? He doesn't even bother dwelling on it. Maybe he thinks Cha'el might actually be somewhat justified keeping her up here now…though why he subjects himself to it all is beyond him. At her last, he just shakes his head again and laughs, a ringing baritone somehow both rich with amusement and dry as the desert filling the weyr as he continues on. "Fuckin' cracked," he mutters as he hops up onto the bronze paw Zinakoth offers, and the bronzerider does indeed carry through with his going, his craggy lifemate dropping them both abruptly from Sikorth's ledge before spreading his wings wide to carry them back across the Bowl.

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