Who

N'ayl, Thierry, Zeyta

What

A pleasant exchange between storm-sheltering Thierry and Zeyta is cut short when her brother arrives.

When

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

Where

Igen Weyr Abandoned Caverns

OOC Date

 

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Abandoned Caverns

A tragedy of 400 turns ago wasted this cavern system which was, at its demise, private living quarters. The 'door' barring the entrance is a combination of loose wood planks and lumps of rubble too bothersome to move and suitable to make entering an unattractive past time. Not that there's anything captivating of the interior remains; a legitimate cave in of the base rock obstructs most of the ground though the chamber expands past its original dimensions when the wall to an adjoining room also collapsed. Grit and fine chips of stone carpet the floor, shreds of a rug are visible from under the weight of boulders. There is one undamaged glow sconce, but the vermin calling this abandoned cavern home aren't disclosing its salvageability.


The storm outside is still blustering away, making any form of shelter a welcome one - even if it's one that probably shouldn't be explored in the gloom of the cloud-covered evening. And yet, as Thierry ducks into the entranceway of the abandoned caverns to shelter from the storm, there's something entirely appealing about the barriered doorway. Lit mostly by the flashes of lightning that sear their way across the bowl, he steps in a little deeper, squeezing the water out of his sodden clothing as he goes, leaving a splishy-splashy trail alongside his wet footprints.

Tragedy. Chaos. Ominous spaces. The haunting convergence of the three enchants Zeyta, eschewing the sanctuary of her weyr and the populous inner caverns while the weather rages in its torrent of fury. Sealed away in the empty caverns, she hides in the back. She could almost be a ghost, clothed in a luxurious fur coat, white as snow with its enormous tail-train pooled around her, where she kneels on the vermin-ravaged remains of carpet, in front of a gigantic, wooden chest hauled in here. While dilapidated, its age is not as ancient as the rest of its surroundings; no, this is an addition the brownrider furnished on her own, readying to pore over its contents when Thierry happens in upon her. Instantly, her head darts across her shoulder, aware of a new intruder.

It takes a little longer for Thierry to notice Zeyta - but when he does, it's that bulking big fur coat that he seems - and it startles him. "The fuck?!" He stands stock still, rooted to the spot, squinting through the dark to try and figure out what the heck the figure in front of him /is/… and it's only when there's the tiniest fragment of light from outside that he's able to discern the /face/ looking at him. Happily, a human face. Even more happily, a /pretty/ one. Less happy, though? The fact that it belongs to /Zeyta/. Maybe a big fluff-monster would have been preferable. "'S you," he says in relief, sticking his hands into his soaked pockets and mooching on over towards her. "Whatcha doing in here?"

Zeyta frames her presence in initial silence, letting his shocked outcry fill the hollow acoustics with its answering echo. She blinks slowly, pursing her lips — an facial tic that sharpens her cheekbones before her mouth slims out into a thin line, pressed hard together. "Mm." The mass of fur rises, fingers gathering the dragging ends to /throw/ them behind her as she shifts, navigating backwards to seat herself on her trunk, facing him. "T'is I," she confirms, watchful with her narrow gaze. "Enjoying tea with all my dearest, closest friends. I think the ambience in here absolutely /charming/, don't you?" Despite the sarcasm, her interrogative expression asks the same of him; there's so much /attitude/ in the lift of her brow.

"Lady, the fact that your dearest and closest friends are invisible says a whole shardin' lot." Thierry drip-drips his way across to brownrider, lips pursed in an amused smirk at water drips from his hair down onto his nose, and his neck. "Suits you in here though, brownrider. Dark and hidden, no-one around t' see you doing your thing…" He winks at her, moving over to stand before her trunk-seat. "D'you keep that thing," he indicates her fur coat, "in here? Looks too fancy to be out there in that mudbath."

"Mm. Friends leave or die, one way or another. Consider this practice," Zeyta retorts. Her little hands emerge from amidst pelt-lined sleeves, curling over the edge of her trunk. A dimple forms its shallow indent; not in smile, however, lip curling when soaking Thierry brings his soaked self nearer, sopping close to her distinctly /dry/ person. "Doing my thing," she parrots, albeit without inflection, repeating it as dull fact. "No, but I could not venture out into the rain uncovered, could I? Besides, it reminds me of home, where it'd be /snow/ falling, not this miserable downpour."

Thierry rolls his eyes. "So morbid. Don'tcha wanna just revel in the /now/, and fuck what's past and future? Can't control it anyway." If he's picked up on how little Zeyta cares for his approaching presence, the candidate doesn't act on it; he steps closer, in fact. "That fancy fur's gonna weigh you down in this water, pretty. Getcha all waterlogged, and you'll not even be able to climb your dragon's side." His dark eyes run over the coat, fingers half-reaching as it to touch it - but he stops himself. "Oughta get yourself something more /practical/, lady."

"I'm from the past. I live in the future. They're all one and the same in the present, to me. And this now is a very, mm, boring one." So cynical, so despondent: Zeyta, crossing her ankles beneath the folds of her coat. She smooths her face back into a portrait of apathy, carved in marble. "I aim to secret myself away here until the rain subsides. I'm no stranger to the dangers of wearing fur." Such an attention piece, her attire — no doubt worn with intent, self-aware as the brownrider is of her beauty and ways she might accessorize it. Or perhaps she is long accustomed to the strange compulsion of others to run their hands through her downy soft garment. Whichever, she offers up an arm, staring blankly and glimpsing his shoulder. "Ah, I see someone selected you to get mauled and eaten as a dragonet's first meal."

It's /so soft/. Thierry reaches for the offered fur-covered arm, first clenching his paw into it, then more gently stroking across it. There's a definite look of appreciation on his face for the quality, and he doesn't seem intent on stopping his stroking any time soon - not without being made to, of course. "Uh-huh. 'cept I'm not gonna be no dragon's meal. I'm pretty quick on my feet, lady, I'll dodge the fuck outta the way before they can get their gooey little claws in me." His smile's one of cocky confidence, and he moves in closer to the brownrider - just a half-step so, but it lets him loom over her, given that she's sitting. "Y'gonna put bets on me, pretty? T'see me mauled? Don't reckon another couple scars'll make /that/ much difference to the ones I've got."

"You say that, and yet." Zeyta approaches this realm of possibility with an imposition of private contemplation. There's no luck to be found in petting her coat, nor any visible reaction from the brownrider with her grim disposition. She speaks, eventually, reclaiming her arm as she thrusts herself upright, standing on her locked chest. "Yet you cannot anticipate the anxiety and the fear that will creep upon you come hatching day. The crushing sense of defeat as those around you are hungrily snatched up by ravenous little minds." As obvious as her scare tactics are, her height lets her tower over him, arms akimbo, and face in its utmost serious expression as she challenges him, physically, verbally — it's all a powerplay to Zeyta, queen of her dark corner in the abandoned cavern where the wild storm crashes down on Igen outside. "I don't gamble, or partake in /any/ vice."

Thierry takes a half-step back when the brownrider hops up atop her chest, canting his head up to look at her, with his arms crossed over his chest. If he's intimidated by her sudden increase in height, he's not letting it show in the slightest. "Yeah, I'll give you that. Ain't got no clue what it's gonna be like. Never seen one before, prob'ly won't again, neither, but it still stands - I'm not getting myself taken down by some gooed-up hatchling." He flashes a cocky smile up at her, then offers his still-damp hand up, in an offer to help her down. "Y'ain't scaring me, rider-lady. Been up against much worse than you, y'know."

"Such valiant words," rolls a voice as languid as a well-fed feline, from the ragged entryway of the room. N'ayl drapes here, like a discarded velvet jacket; 48 hours ago he'd have been called elegant in his attire, a trip coat, combed back hair, clean white nails. 24 hours and he'd have been called rumpled. But here, at the dark, wet end of a very long tunnel, the brownrider is a true hot MESS, his long arms thrown out to brace against either side of the doorway, soaking to the bone with rainwater still dripping off the end of his nose and chin, brown hair that wild array of spikes where he'd combed fingers through it and it TOOK to that angle. For how his head hangs bonelessly down to leave insolent lazy eyes gazing out, lips slack, there almost needs to be a crack of thunder to herald him. Who knows how long he'd been standing there. Maybe he had watched Thierry PETTING Zeyta. "Are you lovers?" Is he slurring, or just that opulent? His eyes are set only on the candidate. "He's young." Talkin' about chu, Thi.

"Mm. All gazes will fixate on the girl who Impresses the rumored gold. I find hatchings rather anticlimactic, myself. If you walk away without a lifemate — all the better, you escape a life of saving the thankless masses from doom." Far from brave, Zeyta drips her venom, tainting those around her with her embittered disillusionment. She's sculpture come alive, speaking prophetic truth, and this is her temple where she reigns, poised over undaunted Thierry, trying to chip away at his arrogance. "I'm sure the bazaar has exposed you to a number of terrors," she quips, brown eyes flickering to the entrance, more deadly and final than any bolt of lightning with the quick execution of judgement they conduct. "Yes. I'm here to add him to my harem of bazaar strays; I've stopped collecting antiques and instead only acquire young, breathing things with pretty faces." Poor Thierry; Zeyta accepts his hand, visual contact with the latest intruder unbroken as she steps down from her pedestal, suddenly drawing herself close to the candidate and locking arms with him once settled on her feet. Unless he slips free of her after she's landed.

An unfamiliar voice from behind him has Thierry canting his head around to see who's there; his dark eyes run head to toe over N'ayl's figure in the gloom, dark-adjusted gaze picking out the waterlogged details of the rider's outfit. He snorts dismissively, turning his attention back to Zeyta - perhaps drawing on her lack of discomfort at the newest addition to the dusty rain shelter. That last question, though, makes him snort; he tweaks his eyebrows in amusement at Zeyta as she takes his hand, even more so than the smirk that curled up the corner of his lips at her description of him as a harem member. When she locks arms with him he doesn't pull away - quite the opposite, in fact, as he presses into that so-soft fur-coat. Mmmm, fluffy warmth! "What the fuck's it to you?" He snips at N'ayl, looking him over once more, before turning his head to the side to spit.

"Mmmmh," N'ayl seems almost to be mindlessly falling, until it turns out to be a boneless slink into the room, long fingers stretching to maintain contact with the stone of the doorway for longest duration; it spreads out his arms and draws them back from the carriage of his body like flightful wings until, at the end of doorframe, they are clipped, and fall loose, "He's course-featured. And could use a polish." Even now, the gaze of the room is like light off mirrors; Zeyta regards N'ayl, N'ayl regards Thierry, Theirry — regards N'ayl. Who draws up well within Theirry's personal space (nevermind Zeyta's, they do not merit contact of eyes), to reach up a hand and trail a very confident fingertip just along the outter ghost of the younger man's sharply-built jawline, "Do they not instruct them on how to address a dragonrider in your Weyr, brownrider?"

Zeyta stands flush against her anointed escort, intervening layers of damp clothes and white pelts a warm barrier of insulation between her and Thierry. Grown reckless, she even drops an ear against his bicep, leaning into his frame with brazen affection. She rolls her eyes, possibly at the spitting, possibly at the swaggering visitor, halted with a firm hand against his chest. Cruel nails dig into the sodden fabric of N'ayl's tunic front, fending off further advances without much more application of force; the pressure of her palm is almost gentle, not even nudging, compared to the sharp, manicured tips of her fingers. "Mmm, /Thierry/." Head tilted, she gazes up at him, feigning complete oblivion to the figure held at arms-length from her. She smiles, a saccharine curvature of the mouth, over-saturated in a blatant brand of allure she commands. "The prodigal alcoholic before you deserves no salute. Nay, I daresay this vagrant cannot be my twin. He deserves no recognition /whatsoever/."

While one arm is occupied with a Zeyta attached to it, Thierry's other is completely free to bat N'ayl's hand away when it comes up to his jaw. He meets the brownrider's gaze with a flint-like one of his own, brows heavy over his dark eyes in a sullen frown. His stance suggests he /may/ have been about to push the intruding rider away, only Zeyta got there first with her hand on his chest, leaving the candidate to simply scowl disapprovingly at the third entrant to their storm-shelter. "Gonna take it as the lady says it, rider." Because he's naturally biased towards the one clinging to him. She has boobs, therefore she automatically wins. "How's about you get on outta here, yeah? She don't want you here no more than I do." Or so he's assuming, at least.

"Careful, sister," murmured low, N'ayl skips his words like puckish smooth stones over the glacial waters encircling the girl, swatted hand falling away such weight it bounces off the side of his hip and sways only gradually to a stop, "You'll draw blood." With her words or the steady-light pressure of dainty talons through his damp tunic. Perhaps he seeks to see, as he leans so slightly more into the daggers, lapping either of his palms over Zeyta's to pin it in place, to join her in staunching some inner wound. The flint-sharpness of challenging eyes finds, though rheumy and bored, a stare back of cold marble. Asking lightly, "Tsk. Shall I challenge him to a duel?"

Zeyta bats her 'lashes in a grateful flutter at the candidate, losing all such mild airs with the intensity of the frost-frigid glower she aims at N'ayl. She wields more than one blade in her arsenal of cutting looks and cleaving words and dagger digits spread wide, embedding in cloth and sinking into skin. "He is well connected. A streetrat turned guard recruit. He could lock you in the brig, force powerless me into corroborating his alibi that you assaulted him in a drunken rage. It would be a diplomatic incident." What begins a monotonous oration curbs into an enthused, even gleeful fabrication by the end, Zeyta thrilling herself at the prospect of scandal. Then she's casting off both men to retreat to her previous trunk-seat, touch lingering longest and most gently on Thierry as she extricates herself from tangled limbs, forcibly wrenching her hand free of her brother's grip. "I'm a ready audience."

Standing alone now, Thierry draws himself up to his full height, chest puffed up in an attempt to look bigger than his 5'10 frame truly is. Not that he's by any means small in his build; the wetness of his clothing amplifies the build-up of muscle he's been working on. "Best listen to your sister," he snarls, upper lip twitching back to show his teeth. "I'm a weyrwoman's chosen Candidate. You're gonna get yourself in a fuck loada trouble if you lay a hand on me, and I ain't too keen on getting staked for threadbait for shanking a rider… even if he's as biguva cock as you are." He turns his head to spit again, rubbing the back of his hand over his beard-framed mouth. "You ain't /worth it/, rider. Now fuck off."

"Oh, Sadaiya, is it? You do know, we shared a wing once, her and I. I was her trusted wingsecond. Compare blood with mine, candidate, and you will lose. Yours is thin and wanting." Woeful, for this stand off, that N'ayl himself inherited all the height his runtling twin did not; ne'er in six feet with a depth of chest developed from long turns as guard himself, even swaying so slightly in the ankles and drolly blinking mildly out of sync, he lifts up a hand and declares mildly, "Touch." And touches a fingerpad to the farthest-most tip of Thierry's nose. Boop. "There, now, see. You've gone and excited her. Yza," plaintiff as a princeling, he tips back his head, winces shut his eyes and bays the name as though in pain. "Yzaaaa, I am a mess. Take me home. I need a bed. And a toddy."

"Oh, I remember those days: being picked as a weyrwoman's favorite. When I was presented to mine, I had not just a white knot, but a /bow/ fixed 'pon my head." Waxing nostalgic, Zeyta lifts a heavy, furred arm to fan at herself, reclining against her trunk. She tracks the interaction between the two men, lazy and felinesque, yet with a predatory gleam in her own eye. "Mmm. I so wanted a /drama/," she pouts, more animated than any (Thierry included) in Igen have witnessed in her yet. Sighing, scowling, she extends a hand to N'ayl, requiring up/lift/ to combat her inertia. "Candidate. Guard my trunk, or conceal it in a crevice, I'll not have grubby hands plundering my treasures." She smiles glibly. "Lyz, you are atrocious. I'll ruin my coat over you." Woe, another flash of distress overcomes her.

"Hands /off/," Thierry growls, whacking N'ayl's hand away less gently this time. He steps away when the brownrider starts bawling for his sister, moving towards Zeyta. "You're gonna /take/ him? Let him sort his own sorry ass out, lady. Who the fuck's he to be ordering you about, huh?" Once beside the trunk, he stands with his arms folded over his chest, glowering at the male brownrider. "Oughta stay here, rider-lady. Keep that nice coat and pretty face rain-free like, yeah?"

"I am N'ayl, candidate. Of the beast that is brown Gudrotgoth." It's a brutal throaty name that even affected civilized tonality and grandiose slurring must snarl some to pronounce. N'ayl doesn't simply take Zeyta's hand so much as flourish his fingers beneath the hook of her own, while he folds his other arm behind his back as an attending bellhop might, and hauls her to her feet — just in time to then melt an across the back of her neck. He wallows into her soft splendid coat, muffling a consolation in, "Mmmn you do love destroying beautiful things." This is said with a rich and bared pleasure, more a lavish sigh, that it sounds like praise.

Before stiff composure reigns supreme over Zeyta, she affords Thierry a look of naked bewilderment, mouth open in amazement. "Why, we shared a womb." Already, her hand fits into his, a dainty miniature, paler, more feminine, as is all her resemblance to him. She pushes off from the top of her trunk with liquid grace, practically pouring into her brother's full embrace, melding against him as a mobile mass of precious, luxuriating fur coat. Facing the guard-candidate with a complete return of grim, fatal demeanor, she issues a look tender in the eyes at him, followed by a brushed stroke of the back of a hand across his cheek, briefly cupping his jaw while the rest of her is stern and glacially cool. "Besides, he is the only person I love in the world." As if this sums it all, she steps forward, beginning her exit.

Zeyta is permitted to touch his cheek, though Thierry is left looking at her in bewilderment for her sudden change of demeanour. That look shifts to N'ayl, who is clearly the one to blame here; his untimely entrance sent the unexpectedly pleasant meeting spiralling /down/. The closeness between brother and sister earns a dark scowl, before he shrugs, waving a dismissive hand at the siblings. "Whatever." He lets them leave, standing there with his arms folded stubbornly across his wet chest; Zeyta will no doubt receive a note with one of his firelizards later, letting her know where he's hidden her chest.

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