Deadly Encounter (Open)

[reqqy]

(for Ka'rys, but anyone else can join, too!)

The fear had faded. Vanished. He shivered, not sure if it was the cold or the aftereffects of that abominable attraction to that - man. Jabari's restful slumber in the back of his mind helped calm Mutasim's nerves. With the Headwoman still up his arse half the time, he couldn't afford not to finish his chores, and he only had three rooms left to go. Yes, it was evening, but...hopefully everyone would not be asleep already. He didn't wish to bother anyone. For the first time in a long while, the candidate was enough off his stride that he'd probably just startle and flee if they got aggressive. It wasn't that Mutasim didn't understand it wasn't him, that faint attraction he'd had toward the bronzeweyrling that the boy normally would have gone out of his way to avoid. He just - his sensibilities couldn't handle it very well. That was the long and short of it.

The basket of glows carefully covered to keep from giving off too much light, he set aside what ones he didn't need for this room, intending to just switch the baskets out so he could be in and out of the weyr as quickly as possible. Mutasim thought about knocking, but...if whoever resided here was asleep, that would not be something he'd be too keen about - waking them. The young man eased the door open, grateful to find it unlocked. He slipped in through the crack and waited until his eyes readjusted to the gloom, not wishing to disturb anyone by uncovering part of the basket. In a few seconds, he could make out the telltale signs of a sleeping form beneath the furs.

Mutasim knew that the Headwoman still must be pretty upset with him, putting him on this floor with all the bronze and brownriders, most of which made him keenly nervous. He didn't want to get close enough to know which one this was, though by the dark shape he could barely make out in the direction of the weyrledge - it would have to be a bronzerider. He cast about for any sign of where the glowbasket might be, and quite nearly cursed aloud when he spotted it. The thing was perched on a shelf almost directly over the man's cot. The candidate was quiet, certainly, but he didn't trust himself to go completely undetected right by someone's head. Oh well. Hopefully the man was a heavy sleeper?

If not, he could just explain his presence here, do his job and leave. This was Selenitas, after all. Nothing...should happen...right? It might have been easier to convince himself of that had he not just come from a flit flight. The poor boy's nerves were rather frayed.

Moving as silently as he was able, Mutasim crossed the room, glad that his boots had gotten so small he no longer wore them; they surely would have given him away by now. Pausing near the cot, his curiosity got the better of him, and he took a moment to see if he might be able to tell if he knew this man or not. There were a few that didn't put him as much on edge. Oh, shells. He couldn't be sure, but...that looked like the Weyrleader. Mutasim couldn't say why he felt this, but he didn't think that Ka'rys was the sort to take too kindly to an intruder in his room. If it happened, it happened. The candidate was certain that, in this case, the man would be less likely to react too horribly poorly once he saw that it was just a small boy. Hopefully. Okay, so he wasn't so certain after all.

Holding his breath, Mutasim took another few steps toward the shelf, raising up on tiptoes to try to reach. There were times when he definitely cursed the fact that he was vertically challenged.

[glamourie]

The day had been... exhausting. Most were, actually, but Ka'rys had spent the bigger part of the day flying with Ciceroth around Selenitas, examining the surround cliffs and dense jungles for anything that merited note -- in particular, for areas where dragonflights could land undetected by the watchwhers. Call him paranoid but he did not, for any second, think that Selenitas was out of the crossfire. Fort hadn't attacked but Ka'rys's level of faith in R'anatar to use common sense was quite low. He was expecting an attack any time - from either of the northern Weyrs - and he did not want Selenitas to be caught unaware. He'd found a nice clearing and he'd specifically asked one of the greenriders he trusted to keep an eye on it, until he could convince Shmee that it was worth putting a watch on. Further away than most would like but that did not, in any way, disqualify it as a danger. Ka'rys would rather be safe than sorry.

After taking note of that, he'd gone over wing drills, then practiced for awhile. He'd checked the records for stock of firestone, he'd gone over a list of available riders, and amidst his reading, Ka'rys had fallen asleep. It happened sometimes, considering that he often slept only one or two hours at a time, rarely three. He'd been lying on top of his furs reading to be comfortable and dozed off, and his little firelizard Ophelie had closed his glowbasket for the most part. Then she'd moved to sleep on Ciceroth's back, the two curled up on the weyrledge. Ciceroth, too, was sound asleep; Ka'rys wasn't the only one who had odd sleeping. The bronze just slept an abnormal amount if he could help it. Laziness.

He was having a dream, as evidenced by the slight twitch of his toes and fingers. In his sleep he'd shoved the records out of his furs and moved his hands underneath the soft feathered pillows he'd had made. His fingers were twitching against the hilt of the dagger he held underneath that pillow, but he was otherwise startlingly still. The casual view might not notice that Ka'rys was there at all. His dream involved training at Fort, when he was fighting with blades with a bronzerider nearly twice his size, and he initially attributed the near-soundless movements he heard to the dream itself. Step left, circle, duck and lean back; feint, slice, jump backwards. His eyes clenched tighter closed and he started to roll over. The dream was a memory; the memory of a fight he'd won by less-than-savory means. He'd stabbed the older bronzerider directly in the wrist, pinning him most efficiently to one of the stone walls; his dagger had been so badly damaged he couldn't use it anymore and he remembered, vividly, the sound of pain. Joint injuries were nasty ones. He'd then broken his nose from underneath, knocked him out -- he couldn't stand the screaming. His dream focused on the deadening silence when --

-- movement. From near his head. Ka'rys's eyes flicked open and the sight of a torso (it didn't matter that it was obviously that of a child) spurred his actions instantly. His fingers latched on the hilt of the dagger and he sprung forward with the force of a striking snake, aiming to stab the dagger clear into the person's side; just below where the ribcage ended. (It was ridiculously hard to get a blade nicely through so many bones, after all.) His movements were all on instinct, a total lack of thought; someone in his room at night meant an attack, and no matter what he was not going down without a fight. He'd bury the dagger to the hilt in flesh and drag downward at an angle, damage as many vital organs as he could in the process; no one ever said Ka'rys wasn't at least moderately intelligent, even on a lack of sleep. (Although, he was used to dealing with bigger people, and odds were he'd have gone for disemboweling on a normal-sized individual, but one did what one could).

[reqqy]

Mutasim stretched up as much as he could, but it really was rather futile. He could always drag a chair over. Could. It would be sure to awaken the man in the furs, though. Maybe he should give this whole thing up entirely and just come back in the morning, when he didn't have to worry about disturbing sleeping bronzeriders. Who knew how they'd react upon waking up? Most people didn't come awake instantly like Muta did, and even if they'd had Mutasim's habits, that wasn't exactly reassuring. The candidate tended to wake up ready to kill. Yes, he slept with knives. Ate with knives. Breathed with knives, more or less. For a boy such as him, it was comfort, reassuring him that this world, at least, was one that he had some limited control in.

A sound from the furs caused him to glance over, the hands that held the glowbasket lowering in front of him. Oh, dear. He hadn't awakened him, had he? Well, no, the man seemed to be settling again. Mutasim turned his attention back toward the shelf and frowned pensively. The boy had never much liked the idea of giving up when there was any other option. He racked his brain for another solution, all the while listening for any further movements from the rider who occupied this weyr. Aside from jumping up and down like a crazy critter, using one of his knives to try to snag the glowbasket, or dragging over something to stand on, he was coming up with a blank. All of those things were sure to awaken...

The sound of movement had Mutasim turning toward the cot, which was actually rather unfortunate, as he found a blade - the gleam just barely visible in the darkness - stabbing toward his midsection. No thoughts entered into the boy's mind at all. He was beyond the level of thinking, immediately back on the streets of Bitra, where you either reacted, and reacted well, or died. The bronzerider wouldn't be able to follow him immediately, if only because he was striking while still on the cot, but neither could Mutasim quite just backpedal, as he hadn't pivoted; only his torso had turned. He'd not been expecting an attack like this, after all.

Well, it definitely wouldn't be good to just stand here and accept a knife in his gut.

Instinctively, he threw his hips around to face his attacker directly so he'd have a free range of movement in a moment, presuming he could somehow avoid this initial attack. Both hands still clutching the glowbasket, he didn't trust it to fully stop the stab, instead bringing it across to his left and taking the thrust along his arm, forcing it up. Mutasim let out a soft hiss, partially from the pain, and partially because he now found himself staring at the blade's tip, just inches from his nose. This man had a decent reach. Fortunate that he was still on the bed, then. Shardit, but his right arm was his primary, and it was bleeding nicely, though the fact that it wasn't the underside of his arm would help.

The scent of blood kicked Muta into overdrive. Even as the stabbing motion of his attacker came to a halt, the candidate brought the glowbasket back in front of him, thrusting the blade to one side in the process. He flung the whole thing at the bronzerider, the glows spilling out and leaving even Mutasim temporarily blinded, though he took the opportunity to backpedal toward where he knew the door must be, quickly drawing his favored fourteen inch dirk and a long-handled, slightly curved dagger that suited his double-handed style well enough. His eyes were wide with adrenaline as he sought the edge of the door with a foot, hoping to get the door open and flee into the hall, but unwilling to turn his back on the bronzerider. The lighting was too dim for him to attempt a throw, especially wounded as he was, even if the cut was mostly superficial.

[glamourie]

He moved. Ka'rys was impressed, though only in the back of his mind, the way a feline might've been impressed at a herdbeast ducking out of the way just in time to avoid the deadly claws, but not enough to escape their grasp entirely; the acknowledgment of competence was a high compliment, but Ka'rys never gave it voice. He recoiled, jerking the dagger back and away from his opponent (identity and humanity was stripped away in that one primal moment of thought and instinct), and kicked his furs away as best he could. He was half-constrained by the fact that he was in the cot, and he rolled over to the side opposite the stranger to avoid presenting an available target for attack. He'd fallen asleep reading and the records crinkled beneath his bare feet (oops), but he barely noticed, instead whirling around to face across the cot - just in time to see the glows thrown most efficiently in his face. The light was blinding and he stumbled back against the wall, the dagger coming up in a defensive posture as though to protect his chest and throat as his eyes adjusted to the sudden shock.

It only took a few seconds for him to adjust, and Ka'rys thanked Faranth that his opponent would've been as blinded by the glows as he was. He ducked down beneath the furs, shoving the records underneath the cot in the process. He'd check later for damage, but for the moment he was focused on not presenting an available target. He groped around for a moment before grabbing at his belt, which he immediately secured around his waist. There were two smaller daggers (considerably less weight and less balanced than his first one, and far inferior quality) hanging from the belt, and they clinked audibly in the darkness. The scattered glows across the bed and on the ground surrounding presented an eerie light and Ka'rys used the shadows playing on the walls near them to track the movements of the other male in the weyr. He stayed on his hands and knees, crawling slowly to the end of the cot. Rather than peek around the end, he peered underneath it and saw a pair of feet nearing the door - nearer - nearer -

Ka'rys put the end of the larger dagger in his mouth and then unclasped one of the smaller ones. His cot worked as a good shield, a nice obstacle. He intended to use it as much as he could. He watched the movement of the feet from under the end of the cot before sitting up just long enough to hurl the smaller dagger straight in the direction of the doorway. It was his weyr. He had that as an advantage, even if he wasn't taking the time to aim finely, and throwing weapons wasn't his strong point. (In fact, if Ka'rys were to be completely honest, he needed to practice that a lot; he was deadly in hand-to-hand combat but trying to attack from afar wasn't one of his specialties, and he needed to remedy that problem as soon as possible.)

Rather than wait and see how his throw went, Ka'rys scrambled, hunched, across his weyr toward the wardrobe. He hoped that the blade would at least distract whoever it was long enough for him to move undetected, but just in case, he continually glanced up, and moved as quickly as he could. It was darker further away from the cot, and he was wearing dark colors, which Ka'rys thanked his fortunes on. His off hand slipped behind the wardrobe, searching, feeling, and his other hand moved to the second dagger on his belt... which he threw again; slightly better aim than the first, but less power behind it. He was hoping to spook the other male out of his weyr. While he had the advantage of knowing everything in it, there was too much room, too many places to hide, and too real a chance of the other individual being killed if he scurried too near Ciceroth (who woke at the sound of chaos and crooned in confusion). He wanted to know who was in his weyr and why; death wouldn't answer both of those. His fingers curled around the edge of one of the daggers he hid behind his wardrobe and he leaned down, ready to dash after the other. The darkness hid identities from view. He saw only a shape, a figure, something to attack and mangle, then interrogate - question until he knew all there was to know. Just like routine.

[reqqy]

His opponent was after him in earnest. As shaken as Muta already was, he did not intend to simply run. For one thing, this creature was fast. That much was clear just by the change in position from that initial thrust to when he threw the glows in the man's face. Turning your back on an opponent who might be as fast as you was not a good idea, and if he didn't, he had no real chance of outpacing him. That left only the fight. The dim light was casting shadows, and Mutasim felt distinctly exposed, but he didn't know this weyr, and he certainly wasn't about to play hide-and-seek with someone after his blood. Definitely not a good idea to back yourself into a corner and wait for an enemy to find you. No, he needed to level the playing field, get away from this room and all its places to hide that were unknown to him.

Behind the cot. That's where the man had to be. Mutasim would have cursed when his toes finally found the edge of the door if he didn't want to give himself away. Most likely, his opponent saw him, but no use giving away his location if the beast hadn't. The candidate bent into a crouch, his stance widening, still looking for any sign of an attack. Small target. He needed to be smaller when at a disadvantage like this. The door was closed, and his toes weren't about to be enough to open it. A soft clinking of metal had his eyes snapping toward where the man hid, catching sight of the flying blade immediately. Low and to the left. He wouldn't bother moving or trying to block it, but by some stroke of luck - or maybe it was intentional? - the knife was going to end up in his calf just below the knee. Mutasim was, after all, an adept long-ranged fighter; he could read the path of a projectile almost instantly.

It wasn't really a matter of thought. His arm swept out, using the curve of his long-handled dagger to deflect the flying knife to one side, where it clattered to the ground harmlessly. Shardit. He was already reluctant to divest himself of one of his lines of defense to get that shell-blasted door open, and having blades flung at him did nothing to alleviate that unease. His eyes followed the small figure - whoa, small? - disappearing behind something tall that he didn't take the time to try to make it out. Now or never. Mutasim tossed his dagger lightly, using the dirk to snare it as he reached behind himself and found the handle of the door, pulling it open a crack. Had to love that curved dagger - it was one of the only ones he could have used in such a way. That was as much time as he cared to spare using his hand.

Mutasim was just in the process of reclaiming the dangling dagger when another knife hurtled out of the darkness. The accuracy was getting better. It would have taken him in the shoulder, awfully close to his throat. The candidate merely lowered his stance yet again, tilting his head and neck to one side to be certain it didn't catch him in passing. The blade imbedded itself quite solidly in the door. Either his opponent was attempting to merely wound him, or throwing was not his forte. In all honestly, throwing wasn't his forte regardless, because the power simply wasn't there. Most of Muta's throws were near-impossible to block or evade, for the simple reason that they had tremendous speed behind them.

The candidate didn't let that relax him any. Just because long-range wasn't your strength, didn't mean hand-to-hand would go the same way, and he had a bleeding arm to consider. Besides, if he didn't stay on his toes, he'd still end up a pincushion. Just not dead. Pretty much as soon as the knife buried itself into the door, Mutasim ducked under the protruding handle, sliding to one side, got his toes in the crack and kicked the door wide open, dancing back into the hallway where there was nothing to hide behind. Of course, fleeing wasn't really an option, either, as the passage was straight and narrow and he wasn't turning his back to a swift, knife-throwing madman. Clearly, the man must be mad.

Mutasim took the center of the hall, his body going into that relaxed state that was his most deadly. Come on, little man. Out here. He willed his opponent forward. This was where he lived, in the whir and clang of blades, and some animal part of him wanted it.

[glamourie]

The sound of metal hitting wood made Ka'rys look up. Dagger lodged in the door. Shards. It was fortunate he hadn't put much power in that throw or he'd have trouble getting it out; upper body strength was not one of Ka'rys's specialties. (He'd always be smaller than most of the bronzeriders and at Fort, he'd simply learned to accommodate that by being twice their speed and more agile, much the way a green could outmaneuver most bronzes in the air.) The last thing he wanted was to ask for help after he caught his attacker (and in his mind he'd been attacked; Ka'rys could not fathom the smallest reason of why else anyone would sneak into his weyr when he was sleeping); he wanted to be left alone to question the boy. That was probably not the best example to set for the Weyr, but for the moment, Ka'rys had completely forgotten where he was. He'd relapsed back into Fort mindset, the same he'd been for so many turns. At Fort if he was attacked, it was expected to capture, not kill. Capture at most any cost, maiming was okay as long as the person was alive enough to be subject to interrogations, to their motives and their allegiences and anything they may have known about Benden. Ka'rys was good at interrogation, too, despite not having an excess of experience in it. Most people responded after their fingers were broken, even if they were bleeding. For each refused answer, a single broken bone in the hand, up to the wrist. It could be an extremely painful experience, and his little attacker was about to find out why Ka'rys had few people who actively picked on him at Fort.

The door opened. Ka'rys sprung forward, running soundlessly (barefoot, as always) across the weyr, to skid through the open doorway. Had he been thinking it might have occurred to him that the person was fleeing for a reason - that they hadn't intended to wake him or get themselves slashed up. But Ka'rys was paranoid enough to believe that his opponent was fleeing to avoid being captured and questioned. Selenitas was not without its spies, no matter what some people may have believed, and it wouldn't have surprised him if someone sent assassins. He slammed his body to the opposing wall of the darkened hallway, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light more quickly than he expected. He was right on the smaller (smaller? People came in smaller sizes than him?) male's heels, and he was not about to let him get away. Ka'rys's hands curled around the blade.

Rysmine? What's going on? Ciceroth was awake, but confused, as evidenced by the fact that he was being surprisingly quiet. The bronze stirred on his ledge, but since they were in the hallway, he was too far away to really help. Rysmine?

Any other time, Ka'rys would've answered Ciceroth, but he was focused with the intensity of a predator. Away from the wall he stepped, slashing with his left hand (the stronger one) at his opponent's (he didn't recognize him, he looked young, but shard it, Ka'rys didn't trust anyone) shoulder. He wasn't going for killing blows, but if he managed to cut the other up enough he might back off, stop and listen. Ka'rys wasn't eager to kill anyone at Selenitas, it certainly set a poor precedent, and he was in his right mind enough to recognize the need for self-control. But he was paranoid enough to believe he'd been attacked (his mind kept registering that anyone leaning over him in the dark surely had ill-intent and the fact that the boy then drew blades didn't help his situation any; never mind that Ka'rys drew first) and an attack needed to be addressed. Surely he couldn't be faulted for hurting someone to save his own life. His right arm moved as he took a step back, to try to present less of a target if the other male decided to attack back; he was still in range with his arms but the boy was smaller, shorter than him. It would probably be harder to hit his mid section if he leaned back some -- at least, that was the idea.

[reqqy]

Mutasim blinked and stepped aside as the taller form hurtled past and slammed into the wall. What was the man doing? Turning his body to face both his awkward opponent and the open door, he couldn't make out what might have flung the man into the wall so heavily. A frown touched his lips. The young man had already adjusted to the level of lighting in the hall, however he still didn't make the first move. Muta rarely did unless he intended it to be a lethal one, and much as his instincts screamed 'KILL!,' his ever-present practical inner voice told him that slaying a bronzerider, even in self-defense - and an unwitnessed act of self-defense, at that - would not be something he could weather unscathed. Being giftwrapped and sent back to Bitra to adorn Lyam's halls in whatever fashion the LordHolder might desire was a very real possibility. He also had a nagging suspicion that this was the Weyrleader. Killing the man really wasn't a viable option.

Though, by the egg, that had to be the strangest way he'd ever seen a man set about putting his back to the wall! It made no sense to be that determined to cover your back unless there was more than one opponent. Now Mutasim was getting nervous all over again, not because he was worried about this creature, but because he was certain he must be missing something. If there had really been someone else in that weyr, he hadn't noticed him. And that was very unusual for the candidate. Grudgingly, he had to admit that this second opponent must be a force to be reckoned with, and Mutasim had enough trouble on his hands with the first to seriously resent the necessity to split his attention.

Shardit, if it came down to having to fend off two people, he couldn't afford to worry about not killing, too. Maybe, if he put this bronzerider out of commission fast and early, that would be enough. Mutasim's eyes narrowed, his hands briefly tightening around the hilts of his weapons in response to his determination. This couldn't be drawn out. He needed to make it as definitive as possible without actually killing the dragonrider.

It was a good think his momentary distraction ended when it did, because the first of his opponents was already attacking, slashing for Mutasim's bared bicep. The boy stepped toward his assailant's reach, his dirk darting up before his arm and slightly to the right, at an angle so as to absorb more of the power behind the man's swing. Mutasim acknowledged that, straight-on, this man was stronger than he was. That wasn't surprising, though, and the candidate knew how to work an opponent's superior strength to his advantage. Now, if the bronzerider was faster too, he would probably be very much screwed. The man's blade slid down his with a metallic shriek, Muta twisting his wrist to dislodge the blades before the tip could catch his hand.

His right arm, still wielding the dirk, immediately moved to attempt to take advantage of the momentary opening that the slash had presented him, aiming to slash through the exposed underside of his opponent's elbow and effectively cripple that left arm. He could have attempted a move for the torso, but he hadn't yet gauged the skill of this man, and that could be risky if the bronzerider had some training. His off-hand instinctively moved before his chest, elbow out, the blade at a forty-five degree angle, even as Mutasim descended into a wide, low stance that should offset the man's greater reach a bit more.

[glamourie]

Metal had the peculiar talent for clinging quite audibly when impacted, and the sound carried through the stone cavern walls that made up the third floor large singles; someone was bound to hear the noise and come running. Well, the backup would be appreciated. If left to his own devices, Ka'rys did not trust himself not to do some serious damage to the smaller boy... even if he was at a disadvantage outside of his weyr, which he recognized privately. He was used to being the smaller, faster of two opponents and had tailored his fighting style to it in the north; he'd taken advantage of all the agility his lithe frame could offer and catered himself entirely to a speed based approach. While he had no doubt that, for once, he was the stronger of the two opponents (even in the dark he could see that; probably a Benden child's wing rider from the sounds of things, though the confusion he felt from Ciceroth didn't exactly help him identify his attacker) but speed was his strong point. It was like fighting with a blindfold on - although the darkness may as well have merited that. He just hoped that the other male was as crippled in the dark as most individuals were. He slept strange hours. His eyes adjusted to darkness better than most as a result. So maybe more debilitating than a blindfold would've been.

What he didn't expect was an attack immediately after his slash was blocked. The fact that the attack came so quickly, and in such succession, indicated that he was dealing with someone trained in combat; the idea of a northerner sent as an assassin was reinforced in his mind, along with a growing sense of alarm. How long had it been since he'd fought someone of any skill level other than traditional southern - which was, to say, none?

-- Too long, he realized as the stranger's blade was lunged at his left arm. He didn't have time enough to react and block it completely; he hadn't expected an immediate response. To avoid the intended damage (and any excess), he bent his arm away as much as he could, though also into the weapon; the blade tore through his flesh with more efficiency than he would have liked, but it saved him the long gaping scratches that would've bled excessively. Sharp pains flared up through his arm, and the advantage of physical strength was promptly reduced from the wound. Blood pooled from the injury to his forearm, dripping down along his wrist to splatter against the ground, and a sense of alarm not entirely his own flared through him; Ciceroth was growing worried, but he wasn't. Ka'rys was completely in combat mode and he was not about to be distracted by something like pain. Later he would look at his arm in anger and disgust, and doubtlessly need a healer, but it was likely that the wound was a mostly superficial one; bleeding, but not excessively. If he'd been expecting it - or dealing with someone not quite as fast - he might have been able to dodge. He was annoyed, and secretly impressed.

Impressing Ka'rys was usually a bad thing, though; he did not linger on the feeling, instead taking a split second to acknowledge the balanced, crouched position that his opponent had assumed. Ka'rys would find it harder to hit someone shorter and smaller than him with such perfect balance, which meant something had to be done to level the playing field and get them back on equal ground. Something to reduce the strength (though it was minor compared to what he'd been subject to in training) behind the wielded weapons.

His movements were very quick. Ka'rys prided himself on his speed, even if he was outclassed by the smaller male. He moved his left foot forward and rested his weight against it for balance. Rather than slash out (as would have been instinct), Ka'rys settled for swinging his right foot at the smaller boy's ankles. Even if he didn't manage to trip him (as was his goal), he'd have to move to avoid the foot, and that would reduce his balance some - hopefully throw him off for the next blow to land. With his off hand (and much smaller dagger), Ka'rys swiped low, aiming for the boy's face. Facial wounds had a tendency to bleed a lot, and blood in eyes made for an excellent distraction; they were also often superficial. He wouldn't need to actually get deep for a lot of blood. Head wounds were always good for dripping blood everywhere.

[reqqy]

Blade sliced through flesh, but, even without looking, he could have easily realized that it wasn't the right feel. Mutasim's aim had been off. Or, rather, his opponent had evaded the full intent of the attack. He didn't wait to analyze every little detail of that, the dirk joining his dagger to form a cross in front of him, fully expecting a counterattack. The blades themselves crossed before his neck, making it an easy matter to parry however he might need to. At the very least, that strike should serve to slow down the man's attacks a little. Muta immediately recognized he was faster, but it really wasn't by enough to give him the distinct advantage in that regard. The height difference helped, but again, not enough to give him a clear advantage, since the man he faced wasn't extremely tall himself.

It wasn't good that he couldn't seem to end this quickly. He still had to keep an eye out for the second man lurking somewhere in the darkness, though now Mutasim was getting the distinct impression that this person must be waiting for the two combatants to weaken each other enough to make it easy on him - or waiting for the outcome itself. All the candidate could do was keep one eye and ear open while attempting to turn this knife fight in a favorable direction for him. He didn't know how fit his opponent was, though clearly he was trained well enough to give Mutasim trouble. He wasn't even sure exactly which bronzerider this was, which might give him some manner of insight as to what to do next.

That particular quandary was to be answered quickly. His opponent had stepped forward, nearly squaring up with Mutasim. The dim light prevented the boy from reading the shift of weight as quickly as he normally would, though he still noticed that sweeping foot. Normally he would have evaded it, slashing at the appendage in passing, but his opponent was slashing downward at the same time - a mistake in that both attacks came from the same side of his body, making it much more likely that they wouldn't surprise Muta. The young man made a snap decision. He stood his ground, blades rising to intercept the bronzerider's downward slash as he rode the man's kick, his right leg pivoting inward, right thigh bracing left thigh in a stance that wasn't at all stable, but would do for now.

The man was fast, though, and even with Mutasim's superior speed, the tip of the dagger still managed to graze his forehead before coming to a halt against the combined strength of both of the candidate's arms, lodging in the intersection of dagger and dirk. The candidate wasted no time. The strange configuration of his legs allowed him to twist, exploding outwards with his left leg slightly in front of his right, his arms uncrossing and bringing both dagger and dirk in a swift, wide horizontal slash aimed at his opponent's knees. Here, being able to attack directly rather than having to aim everything at a downward angle was a distinct advantage; Mutasim could react much more quickly. The man would practically have to throw himself out of the way or attempt to leap over the blades to avoid that attack.

He might have pressed his opponent further, but it was at that moment that his left foot planted, a sharp, agonizing pain shooting up his leg. Shardit! The foot had been broken a good two turns before, and hadn't given him trouble in over a turn, but apparently it hadn't healed right - or was weakened from the initial break - and had succumbed to the force of his assailant's kick. Mutasim didn't look down or do anything else that might bring attention to it, knowing his opponent would use whatever advantage he could get. This had to end soon, though! The boy couldn't mask that weakness forever, and it would gravely effect any stance or movement he attempted to take.

[glamourie]

The boy managed to stay upright and Ka'rys was mildly annoyed. He wasn't used to competition. This was Selenitas; there were almost no people capable of defending themselves. They may as well have had a big target painted on the grounds saying "ATTACK ME!" somewhere. Granted, that could do with some fixing (and he wanted to do something about it) but it would take time. The back of his mind acknowledged that he was very, very out of practice; he should have been able to kill with that first strike and he hadn't, he'd managed to wound but barely. There was no excuse for that level of incompetence and he made a mental note to be more cautious, but where had this kid who was nearly matched to him in skill come from? Not southern - no one native to the south had that level of skill. He refused to believe it. He absolutely could not wrap his mind around the concept and would not take the time to try. No, he was fighting a northerner. A very small northerner. Male, definitely, but the level of skill concerned him.

That feeling of concern heightened as his slash was (mostly) blocked, and his mind was reeling. The smaller of the two did not appear to be wasting any time and Ka'rys's conscience - what was left of it anyway - clicked off. Kill or be killed. Any desire to avoid permanent damage was washed away in the desire to cripple or otherwise incapacitate the other fighter as quickly and efficiently as he could... without getting himself too badly damaged in the process. It was going to be tricky, that, since he appeared to be evenly matched. He was absolutely not used to being the smallest and fastest person in a fight and he didn't like the change. If he made it through the night without getting himself killed, he fully intended to find someone to help him practice knife fights with people his size and smaller; probably one of the females, since the number of males that were smaller than him was pitifully small.

At least he'd hit him, which meant he wasn't as badly outclassed as he could've been. His mind was in kill mode, though, which was probably not the best thing for him to be considering. Killing people at Selenitas was bound to get him yelled at by the Weyrwoman, or worse. He wasn't sure what was worse in Selenitas's eyes, aside from going back to the north, but he was sure he was going to find out if they kept up. He wasn't going to let some kid hack and slash him. No sir. As much fun as it was to bleed all over the ground, no. He hurt enough as it was.

Shards! Ka'rys recognized the slashing motion at his knees and his reaction was instant. Rather than try to dodge the blades (which ran a high risk of getting his shins cut up), he threw himself backwards and changed his footing - deliberately. He probably could've remained upright, but not without stumbling, which would've presented too easy an opening and he was not about to be the easiest target hit. His left arm was stinging worse than he wanted to admit; no more injuries were wanted, and they would doubtlessly have come. He hit the ground on his back and pulled his legs up toward his chest to immediately avoid his legs being hit by the sweeping blades. His gaze flicked up to the smaller boy, lasting the slightest second before he pushed back on his arms (sending another jolt of pain through his left) to brace himself. There was a momentary opening - though why he couldn't say - and he seized it to kick at the shorter boy's face with as much force as he could put behind it.

The back of his mind whirled, a sudden burst of nausea from pain flaring through his mind. The wound on his arm was bad enough that he had to bite the insides of his cheeks to avoid wincing. He didn't want to show any sign of weakness, though it was obvious. It wasn't bad enough that he would bleed out quickly, but the pain was kicking in. Adrenaline or not, eventually the flare of feeling would hit full force, and the fact that it was Ka'rys's stronger arm wasn't lost on him. Shards shards shards!

[kysseh]

"What, by the Egg, are you doing?!"

Despite the fact that it was a rhetorical question, the force behind it left no doubt that the speaker was beyond angry and pushing furious to the point of irate. Standing a good several paces from the two combatants, Savitri had to squint in the lighting to make out their forms, her eyes still adjusting to the light or lack thereof. However, anyone who had met her on at least one occasion could recognize her voice, and if nothing else, it was distinctly obvious that the voice was female. Not high-pitched, granted... though anyone who had had a mother would recognize the tone as one of a mother scolding errant children, which was really the reality as Savitri saw it.

The weyrling was absolutely livid at having been so distracted from her napping mindmate and her reading by some ridiculous fight over a glowbasket. After meeting the weyrleader at--or, really, in--the river, Savitri had found herself receiving a constant stream of images from her little white pet about the behavior of the bronzerider. Shadow had taken a keen interest in spiting the man for not providing him with good 'Flying' to spy on, so Savitri was kept largely apprised of what the man was up to, much to her annoyance. It seemed pointless, and she would have ignored it were it not for the frantic overtones of the evening's images, mostly centered on what appeared to be a fight breaking out over someone trying to change glows. Honestly, what was the weyr coming to?!

She could not make out either combatant's face, though one of them had to be Ka'rys if Shadow was persisting in watching. One was on the floor, and both, by their silhouettes, seemed to be male, judging by the lack of curvature around the bust and hips, though it was rather hard to tell. The standing one was short... shorter than her, which meant the one on the floor with his leg outstretched for a kick must be the bronzerider. She scowled. What was he playing at, harming a child?! She had thought him arrogant, not cruel, though who knew what was going on in his head, with his lack of expression? Stupid, sharding....

"Both of you back away from each other right now. This is ridiculous, and don't you dare give me the line about who started it," she added fiercely, in a manner that could have easily be considered maternal and overbearing. She was far past the point of caring about rank at this point, though. She'd take whatever punishment was forthcoming, but this idiocy needed to end right then and there. She hated fighting, and it made her grateful she had brought her healer's bag with her. Shadow was getting the scent of blood, which meant that one or both of the combatants was wounded.

She glared fiercely in the darkness, and though they probably couldn't see the expression on her face, the fact that she stood with her feet shoulder-width apart, hands planted on her hips, spoke with wordless eloquence about her attitude toward the whole situation. Anger, fearlessness, and a dash of imperiousness all mixed in to form one very angry healer in one very vertically-challenged package. That was not even bringing to mind the thought of the protective pair of golden jaws that was sleeping peacefully--for now--in the weyrling barracks. It was too bad she could not see who the other combatant was...

[reqqy]

He felt like cursing the moment it became clear his attack had been unsuccessful again. Mutasim just wanted to end this before the second figure decided to join. He was perilously close to deciding that the immediate danger was more important than what may happen later when Selenitas had a dead bronzerider - and going for the kill. Only the fact that, after that initial strike, his opponent didn't seem to be trying for a mortal wound stayed his hand. Was it his sense of fair play? Mutasim doubted it. As far as the candidate knew, he didn't have one. Though it could just be that the young man was responding to the atmosphere of the fight, which, while tense and potentially permanently damaging, did not have that life-and-death feel so familiar to the boy.

His current opponent had thrown himself backwards to avoid the sweeping blades. An annoyance, but it definitely was something of a bad position for the man, as he was on his back. You didn't choose that position unless you really had no other choice. His arms, of course, were still outstretched at the end of his swing, leaving him more exposed than normal, and he couldn't say he was entirely surprised to find his assailant's foot speeding toward his face. Not enough time to block. Didn't really trust his speed on a broken foot when said foot was in the forefront, meaning it would take all his weight in that first step. That left him very limited options. One, actually. He twisted his torso a little, angling his head out of the way, and hissed softly as the foot clipped his ear, causing a ringing sound to develop deep in his skull.

That was, however, a small price to pay for what that freed him up to do.

Ignoring the voice at his back for the very simple reason that he had a man trying to k- well, maim, anyway - him in front, his arms descended on the leg, pinning it to his shoulder before his opponent could try anything else. The bronzerider couldn't reach him with his daggers from this position. Though he could attempt to lash out with his other leg, Mutasim decided now was the time to make that option null, as well. He angled the dirk and dagger to rest easily on either side of the man's leg, pressing just enough to make it clear he would cut the man if he felt the need, either crippling or killing him. Most people wouldn't risk continuing to fight with that. It was a fairly simple concept, really. Mutasim could kill him if he wanted to. No sense in compelling the candidate to take that action through a sense of ridiculous stubbornness.

"There might be someone else in that room," he grated to the unseen stranger, in warning. It didn't occur to him to think of her as an enemy. (Her voice sounded familiar, but he hadn't taken the time to place it.) Mutasim was, well, northern, and he still had trouble seeing most women as threats - certainly the ones who would talk rather than physically part a pair of combatants. Of course he was willing to admit there were exceptions, but his gut did not suggest that he needed to defend himself from whoever had joined them in the hall. She hadn't come from the room; he'd been keeping a close watch on that.

If his breaths came a little quicker, he masked it well. This had not been an easy fight. For all that, it had been brief, though, and he was fairly certain the second nasty still hiding in the weyr wouldn't come out with a witness now here. Hopefully. He directed his words at this bronzerider, whom he still hadn't identified. "I was changing glows. Since I assume you don't normally attack people for that, you probably don't know. That was my only intent. I'd rather not kill you, but I will if you leave me no other choice. Let's just call this a draw, okay? Though I would like to know who you've got hidden in your weyr."

[glamourie]

Voice - speaking - distraction - Shard it.

Ka'rys's fingers curled around the two blades, ignoring the sharp, stinging pain flaring through his arm. Up closer he recognized exactly who it was he'd been fighting and - privately - thanked Faranth that he'd missed on that first strike. Killing candidates was a lot more troublesome than trying to deal with a northern assassin. First there was the fact that the kid was known, and then the fact that Shmee probably wouldn't thank him for trying to hack and slash someone at Selenitas up. Shards, shards, shards. His ego stung a touch as his gaze flicked down toward the blade, then back to the boy's face. He was out of practice; something would need to be done about that. His gaze lingered pointedly on the candidate's face. The boy from the Sands that Aslath had so raged at. That was how Ka'rys remembered him - as the boy who's firelizard had been screeched at by the Senior Queen. That his darling Ophelie hated Aslath for that memory made it much easier for him to recall it, too.

Raising an eyebrow, Ka'rys held perfectly still. He didn't move to attack, but he also didn't move to release his blades, instead allowing a slight smile to move across his face. Someone else in his room? Unlikely. Ka'rys was territorial. His weyr was big enough for him and him alone. Someone would have to ask him very nicely to spend more than a little time in there. He hated having his space invaded. It came with the nature of being so secretive, really. Hnn. He didn't speak, or contradict the boy, though. He was busy trying not to laugh outright at the ornery voice speaking down to them as though they were squabbling children. He supposed they may have looked that way, though.

Ka'rys turned his head to the side, finally breaking his gaze to look at the speaker. In the dark he didn't recognize her, but the condescending tone reminded him a lot of the Weyrwoman; she often varied between talking down to him, ignoring him, or trying to be cold. (Which was in itself worth a laugh since she was an emotional storm.) He raised an eyebrow and replied quietly, "Yes, mother." It was distinctly sarcastic, but wasn't he justified? He'd stopped. Though, clearly, he'd stopped more because of a blade being pointed at him than anything else. Let her think whatever she wanted. Women were prone to being convinced of themselves being right anyway.

The explanation made him blink in the darkness, but he didn't laugh. It was hard not to. Glows. Glows of all things. That explained the sheer amount of them thrown in his face and likely still strung across his cot. He fixed his expression in a blank look as he raised an eyebrow, slowly. "You shouldn't go wandering into people's weyrs at night," he said, and he meant it; even if he was probably one of the few likely to try and gut someone wandering in, the fact remained that it was a distinct possibility. Though, part of his reason for bringing it up was that his ego was still bruised, and he refused to accept (outwardly) that he had over-reacted. It could've been anyone in there, for any reason, and he was not going to let his guard up just because he'd been mistaken once. He'd seen how Benden was so eager to over-take Selenitas, and he wasn't about to get himself killed for blatant negligence. If he went down, he was determined to hurt others in the process. Spiteful Ka'rys. His eyebrows raised and he allowed the smile to finally show on his features. Ironic, really. "I don't have anyone hidden in my weyr, candidate, unless you count Ciceroth, and he's not likely to come out swinging. He doesn't fit through the doorway very well."

You should be ashamed of yourself.
For what?
Should I list it? You tried to gut a candidate, you panicked at someone being in your quarters and you're always alone. And your jokes are terrible.

"Would you mind getting off of me?" he asked, pointedly ignoring the bronze. His jokes were not that bad. Plus, it wasn't his fault he could see the humor in the situation. Better than sulking incessantly about his wounded pride. A loss meant he had something to work toward, and Ka'rys was nothing if not persistent. The kid could call it a draw if he wanted. Ka'rys didn't accept 'draws'; he'd lost, and he was going to fixate on it until he was sure he wouldn't again. Luck spared his life once, it wouldn't in the future.

[kysseh]

It grated on Savitri that the standing combatant chose to ignore her in favor of further immobilizing his 'victim.' She was now fairly sure that the ungraceful beast on the floor was Ka'rys, and amusing as it was to see the arrogant bronzerider at someone else's mercy, she had a feeling that his death would be distressing to all... including Ciceroth, whom Hepaticath was fond of. Shardit. She picked up the covered glowbasket she had set aside and removed the covering so that the hallway was a little better lit. At least now she could see, and the visual, coupled with the back-and-forth arguing, made her want to burst into unrestrained laughter and then yell at them both.

"Let him go, Mutasim. It's only him. I doubt Ka'rys ever has anyone in his weyr," she said mildly, and the light given off by the glows made her rare smile all-too-visible. The thought of anyone being able to tolerate his cold attitude was highly entertaining, and she could not resist arching an eyebrow at the man on the floor. He had teased her; she would now tease him, since she no longer had to worry about throats being cut. She raised her voice for the dragon inside the weyr, whom Hepaticath reassured her was awake. "Ciceroth, Yours isn't hiding a lover in there, is he? I hope not. His weyr is about to become a temporary infirmary." She did not anticipate a response, but then again, a response was hardly necessary. She only said it for the weyrleader's benefit. Luckily for him, she chose to let his 'mother' comment pass unacknowledged, if only because she had already fought back. Shards, but she should have implied that it was a male lover. That would have irked any bronzerider even more, and Ka'rys could not be the exception to every social rule.

She shifted her bag on her shoulder and walked closer without a dash of fear, surveying the scene with an expression of mixed annoyance and amusement. Blood.... definitely blood. And Mutasim looked to be favoring a leg. She frowned more deeply at the realization of how close the two had come to really offing each other. Suddenly, it was not quite so amusing, and her need to patch them both together was overriding her instinct to laugh. She made an impatient gesture at Mutasim for him to release the bronzerider, Ka'rys receiving an equally upset look from the vertically-challenged weyrling. "I don't care what you call it. Muta, back off. Ka'rys, get up. Into the weyr, right now!" she ordered with an unmistakable shooing motion. "I'm not about to have you two bleeding and limping all over the place."

And she wasn't. It surprised her to learn how elevated her heart rate was, how suddenly nervous she felt, though she kept the authoritative expression on her face to avoid showing that to either male. They had been fighting... seriously fighting. It could have so easily ended in death, and as annoying as Ka'rys was and as difficult as Mutasim could be, it was as more than as a healer that she was distressed about that possible occurrence. Mutasim, she valued as something approximating a friend. Ka'rys was... tolerable, but his dragon was adored by her own precious Cath. It was the closest she had been to a real, honest-to-goodness combat, and perhaps that was the reason for the increase in adrenaline. It was fear and self-preservation that had her anxious. Yes, of course, that was it. It was only minimally about the other two... idiots.

She shoved the fear and anxiety inside, forced herself to focus on the injuries and injuries alone as her free hand took to opening up her bag to look over her supplies. Bandages, numbweed, some needlthorn and thread, redwort, a few rods for immobilization.... yes, she had it fairly well covered. "Which of you two is in danger of dying first? And don't try hiding any wounds, either. I don't have the time for your pride right now." Her tone was directed at both but aimed more at the bronzerider, who was on the receiving end of more of her ire. Mutasim had erred in changing the glows--or trying to--at night, but Ka'rys had made the first aggressive move. Plus, he was older, more experienced, and should have been far, far wiser. Apparently, not, for Mutasim had fairly well kicked his rear. She chose to not bring up that simple fact. That would be reserved for a situation of complete noncompliance from the bronzerider, in which only humiliation or force could bring acquiescence. "Well, don't both volunteer at once..."

[reqqy]

Oh, light. He turned his head aside, blinking rapidly to attempt to adjust to the greater light, not really noticing Ka'rys's blatant stare. Mutasim was really just rather - tired - now that everything was over. Too many emotions today, between chores all day long due to a sadistic headwoman, the very distressing flit flight that made him want to shear off Jabari's wings just to prevent another one, and this crazy running battle. He wasn't usually subjected to so much in one day. Or maybe it was the blood dripping steadily down his face, down the length of his forearm. Not so much from his arm, but the small cut on his forehead was bleeding as much as most facial wounds did. He thought his ear might be cut, too, but didn't try to find out. Plus his foot really, really didn't like supporting both Mutasim's weight and that of the bronzerider's leg. He could only be glad that his strange opponent wasn't a very big man. Yes, the candidate had something of an unhealthy habit, in combat, of sacrificing parts of his body in order to ensure a better striking position. He likely would allow himself to be stabbed if it had a chance of ending a fight in his favor.

His head swiveled, matching face to voice and blinking almost dazedly at the smile on Savitri's face. Savitri! What was she doing here? It made sense for a rider to come out and see what was going on with the sounds of blades clashing, but the girl should have been in her barracks. Then again, he wasn't in his. Oh, shardit, he'd forgotten about curfew! Well, whatever. He broke it most every morning, anyway. What was Kemma going to do, evict him? He thought of releasing the bronzerider, truly, but now that he'd stopped moving he couldn't seem to find the energy, and anyway, the man hadn't yet sheathed his weapons. Then the name of the dragon seemed to get to him. Ciceroth?

His eyes flashed back toward the man on the ground. Shells. Shard-blasted...the Weyrleader? Of all the people he could pick a fight with. Well, no, he hadn't exactly picked this fight, but still, it was just his luck that it was the Weyrleader he'd crossed blades with. No doubt of this getting back to the Candidatemaster, the Headwoman, and anyone else who could make Muta's life miserable for the hubris of actually drawing blade to defend himself from the man who ran the Weyr. Or...theoretically should. Mutasim knew he'd gone pale, but hopefully the blood smeared across his face would hide it. Stinging his eyes. Lovely. An all-around wonderful day this was.

"I think I'll keep that in mind," he responded to Ka'rys dryly. No chance was he wandering into this man's weyr again, no matter what time of day it was. He'd rather keep all his insides safely inside him. He frowned at the Weyrleader's answer, though. "So unless Ciceroth somehow decided to swat you across the weyr on a whim, you just chose to faceplant into the wall?" Of course he wanted to be let go. Mutasim wanted to let him go. The candidate could almost even believe that Ka'rys wouldn't try to attack him again, despite the drawn blades. After all, who wanted to risk Savitri's wrath? He'd rather tango with a dozen Ka'rys's.

Speaking of..."Hey," he muttered. "Don't snap. I'm moving." Yes, slowly. He finally settled for shoving the man's leg off his shoulder with a muttered apology, not really caring if it jarred Ka'rys or not. After all, if the Weyrleader'd had his wish Mutasim's guts would be puddling on the floor of his weyr right now. Hard to be too sympathetic with that in mind. He settled back onto his seat, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his foot that made all the others seem inconsequential. Just the thought of trying to get back to the barracks like this made him vaguely nauseous. Mutasim slammed his blades back into their sheathes in vicious, swift movements, making it clear that he really wasn't in the best of moods, despite being generally gracious about the whole thing and not kicking up too big a fuss. By rights, he should probably have been cursing the Weyrleader out. No, going into the weyr wasn't a good idea, but it certainly didn't merit...this. Even if Mutasim had to admit that he likely would have responded the same way.

The young man didn't get up immediately. He was watching Ka'rys with a decided wariness, just in case the Weyrleader changed his mind or threw a fit at finding himself on the losing end of this tussle. Mutasim needed to clean his blades...and he'd probably chipped them, too, but that could wait. The idea of standing to move into the same weyr in which he'd been attacked did not appeal to him. Crawling through the door, though, appealed even less, so he'd just have to weather the pain. In a moment. After he caught his breath. Yes, that was what he was doing, catching his breath.

Savitri's question allowed him a chance to gather his will a little longer, or at least to struggle to his feet in solitude. He nodded to Ka'rys. "He's losing more blood. The wound on his left arm is moderately deep. Besides, I'll take longer, so just start with him." Not to mention the fact that few people would care if a candidate suffered a fainting spell while the Weyrleader was seen to, while the opposite would have been met with quite a few protestations. Ka'rys was the important one, after all. At that moment, Jabari appeared, hissing and scolding angrily before descending to curl up in Muta's lap.

"Brave one, aren't you? So now you come." Not that he would have let him if the flit had shown any inclination otherwise.