Rejects (All Candies Welcome!)

[reqqy]

For the fourth time, Mutasim found himself returning to the candidate barracks. For the first time, he'd actually stayed long enough to celebrate a little with the new weyrlings. Not that many of them knew him very well.

All was quiet when he arrived at the barracks. The small, olive-skinned boy sat in one of the chairs, carefully folding one leg over the other and staring into the banked fire, his mind miles away. Jabari had rejoined him sometime after the Hatching. At this moment, the brown flitter dangled from his tunic haphazardly. Mutasim was used to Jabari's eccentricities, however, and thought nothing of it.

Strangely enough, his thoughts were not on the disappointment of not being chosen - again. That was expected by now. No, he was recalling the first Hatching, where, at his side, Zahin had become Jessereth's Z'hin before Mutasim even really knew the young man. The same young man who stepped in when Lyam's men came after Muta in the barracks later that night. So the friendship began. It was hard to believe Jessereth and Z'hin would never be seen in this weyr again. They'd survived so much...The candidate sighed quietly.

Wasn't there some wine stashed under his cot? Cheap stuff, to be sure, but he'd managed to pilfer it some months ago. Mutasim didn't drink. Normally. Now, though, he thought it might be - interesting - to see how far a bottle would go. That almost made him laugh. Probably very far, given how small he was. Muta retrieved it, coming back out into the common room. Not many would come through here while the festivities were still going on.

He didn't touch it, though. Instead, he walked the length of the common room, looking for the bloodstains that had marked his stay here, and started his first true friendship since Bitra. The boy was solemn, performing the action as if it were a sacred ritual. Perhaps, in a way, it was.

[marissa]

{This post is weird and pointless, I don't even know how/why I wrote all of it. The only thing you can even reply to is the last paragraph. Sorry. xP I couldn't stop my fingers, lol.}

With nothing left at the Sands for her, Raen was making her way back to the Candidate Barracks. She wasn’t breaking down because she hadn’t impressed, to say the least. Shells, this candidate wasn’t feeling anything rather than slight disappointment…and maybe even a bit of relief. She had been forced to make a decision she wasn’t ready to make, and by not impressing, it had been made for her. Now she could choose to do what she wished with her virginity, and everything else that came with losing it. Thank Faranth!

Entering the barracks slowly and quietly, although she didn’t go through to the girl’s bunks. She didn’t even have a bunk there to call her own. Sitting in a chair that was backed into a corner of the room, Raen began to contemplate her stay here at the Weyr. She had barely arrived when Shmee had whisked her off, taking her under her wing. It had been a great privilege to the candidate, to be in a special position as the Weyrwoman’s Apprentice. Now, though, would she still have that status? Maybe the Weyrwoman didn’t want her, didn’t need her. She had S’rei again, after all, and Miguel (last she had checked) had been taken back by his mother, or something of the like. Raen didn’t know the details.

Of course she would be happy to be ‘just a candidate’, although the girl would miss Shmee, Shei, and Aslath. She would have to talk to her Weyrwoman, to see their arrangements, now. Raen leaned back in her chair, mind clogged with thoughts that had been shoved out during the Hatching. Now that she had time to process, but did she really want to?

No. She didn’t. But there wasn’t anything else to do, and there were way too many people down at the Feast. That was her reason for coming here, in the first place…it would hopefully, hopefully, hopefully be empty. Even most failed candidates would probably be at the Feast, whether to congratulate their friends, or to drown away their sorrows in wine. Either way, the Barracks would be empty for awhile if she was the only one here.

But apparently Faranth was against her, as a boy came out of his room and made his way across the common room, looking for, or at, something that Raen couldn’t spot from her angle. He looked possibly depressed, and was strangely calm. Sitting up further in her chair so she wouldn’t frighten him if she spoke, the candidate opened her mouth, only to snap it shut. Why on Pern was she going to say anything? He would probably just go back to his bunk after he found whatever he was looking for, and leave her alone, unaware that she was even present.

And still Raen opened her mouth again, drew in breath, and spoke. Why? She had no idea. But if she spoke, why did it matter her reasoning? “Hey.” Maybe he wouldn’t even hear her, Raen’s voice was soft enough. And yet, she spoke yet again. “Why aren’t you at the Feast?”

[reqqy]

He traversed the common room at a slow pace, pausing every once in awhile to crouch, to run strangely delicate fingers along the grain of the wood. It was almost impossible to pick out if you didn't know it was there, that slight discoloration. He closed his eyes. Yes, this was where he'd stood, where he'd been thrown back against the wall, helpless against a man so large as the one he'd taken on without his daggers. Uu'n's blade had killed that man. And there. Where Mutasim had returned the favor. His feet took him past the chairs, past the silent presence of the girl. He noticed her, then, and was surprised that he hadn't before. That was unusual for him. If one was perceptive, they might have noticed the slight hesitation in his step, but he continued on silently, giving no other indication that he knew she was there. She obviously didn't intend to be noticed. His past impressed upon him the wisdom of fulfilling a potential enemy's expectations - until the final moment. Yes, even now, he could not greet a stranger without at least a modicum of suspicion.

Soon, though, he was mostly absorbed in his task. In the remembrance. Z'hin had been outside this door, the first time that Mutasim truly noticed him as someone other than a person who merely shared space with him. Of the three boys, it was the brownweyrling who had the least experience, who was the least ruthless. Most of the stains out here were his. The wound in his forearm when he deflected a blade. The gash across his ribs. And yet, Muta had never felt the overwhelming disgust toward Z'hin that he had for so many, because the man had fought when others would have run. He'd stood his ground, and fended off armed men with no more than his fists. It was a grudging admiration, and a grudging friendship, that formed from that night. Something welled up in the small candidate. Something overpowering. He felt the sting behind his lids that he hadn't felt - in turns.

Z'hin. Beyond him, now. And, if riders truly did go between with their dragons, likely forever beyond him.

Moving from the doorway, he started back toward the chair and the wine, still not entirely sure what he meant to do with either. His steps carried him directly past the girl who had intruded upon his quiet reflection. Her first word was met with his back, but as she spoke again, he stopped, turning to regard her in quiet appraisal.

She was taller than him. He could easily tell that, even with her seated. Not that it was such an unusual thing, but at least with the younger ones he wasn't typically dwarfed. His casual assessment suggested that such would be the case here. Her hair was lighter, by the dim light. Perhaps a light brown? He knew he'd seen her. Even today, on the sands. But he also knew he'd never seen her here. A stillness crept over his features, his hand drifting noticeably closer to the bandolier of daggers looped over his chest. Broad chest. Small boy. It was more a matter of habit than genuine fear of the girl.

There was something vulnerable about the candidate this eve, and he spoke more truly than he usually did otherwise. "I went, for a time. But this is where I forged a friendship one night, after a hatching, and he's lost to me now." Mutasim shrugged. His shrugs, unlike with most people, were nearly as eloquent as words. They expressed emotions he never otherwise displayed in the simple lift of a shoulder - as if, truly, he could not find words to say that would contain all of the meaning he desired.

His eyes narrowed, though, for the moment, they lacked menace. "You haven't lived in the barracks. Why are you here, and not out there?" An answer deserved an answer in return, did it not?

(Heh. No problem. I think I just did the same thing ^^

[marissa]

At first, when the failed candidate didn’t turn around, Raen thought that he would simply ignore her query. It didn’t surprise her in the least, nor did it offend her. But when he did turn around, she was fairly surprised. The girl had gauged him as a young boy, mainly by his stature and that dark, springy hair. It seemed that this assumption was false, however. Yes, his face held some of a youth’s rounder qualities, but he had some more features that were more adult-like. His eyes, that shadow of facial hair, his nose… but mainly his eyes. They were frightening, in some aspects, but Raen had a fleeting thought that they could bore into her mind and dissect every thought that occurred to her. Of course it wasn’t true, and she had a tight enough grip on reality to realize it, but it proved to her that this wasn’t an eleven-turn-old maturing a bit too fast. This was an older candidate, with his body growing a bit too slow.

Reaching up a hand to brush her bangs out of her eyes, she caught the drifting of his own hand towards his chest. Raen didn’t know this boy, or possibly young man, but her suspicions certainly didn’t automatically go towards weapons of any sorts. That simply wasn’t natural among the people that she knew, not here in the South. Or, at least, she thought it wasn’t natural. Her mind passed over the movement, because of this. She was not a fighter in any way, shape, nor form. It wasn’t Raen. It just wasn’t.

Why would someone go to a Feast, and then leave early? Of course Raen couldn’t claim to have many friends, being too shy to go up to someone and talk to them… or at least, she had been. And lately, she simply hadn’t been able to find the time. “I’m sorry,” was her quiet response. Really, she was. She had been lucky enough not to lose anyone in her lifetime, not really. Leaning back again in her chair and resuming her earlier position, Raen knew that she still had all of her family and her few friends, even if contact with them was no longer there. Now that he had answered her question, however, this candidate struck her as the type to turn and go back towards his bunk. Again, the male surprised her by asking his own question. Shells. Raen hated answering people; it was one of the attributes of the ‘shy’ labeling.

For a few moments after the boy had asked the question, Raen refrained from answering. Maybe if she ignored him, he would just go away? But no. After all, an answer did merit another answer. And hadn’t she spoken to him first? “I was Weyrwoman Shmee’s Apprentice, so I lived with her, Aslath, Miguel, and then Shei. Now, though, I’m not sure what I’m going to be doing. I’m sure you heard about Bronzerider S’rei’s return, and then the display at the Hatching, and I don’t want to be in the middle of that. It’s too messy. And there’re too many people out there, in the Feast. I’d rather just come here, where it’s so much less crowded. I lived here for less than a day, but I do miss it.” At this point she shut her mouth.

She was sure that was more than the other candidate would want to know, and why she had said it all, Raen didn’t know. Nor did she care to know. Shirk had come to her humanthing, wanting to be fed, sometime during her observation of the boy, and now the girl took her little one up in her arms, cuddling her as she dug some meat scraps out of her pocket. She always carried them around, ever since impression to the little ‘mandyr, and her white robes had be shed as soon as she’d walked through the door. The little one immediately started on the food, not sparing the other candidate a look. The lazy creature.

[reqqy]

It seemed that she didn't intend to answer his question. Normally, that would have been enough to convince him to be on his guard, as silence usually meant someone didn't know how to answer. Even at Selenitas - perhaps especially at Selenitas - the vast majority of people seemed overly talkative. Something in her manner, however, inspired him to remain as he was rather than retreat or press her more actively. Or maybe it wasn't the look in her eyes or her stance at all. Maybe it was simply that he felt heavy inside, and that heaviness weighed on arms and legs. Easier to remain as he was and simply wait. No one else was here; he would know. That meant that the only danger to Muta could be found in the girl herself. He was confident enough in his own strength that he felt his wariness slipping away with each passing moment.

Perhaps, in truth, it was the sincerity of her response to him. She didn't ask for details. Didn't ask who Z'hin was. There was nothing of pity in her eyes, either, which likely would have angered him, though it was unlikely that he'd deign to show - or act on - that anger. Maybe the fact that she didn't seem to fear him had an effect. Oh, she was uncomfortable. That he could tell, even in the dim light. But there was no fear. He wondered, absently, if that would be different if she knew that he'd murdered Trenlor. A smile touched his lips, though the expression itself was unreadable. Not joy. Not ruefulness. Not even sorrow. It was something else.

By the time she replied he'd almost forgotten he'd ever asked her anything. The hard planes of a still face slackened slightly. It was the only indication of his surprise, that and the sudden sharpening of his scrutiny as he regarded her. Shmee's apprentice? Mutasim didn't have much contact with her. Or with S'rei. Or with any of them, really, being just another candidate - and a woefully inadequate one, by all appearances. He was, however, observant, and it was always wise to keep tabs on those who more or less held your life in their hands. He knew the bronzerider was back. Knew, even, that S'rei's sister had taken Miguel to live with her. How had he missed that the Weyrwoman had an apprentice? The strangest part of the whole conversation, however, was the fact that he didn't question the veracity of her words. Something told him she wasn't lying. Anyway, it would be foolish to lie about that, as the Weyrwoman was quite obviously a prominent figure.

Mutasim visibly flinched, taking a step back. His hand fell. Stance shifted subtly. Though there was no noticeable change, he no longer presented her with anything resembling caution. Turning aside his face, he stood in silence, staring at the flickering flames. It was silly. This girl, doubtless, just didn't like crowds. Z'hin had genuinely feared them - would go catatonic with too many people around. It was the only thing, in Muta's opinion, that made him more suited to brown than bronze, for the brownrider had been the sort who was genuinely hard to find fault with, and a decent leader besides. In the end, it didn't matter what the truth was. The parallel between her and Z'hin had been established, and what he'd denied himself swelled. Mutasim swallowed. He would not show weakness.

Could not.

Jabari shifted in his perch. He wrapped his body tighter about Muta's neck and shoulders, crooning quietly. Revealing much in the croon that was clearly meant to comfort. The candidate stroked the creature with a mindlessness that made evident his mind was far away. Then the brown flit began to nip at fingers. Mutasim blinked, glancing over to the other candidate before he shook his head. "You weren't at all hungry until she brought out the meat," the boy chided his bonded softly. Unlike the girl, he didn't make a habit of carrying meat on him. One of those things that carried over from a previous life; anything of value - and food was most definitely one of those - in Bitra was better kept hidden, and certainly not on your person. "We were just at the feast, too."

Now his tone clearly had taken on a note of irritation. Mutasim did not relish returning to the milling people. T'nmor was all right. The only bronzerider Muta liked, in fact, and only because the weyrling had been friends, of sorts, with the candidate when they stood together not so long ago. Gina, too. But there were far more there than just Gina and T'nmor.

Deciding that Jabari could wait a little longer - which the brown accepted with quiet, though discontented, grace - Muta turned his attention back to his uninvited companion. Uninvited, but not, in the end, completely unwelcome. The nostalgic remembrance had given him an uncommon desire for some small amount of company. "Raen. That's your name, isn't it?" he questioned, vaguely remembering some of what was spoken. He managed something of a wry smile. "There won't be much of anyone here for a time, at least until Millieth rises. Should be quiet."

[marissa]

That smile: that strange, dry smile might have made Raen cringe if she had paid more attention to it. As it was, she didn’t, and although she fleetingly thought that it was unnatural, it received no more of her attention. More, she turned his reaction to her words over in her mind. His step back, his hand dropping from his chest, and his change in posture, it subtly amused her. Although she hadn’t thought much of his defensive position a few moments ago, now that he lost it, Raen realized that that was what it was. Had he thought her a threat? It was a laughable prospect, but it seemed true.

Stroking her lovely ‘mandyr’s hide and feeding her another piece of meat, the candidate drifted back into her own thoughts during the silence. As Shirk drifted off to sleep, the girls mind wandered. However, when the first word of the little green’s ‘sleep speech’ entered her mind (Cousin), it focused on the topic that she had been on before the other candidate made his presence known. Her failed impression. True, it was a strange time for it to arise, but Raen couldn’t stop it from festering as she tried to keep her attention on other topics. She hadn’t impressed, and although it might suggest inadequacy, it also helped her greatly. She didn’t have to deal with everything that a fourteen-turn-girl (in her mind) shouldn’t have to deal with.

It was foolish, of course, to continue to dwell on this vast subject, especially with another close by. Alright, she didn’t impress. But if she had, she would have faced the life on her shoulders, the responsibility of which she had so dreaded before and after she had come to Selenitas. Even now, she was not comfortable with the thought of having life, draconic life, depending on her as she depended on it. And then there would have been the Flights, the drama, the possibility of pregnancy… which frankly, Raen would not have been able to deal with. But now, she was not going to keep mulling this over while the other candidate was here. Pulling her lengthy legs into the chair with her and curling up in a ball, the girl banished the thoughts from her mind, albeit temporarily, and focused once more on the other person. She could deal with other things later.

Thankfully, her mind was able to quickly grasp other loose threads to keep her occupied, ones that didn’t involve Raen’s personal issues. Why, for the love of Faranth, was this boy so tense? Yes, he had relaxed shortly after she answered, but no person that she had ever met had been so wary of her. She had experienced fourteen birthing days, and although she was tall, Raen was very aware that she had a youthfulness that very few people missed. It made her wonder why this boy (oh, so what if he looked older than her in some ways, she simply couldn’t think of one so small as a ‘young man’ in any way, shape, or fashion) had been so defensive around her. What was going on here?

However, Raen was far too shy to ask about why her fellow candidate was so strange, in her mind. He had already left one clue, at least: he had lost a friend. Not very detailed, to say the least, but it was something. And it wasn’t like she was a naturally inquisitive person. It was simply strange to her.

The other person’s words brought Raen out of her thoughts abruptly, and she looked up at the boy with surprise. She would have (hesitantly) offered him some of her meat, of course, but it was only a few moments later when more words left his mouth. This aided her decision to just calmly slide the meat back in her pockets for later cravings from little Shirk. Content in the fact that he wouldn’t direct any more comments her way, Raen’s eyes went slightly unfocused, as was a habit of hers, as she stared a random spot on the wall without really seeing it. Instead, situations of what would this boy would have had to gone through showed in her mind’s eye.

None plausible.

Making a decision not to confront the boy about it, she had just gone and broached the dreaded topic of her non-impression once again when his words (once again) drew her out of her thoughts. “…Yes, Raen.” How did he know her name, if he hadn’t even seen her before? It was possible that his little brown might have done something, although that was terribly unlikely. His next words, however, calmed her somewhat and stilled her reeling thoughts. Did it truly matter how he knew her name, if he didn’t know her? Well… yes. “Oh, thank Faranth. I saw how full the Barracks were when Aslath’s clutch was on the Sands, and it made me delighted that I didn’t live here. But shells, I still don’t know if I’ll live here, anyways. I’m unsure about my apprentice-ship, at the moment.” Pausing for a second, she decided she might as well ask two questions, instead of just one. “If I may ask: how did you know my name? And, also, what is your own?” She felt a little off-balanced. He knew her name, when she hadn’t told him, and she still didn’t know his own name or anything about him.

[reqqy]

The girl was self-contained. That in itself made the situation bearable, as Mutasim was not - had never been - talkative. He wasn't naturally a solitary person, however. Oh, no, he couldn't remember a time when he'd been particularly open regarding his emotions or anything like that, but it was only during his last turns at Bitra and the turns at Selenitas that Muta had chosen to keep to himself - if he had the option. To him, people could only fall into two categories. There were the ones who wouldn't hesitate to hurt or use or destroy him given half a chance. And there were the ones who he would feel the need to protect...and eventually fail. Simplifying everything down to that point made it extremely easy to spend his life alone. The first group of people would wound him; the second would tear him apart.

He'd thought he'd be safe with Z'hin. The brownrider had survived that first battle. He'd survived the feline attack with Jessereth, though everyone thought he would surely die after the mauling. Crippled in the arm, the man had still managed to be one of the survivors when Benden massacred fully half of his weyrling class. Mutasim had almost felt that it was impossible to ever lose Z'hin. The brownrider was clearly not in need of his protection. Maybe that was true, but he still was in need of some protection, as it turned out. Of the party that had gone in search of Shmee, only S'rei and Salenth had returned; after surviving so much, Z'hin was truly gone.

If he was truly realistic, Muta knew why he was the only candidate heading in for round five. Fath's Clutch. Aslath's First. Millieth's First. This last one...The candidate didn't trust himself back in the north. He knew the depths of his own brutality, brought out by the handling and circumstances of a life few would have survived. Mutasim didn't want to become what he knew he could, what he knew he would if they removed him from Selenitas and he was to return to the north. Maybe not in a few turns. Maybe not for half his life. But, eventually, he would come to be like everyone he most hated. Bitra did that to people.

Yet, though he couldn't return, he couldn't accept a bonding with a creature that ran deeper than even the one he'd shared with the den that he'd failed, with Shitaki. That ran deeper than the bonds he tried to avoid now with every ounce of his being. Mutasim could only handle so much loss. Z'hin's death had effectively rendered him lost in a growing darkness. He'd skipped out on the candidate lessons, doing his chores and vanishing into the forest as quickly as he could. This last batch of candidates was the first who probably didn't know him - didn't fear him.

As long as both of these things were true, and he was still of an age to Stand, Mutasim would Stand time and time again. What dragon would want someone who did not want them? None had mauled him. None had even paused to consider him. He was effectively invisible. Why should something like that hurt? It wasn't pride. Muta had none. Cruelty, yes. Arrogance, yes. But pride? It had been scoured from him with an efficiency that any wingleader would have envied. It all came back to Z'hin, didn't it? If he could just be sure...he craved something close. He craved a relationship like the one he'd maintained with the other children struggling just to live in the heart of northern terror. If only the pain wasn't so deep. If only.

These thoughts slid through his head during Raen's brief hesitation. They were hardly even thoughts, as there was nothing conscious about their consideration. The sudden excitement that came into her voice seemed out of place. Hiding the muted wonder as he hid all else, Mutasim simply listened, hearing the wonder and brief flash of vitality fade almost before it had been birthed. He couldn't quite restrain the muted chuckle that broke free. Crowded? He supposed. The weyr itself certainly was crowded.

The mirth immediately sobered at her line of questioning. He shrugged after a moment. "I trust you won't mind if I answer out of order?" The boy didn't wait for her response. "I'm Mutasim, and I've seen you - along with all the other candidates - at some of our lessons. I make it a point to know all of your names each time." His expression turned rueful. "Even if I don't make it a point to actually get to know all of you. I just assumed you were weyrbred, since you weren't quartered here." Another shrug. He knew the natural question that might come after this last admission. At least she couldn't possibly feel quite so bad about not impressing with someone who'd managed that four times already. Oh, there he went again. Assuming. Maybe she didn't feel bad at all. Maybe she didn't want to Impress.

But then, why would she be here, presumably with the intent to be alone, in the darkened common room of the candidates' barracks?

Maybe it was something far more complicated than whether she wanted to Impress or not, just as his feelings and desires were all in a chaotic jumble.

He hesitated, then returned to the chair closest to the fire, lifting the bottle of wine left there minutes ago. "Do you drink?" Strange question. He recognized it with a cruel twist of lips. "I don't, but I was curious as to how much it would take...to forget..."

Though Mutasim approached her, he was careful not to get too close or move too fast. Old habits. He himself was a fairly skittish person, and he naturally approached everyone else as if they were just as likely to bolt or fight. Although, in all honesty, Muta recognized that he was an extreme case of this behavior. Crouching before where she sat, he looked up at her, a longer curl falling along the line of his brow. "Of course, if you cared to try some with me, it would probably save me from myself. What do you say?"

[marissa]

{Warning: Thoughtful, extensive, abnormal chapter up ahead. <3}

Finally. She had forced her mind blank, and it suited her for a few minutes. However, it didn’t last for as long as she had hoped. Mutasim. That sounded familiar, she just couldn’t place it. Had Shmee mentioned him? No. Had anyone around Shmee mentioned him in her hearing? Not that she remembered. So how did she know him? Wanting to pound her head into her hands, before asking herself why she really cared. And, anyways, the boy (Mutasim) was still talking. It would probably be polite, in the very least, to listen.

She had never really noticed him around during lessons, but she rarely noticed anyone but the people near her, and the Candidate Mistress. And was she weyrbred? Most certainly not! Straight from Lighttower and Hyphen, never having been close to the weyr, or even in good spirits towards them until that searchrider came to call. No, no, she was most certainly not weyrbred. Briefly, she wondered if she would have preferred to grow up as a child in Selenitas. No. So the weyrfolk weren’t nearly as awful and evil as those that had raised her had portrayed, but their beliefs when it came to sex and children… well, she didn’t want to have been raised accordingly. It just didn’t sit right with her.

Her childhood had been, in no way, brutal. But she still believed that, in some ways, she had been treated unfairly, and that no child deserved to be raised in that way. No father should lose the mother of his daughter, and then desert said daughter by any means, in any way. He had been too young to raise a child alone, and her mother had been too young to have a child. And although Raen knew that the weyr didn’t necessarily support such a lifestyle, they certainly didn’t have anything against it. Not to mention they actually supported losing your virginity at a young age, especially for candidates who might impress, in preparation for future Flights. Mentally shuddering at this thought, and the thought that she could have been raised to accept and agree with it, Raen turned her attention (once more) back to the bo- Mutasim. She would really have to get used to calling him by his name in her head.

Quietly, she voiced the simplest of those thoughts, the mere base of them. “Not weyrbred, certainly. Was born at Lighttower Hold, and then I moved on to Hyphen, with my father.” She had to give some explanation at the surprise that had been, no doubt, written on her face as he had voiced those few words. A small question voiced in the back of her head, and she decided just to go ahead and let it flow out of her mouth: “Are you Selenitas-bred?” Selenitas. It still sounded like an unneeded mouthful to her, just as it had when she had first heard of it. No, she had nothing against the weyr. She actually quite liked it. But it still seemed like there was no point in such a gaudy, long name. Benden, Fort: simple, pointed names with reasoning behind them. Another mental gesture, a shrug this time. It would never make much sense to her, she figured.

Her hand had moved, so that she wasn’t so much ‘petting’ Shirk with her entire hand, instead stroking the lovely, mint-colored hide in the absentminded-ness that Mutasim had displayed earlier with her thumb. Waiting for a response from her fellow candidate, Raen listened with only one ear. It had taken turns, but she had slowly developed a process that allowed her to think, listen, and occasionally talk at the same time. It didn’t give the speaker whom she might be listening to the best attentiveness, to be sure, but did she really care? Not quite. Of course, Raen wasn’t trying to be rude. She simply didn’t like the presence of people, hadn’t since she had realized (even if it was faulty reasoning) that talking to people would mean that she matured. Since she didn’t wish for that, it developed into avoiding people, and semi-ignoring them, at times like this. The only fault she could find was that it would only work around one or two people. Avoiding seemed to be the better route to take.

Surprising words, yet again, jerked the candidate from her practice of listening and thinking. Didn’t she drink? No, no, most certainly not. Wine brought about stupidity, and during states of stupidity, people were known to get lusty and have sex. So no, she most certainly did not drink.

Although, she had never tried it. Raen had no way of knowing the effects of wine on her, so why didn’t she just find ou-. No. She would never find out the effects until she was more mature, something she had been avoiding for turns. So she most certainly did not drink. No, no, no, no, no! The larger part of her mind was dominating at this point. It was her reasonable part, the part that had dominated for turns, the part that she had trusted to lead her out of situations which might lead to the gain of maturity. Where she thought that she might be mature enough to try stunts such as drinking. But, even after all these turns, a small corner of her mind still fought back.

Why not? it questioned. You might be young, but surely a few sips of wine won’t harm you. You are mature, however much you might want to deny it, push it back. In fact, that is what makes you mature. You deserve to go ahead and have some wine. You just experienced that dreadful thing – not impressing. You were just deemed by some ‘not good enough’, and while you know it’s not true, and you prefer to think that you’re above what others think, it deserves to be forgotten for awhile. So, for once, why don’t you just forget about sharding consequences and go ahead and accept his offer.

So, though Raen knew that she would later curse that little corner of her brain, she shrugged. “I don’t drink, or at least I never have. But it might be something to try, at this point in time. I mean: why not?” A little couldn’t hurt, after all. She would only have a little. A very little. “As long as it’s not too much, of course.” They were both, most obviously, hoping for other things from this drink. She didn’t want to forget a thing – although maybe she did. What did she want to forget? Although it seemed petty, Raen could very well simply want to forget this last experience. For it was true, what people said. Not impressing was an experience, an experience that wasn’t good for the mind nor the soul. It made you feel incompetent, and behind all of her relief, this failed candidate knew that it she was thoroughly disappointed. And you had to remember, when you scorned her for her pettiness, that she had led a sheltered life. She had made her life sheltered.

And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to forget why she had made her life so sheltered. Again, petty, petty reasoning to break down the morals that had stood for her for so long. But she was growing up, despite her troubles, and she was now fifteen turns in age. Might as well go ahead and, well, try.

Reaching a hand out (she didn’t know for what, it just seemed like the right thing to do) Raen shrugged once more. “Just a little,” she murmured. It was more for self-discipline, rather than to inform Mutasim, again… of course.

{Hm. At the beginning of writing this, I had fully intended on her vehemently refusing. But this just makes things more fun, and it seems more realistic. After all, she can’t be a little good-girl ‘I’m going to be perfect, not have sex until I’m Joined, and never ever drink’ forever. Now seemed like a good time to start the long transition. xP}

[reqqy]

(Lol. <333 I can't complain. You've seen my posts. xD)

He had been mildly surprised at the vehemence in Raen's expression when he'd mentioned his assumption about her being weyrbred. It was certainly a reasonable assumption, wasn't it? A candidate who did not live at the barracks...Mutasim certainly hadn't meant that he either believed that now, or that it was something distasteful. Yet it clearly was to her. Had to be, for the girl to take the time and effort to clearly state that she was absolutely not a child from Selenitas. From what little he'd observed from her, it was fairly obvious that the girl was not one to speak unless she felt it necessary, either as a polite nicety or because the concept was important to her. Shy girl. Withdrawn girl. She was much like most of his den had been, steeped in their respective horrors and taking comfort in the small things. Not for her, the boisterous, rowdy posturing that some picked up.

Not for her, the carefree fritterings that he'd only come into contact with once coming south.

Had she been wounded? Abused? Possibly, but she was southern, and he had a hard time believing that anything that might happen here could be comparable to the cruelties of the north that occured with great regularity. Then again, his idea of cruelty and abuse was bound to be different; extremes tended to make people disregard the subtler hurts.

It was a brief brush with his own past that made him shy away from that line of thought, all behind the deep attentiveness of dark eyes. His thoughts drifted to the next time he would Stand, drifted away from her question - though, yes, he'd heard it clearly enough - and toward the future. It would happen again. Strange, that even the feel of a dragon's claws, a dragon's teeth, was preferable to standing in shadow as one after another passes with nary a glance. But it would happen again. Much as he might fantasize about Impression, might desire it, as soon as he stepped out on those Sands the wall came up. The fear took hold. Any time one neared, he would have to fight the urge to turn away, to curse at it, anything that would prevent the creature from making the mistake of choosing him. And they listened. Oh, but they listened, the mental cries enough to keep them at bay.

Or maybe it wasn't that at all. Maybe he was simply negligible. Unworthy. Unnoticeable and unwanted. Funny, but he'd wanted that, once, with his entire being. He'd desired death. Obscurity. Then, there were only chains.

Jabari hissed, clamping down on Muta's shoulder. The candidate made no sound, though his eyes widened slightly, lips thinning. Even surprise could not draw out that cry of pain. Another thing lost to him, forever lost, that ability to show weakness, to show hurt that was instinctive to so many. He'd have to force himself, and even then, it would be but a parody. Mutasim reached up, easing the jaws open. Now Jabari was creeling quietly. Strange that it was Muta who had to comfort the brown. The firelizard had wanted him to stop, had wanted the emotions to stop. They had. But now Jabari felt the pain of his humanpet, and it distressed him. "Shhh..." The sounds faded. Softened. Disappeared, though the brown continued to rub himself against Muta in a silent form of apology.

They'd both withdrawn into their own thoughts as Mutasim crouched. Raen's question remained unanswered. Muta's remained unanswered. It was the girl - he had never been able to think of candidates as anything but children - who finally broke that silence. He almost felt guilty for leaving her hanging as long as he had. Almost. He didn't like to think of what he was, which often was the result of thinking about what he wasn't.

The words, too, were strange, which perhaps was a blessing; they required him to devote more attention to Raen and his surroundings, drawing him out of the introspection that seemed to be his natural stomping grounds. There was a certain disorganization to her words that intrigued him. He frowned mildly. Not because he found it unpleasant, but because his mind sought to put meaning to the oddity. No, her response wasn't so much disorganized as a melding, perhaps of whatever thoughts his question had elicited. Was it such a difficult question, in the end? Yes or no. He wasn't even pressuring her, not really. He could care less if she chose to drink with him. Mutasim simply did not wish to be so rude as to not offer it when he fully intended to see if the rumors were true about drinking yourself into a forgetful stupor. Of course, there were other rumors...And he couldn't be sure which would hold truth for him, though he suspected all happened occasionally. Some people were said to get aggressive. Some talkative. Some lusty - he doubted he'd ever fall into that category, but then, who knows? Some merely curled up and slept. Others seemed unaffected at all. He mentally shrugged. It was a risk. A small one, but a risk.

Was Raen afraid of risk-taking?

That was almost amusing. Here the girl was, alone in a dark barracks with a stranger who - though smaller than she - could easily overpower her if he desired. He was a thief. A cold-blooded murderer. And she was worrying about what alcohol might do to her? Ironic. Then again, she might be too naive to realize how dangerous her position was. Certainly, she couldn't know him particularly well.

"Just a little," he echoed quietly, uncorking the bottle with a quick movement and handing it to her. It would bother him, otherwise, that extended hand. Mutasim had no intention of taking it in his own, and it certainly couldn't be left hovering in the air, completely empty.

It was at that moment that the candidate decided to answer Raen's question, long after she'd asked it. "No. I'm not weyrbred. I'm northern." Small, dark grin. Humorless. "Bitran, actually." From his experience, northerners instantly recognized Bitra and what that must mean. Instinctively noted the scars that were not a blade's mark, but rather a chafing. Southerners often had little to no idea about Bitra, although he'd encountered a few.

He hated mentioning it.

He hated the fear.

More, he hated the pity.

In the end, though, a man desires some form of understanding, and so he finds himself revealing the things that lead to what he most hates. Man. Social creatures. Had Muta the knowledge, he would have cursed the genes that made him seek that understanding with all his being.

[marissa]

{Indeed, <3. But now I feel really bad because this took so long. -sighs- RL's really busy right now D:. Next post should be out sooner.}

Had Raen known that Mutasim thought that she led as troubled past as his mind was leading him, she would have most likely blushed. Her life had not been that bad, whatsoever, and there were surely countless others that had been put through that, and even more that had gone through much, much worse. She was simply being dramatic, and it wasn't right, she would think. She might have even gone on to say that she was sorry for being such a dramatic, and then tell him why, exactly, she had been so vehement about not being Selenitas-bred. However, though her mind did, indeed, take that general course, she was not a mind-reader. Sorry, folks.

Instead, her thoughts were more along the lines that she was being a bit… dramatic, really. Well, then again, she had explained herself well. Lighttower, then Hyphen, the Weyr. There hadn’t been anything more to say, and it wasn’t as if she exaggerated on anything. Shells, she had barely said anything. Oh, well. What had been voiced had been voiced, and it wasn’t as if she could (or would, or even, really, wanted to) take them back. So why was she even bothering thought on it? Because, well, she was Raen. Not talking very much left a lot of time to dissect what had been said. So that’s exactly what she did. And there it goes, yet another mental shrug as she brushed her thoughts off.

This time, at least, she was not drawn out of thought by sound. No, Raen had surfaced for a moment from her processing, just in time to hear (and see) the brown flitter that was quite obviously bonded with Mutasim hiss, his mouth securing tightly into his human’s shoulder. Much to the girl’s surprise, however, said bonded made no sound. It fit what little parts of his personality Raen recognized, she supposed, but it was still a bit of a shock that he wouldn’t make the slightest sound. She was sure that if, for whatever reason, Shirk had down that to her (as if!) she would have peeped at the very least. She watched as Mutasim slackened his f’lizard’s hold, and then comforted the distressed creature, and the girl took the part of a silent observer with eyes widened just enough to be noticeable in surprise.

Really: what would set off a f’lizard like that? There were no threats, that she knew of…and if there were, would Mutasim really be sitting there so calmly. Now, Raen knew next to nothing about firelizards, but she had heard they were similar to salamanyrs, at the very least in the fact that they shared colors (green, blue, brown, bronze, gold most obviously) and could read their human’s emotions. Which meant that Mutasim had been thinking something to upset his bonded, right? That was, indeed, the most logical reasoning…but Mutasim, and likely any creature he bonded to, wouldn’t be the easiest to figure out by logic. Pondering this, Raen’s eyelids relaxed, so that her eyes were no longer in the surprised stare that had been focused on Muta earlier.

No, now he had two contemplative, shadowed eyes looking straight at the place on his shoulder were his flitter had very recently been attached to. Oh, well.

And yet, even with the brown and his bonded quiet, she couldn’t think in peace. Shirk simply wouldn’t stop the flow of nonsense that continued the one-sided conversation, caused by the ‘mandyr’s incessant sleep-speech. Most of the time, she could simply ignore it, but when the green said something like, Blubberguttish. Really! She was a simple creature, and she didn’t learn very quickly, but to make up for that it seemed that she enjoyed making up words in her sleep.

Ignoring the green’s voice, however, sweet it was, and continuing to stroke her hide with her thumb, Raen started to drown herself in thought once more. It wasn’t like Mutasim was going to answer her anytime soon, but the looks of it, and she really didn’t mind. More time to figure out everything, after all. Such as: what on PERN had possessed her when she said yes to the wine. True, she could deny it right now, but she wanted to see if there was any logical reason for her to have accepted first. She would just look like a dimglow if she accepted after long thought, then refused a few moments later, only to change her mind and accept again only moments later. Still, she had to make her reasoning quick, before he answered her. Was there a reason for her to accept that drink?

Oh yeah. The failed hatching. The thoughts that she it wouldn’t hurt her. Which was true enough, really, but…

.Shells, too late. Her outstretched hand took the bottle from him without her consent, as her head nodded at his words. She wasn’t going to be a deadglow and hand it back to him, now. And…well…there was no real reason to do so, anyways. Sure, her reasoning for taking the bottle was flimsy. But she didn’t have a reason, not really, to hand it back without having taken a sip. It wasn’t like she was going to get drunk or anything! No, really. She wasn’t going to get drunk. Just a sip or two, maybe three at the most, then hand it back to him. If she got it back after that, she’d only have a sip or two again. Since when does little sips of wine get someone drunk?

Huffing silently, Raen brought the wine jerkily up to her mouth, looking at it as if it was alien. How did the people do it, again? They closed their lips over the opening, tossed it back, and handed it around. Well, she could just pour it into her mouth. She never had to touch it to her lips. Tilting the bottle of wine upwards, letting a few drops fall onto her tongue, then a little splash. Closing her mouth, the girl rolled the taste around for a little while. It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t bad. It was pretty good, actually. Tilting the bottle upwards again, she took another bit of wine into her mouth, a bit larger this time, before extending her hand once again, to give it back to Mutasim.

“That’s not bad, really,” she murmured, more for herself than for the other candidate. It had always confused her why people drank wine, especially when they weren’t aiming to get drunk. Not that it made any more sense when people did, actually, want to…’drown their sorrows’. That was the phrase that a lot of the folk at Lighttower had explained it to her with, when she was around six. But it wasn’t bad tasting. And this was the cheap wine, wasn’t it? Benden Wine was supposed to be the best. She wondered what that tasted like.

And it was then that Mutasim decided to answer her question. So he wasn’t Selenitas, either. Northern? You didn’t hear much good about Northern: that was for sure. And Bitra, as well. Shells, that was another place that you heard only bad things about. She had never been allowed to hear the detailed stories, or understand fully (or, rather, she didn’t let herself) but she understood enough that Bitra was bad. That was enough for her. The poor, sheltered girl – and self-induced, as well. Ah, well.

“Bitra, really?” Again, this was more for herself. She was mulling over the idea. Maybe that was the reason that she was so, for lack of a better word, strange. No, she did have a better word. He was defensive, maybe even a little paranoid. Was this what Bitra made people? Quite possibly.

{FINALLY! -feelsawful-}

[reqqy]

He’d noticed her reaction to Jabari, but he wasn’t about to explain it. How could she possibly understand that the brown flit was merely biting into him out of love? Indeed, he sometimes had a hard time understanding, but he could feel the creature’s emotions, and that was enough. Jabari grew less distressed slowly, and all Mutasim could do was feel unbearably guilty for forcing his little bonded to such actions. Had he thought he couldn’t understand it? Not entirely true. The boy was from a different world. He’d killed his own – to protect his own – enough to know what it was like. He’d hurt them early to make sure that they would never trust. Trust…got you killed. And, unfortunately, Mutasim was too weak to be able to handle the death of his with anything resembling grace.

Oh yes, Mutasim had learned that particular lesson early. Trust got you killed. Luckily, he was a good observer, and didn’t have occasion to learn it firsthand. No, he’d seen it enough times. Enough times. Strangely, though, his lessons to his den hadn’t been learned particularly well, as they continued to trust in him after awhile. No, not in Muta directly, but in his behavior – and that, in the end, had killed them all just as dead. Death was…death. And Shitaki? Who had – he reasoned – likely loved him? His pet? His strength? She’d suffered worst of all, though if there was anyone he would have protected, would have given everything of himself to save, it was her.

Thus he learned the second of his lessons, and from this he did not escape unscathed. Turning from the brilliant, the worldly, the fiercely protective and generally cunning, the satirist, the self-possessed, the lover of irony, the cynical and arrogant creature that had been Mutasim, he was left with a shadow. There was little he was confident of now. Still arrogant, still cynical, he wore these two as a mask and cloak to keep back the world around him – most did not respond well to that sort of outlook. He grew quiet. His quick mind he still relied on, but he questioned his decisions far more, and he kept his distance. Ironies still appealed to him, but in the darkest of manners. His life was a joke. A cruel, terrible joke. What he desired most, he feared most. And Muta always worried about the monster lurking beneath everything.

The second lesson? Everything ended. And the closer you were to it, the more dearly you treasured it, the more it wounded you. Better not to love. Not to cherish. Yet, even so, the boy who thought himself intelligent repeated the very same mistake over and over again, and it was destroying him. Why couldn’t he stop? Why did he seem to attract the ones who would cross the wrong path and leave him bleeding inside? A rape victim overly eager to overcome her own ‘personality flaws’ and falling into the doctrines of High Reaches for her chance at a gold. A young man with a hero complex who always seemed to manage to get himself in trouble – until it inevitably killed him. Another young man, this one too naïve to know danger when he saw it. He didn’t want the pain anymore! Was it their association with him that brought these things about? Sometimes Muta could only imagine that this must be so.

It did nothing whatsoever to improve the disdain with which he held himself. As much as he hated and despised most of the people he came across, he hated himself the most. Perhaps it was that self-sadism that prevented him from seeking the ultimate escape. Or fear. Whatever. Either truth only served to contribute to the self-loathing.

With such dispassion did he dwell on these things, with such cold consideration, Jabari did not pick up on them. The brown curled against his neck, content. When Raen accepted the bottle and chugged it back, Mutasim gifted the action his morbid attention. If anything beyond casual acquaintance was to develop between them – which tended to happen when Mutasim did anything but retreat into his own world and shut everyone else out, shard it all – would she, too, suffer from the association? Would he turn everything he touched to evil? Was it not, in the end, better to destroy that lodestone with which everything turned from right to wrong? A frequent consideration. Regardless of the answer, he would awaken the next morning. He would run. He would report to his chores. He would carve. The dagger in his hand, he would contemplate it…but never actually plunge it into his breast. Because that was the way it always happened. His ritual.

And then she was speaking. His mind shifted gears, and he smirked at her. Not bad? She seemed reluctant to admit it. Taking the bottle from her, he tested it himself, truly not caring what it tasted like just so long as he could use it for what he needed. Just so long as it helped him to forget. In truth, it wasn’t bad, as far as taste goes. Probably not strong enough. But then, he’d never imbibed in all his past, and he was rather small. It shouldn’t take much. Shouldn’t. For good measure, he took another swallow, not pausing to savor it this time, and offered her the bottle again. She could always refuse, right?

He greeted the question that wasn’t really directed at him with a mild shrug. “Beginning to feel it yet?” he asked curiously, having not noticed a buzz or anything from the wine just yet. Oh, he knew what to look for. One of the ‘games’ he’d endured was various drugs patrons wanted to try out. Mutasim was still rather unsure if they’d had any longterm effect on him or not. Hard to tell. The young man was completely different than he had been, and understandably. For a Bitran, he’d been fairly optimistic, outspoken and talkative. Once.

[marissa]

As soon as he had taken the bottle, Raen moved her hand so that it was sitting comfortably in her lap, alongside Shirk. She even moved her eyes to a corner so that he would no longer feel that somewhat-eerie sensation of someone looking at you. Well, maybe she was wrong in that assumption. Nothing seemed to faze this kid, so it would be something if she could actually make him twitch. And that was why she had moved her gaze: so he wouldn’t. Ah, well.

She judged her reaction to the wine with interest, wanting to see how quickly it would affect her. Two sips of this wine most likely wouldn’t have any effects on her, or so she hoped. Raen really knew nothing about wine, thinking that she wouldn’t try it for a good many years to come. She prided herself in knowing her body and mind, and there was no noticeable hint of effects from the wine. At least that was something.

The smirk that Mutasim gave her caused the candidate to roll her eyes. He was probably more knowledgeable when it came to wine, true, even if he had told her that he didn’t drink. She hadn’t had any interest in drinking up until this point, and Raen was still marveling why she suddenly had an interest, now. But she had spent enough time dwelling on it, and wouldn’t continue to try and figure it out. At least, not while Mutasim was sitting right there she wouldn’t. Even if he wasn’t paying much attention to her, she refused to keep focusing on one little thing so many times.

Was she ‘beginning to feel it yet’? The answer was thankfully not. Unlike Mutasim, however, she had no idea what she was looking for. Raen supposed that she would know if it was affecting her when it started to affect her. And as soon as she started feeling that, she would stop. But it was pretty good wine, even though it was probably quite cheap, and she was enjoying it. “No, not yet,” she replied after a few moments. Shrugging, she added, “It shouldn’t do anything until we’ve had a bit more, right?”

Ah, well, she would find out. Her hand left off stroking Shirk for a moment, and it grasped the bottle that Mutasim was holding out. Who would think that Raen would be grabbing a wine bottle from someone, ever? Certainly not her, nor anyone who had taken place in her upbringing. Ah, well, there was always time for something new. “Thanks,” she said quietly, staring at the bottle for a moment before copying his motions, and taking what some might call a ‘healthy swig’. Shard it all, this was strange.

Bottlebottlebottleyes yesyesbottle bottlefoodyesyes yeswinesleep bottle.Oh, great, the sleeping creature had learned a new word, simply by her humantoy’s thoughts. Faranth knew that they weren’t talking enough to incorporate a new word into her speech. Shells, had they even said the word yet? Raen’s eyes went rolling again. It amazed her how the pretty ‘mandyr was virtually untrainable when awake, but when she slept, she’d pick up these random words and then she’d use them from there on out. Too bad you couldn’t train a creature when they were asleep, even if you could teach them words.

And now, Shirk would use the word ‘bottle’ forever, probably with no idea what it meant, at least in her dreaming state. In her conscience state, who knew? Raen really had no idea what the ‘mandyr really knew, considering she was so rarely awake and functioning. The only thing you could really judge was her mixed-up vocabulary. Faranth help her poor little green!

Her eyes traveled back to the wine, and she took yet another swig, slightly smaller this time. As she offered the bottle, yet again, to Mutasim, she enjoyed, savored the taste. It really was good, no matter what the other candidate thought about her naivety. Drawing her legs into the chair and curling her free arm around them, Raen gently scooted Shirk out of her lap, so while she was still in the chair, she wouldn’t be bothered by being bunched up. It was a more comfortable position for the girl, and it was in this position that she usually contemplated a lot of things. Such as when the wine would start to take affect, and what it would feel like, and if she would really stop if there was still some of the wine left. Well, what a silly thought. Of course she would stop. She wasn’t a deadglow, and she didn’t want to be drunk tonight and hurting tomorrow.

[reqqy]

(That one went particularly dark ^^; Hope it's not too disturbing.)

Even for Mutasim, who was quite self-contained, this Raen seemed a bit too quiet for him. He didn't like not being able to read her thoughts as easily as he might someone's who spoke a bit more. But what exactly was he to do? There wasn't much left but to crouch in silence and listen to his own dark thoughts battering about inside his skull - which was what he'd been trying to escape to begin with.

His gaze centered on the other candidate, running over her face, the length of her relaxed body. A bridled, submerged part of his mind began to work. To imagine her reaction if he were to stand, to draw blade. Would she scream? Or would she just sit in silence, her eyes wide from shock, her body frozen? Would she try to fight him? He would like that, he thought, a helpless girl trying to strike back at a man who could kill her as easily as breathe. And what might he do with that blade?

Eyes half-lidded, he watched her take another drink. Long, deep swallow. She'd said she didn't yet feel the effects. It wouldn't be long now, but then, that wouldn't matter. He could descend upon her as easily sober as buzzed. He could draw his knife across her chest, plunge it into her heart. Slit her throat and feel the warm, familiar sensation of her lifeblood pumping out of her in a great spray of liquid. Or maybe he'd be more subtle. Maybe he'd simply wait for her to hand him back the bottle, then clasp her wrist and draw the blade deeply from forearm to wrist, biting through skin and tendon and simply holding her there until she grew too weak to move.

Might he not torture her, though, the same way they'd tortured him? Knifeplay had been a common one. How many suits of clothing had he gone through as the men decided to cut through it, to threaten him with the blade as they knew full-well that the chains - delicate as they seemed - would keep him at their mercy indefinitely. He'd become immune to fear after awhile. To pain. Most pain. And thus they escalated, turning from the broken and to the one who still regarded them with all the fury of a trapped wildcat. Wax. Clamps. Strangulation. Beatings meant to hurt but not to scar. No, he was too valuable to scar at that point in time. The worst was when they sunk into him, though, for he could not help but fight it, and he bled. Always.

Mutasim blinked, his face paling. What was he thinking of?! He had no reason to kill this girl, nor to take her at all - much less in so brutal a fashion. It couldn't be the wine. Was this where his thoughts would lead him, in the stifling silence? He could not allow such a silence to continue. Could not allow such thoughts to continue. That monster that he so dreaded lay there, buried but waiting, raging at the pain and injustice, and determined to see that pain in someone else. The Northern - no, the Bitran curse. He closed his eyes tightly against the images.

Jabari had stiffened. No biting, this time, for the malice of his bonded had terrified him into immobility. The candidate stroked him, whispered to him, not even sure himself what he told the creature. It was simply meant to be comforting. No, he wouldn't hurt Raen. He didn't know why his mind had suddenly gone there - it rarely diverted to such obscenities with that amount of graphic, mindless violence.

Grateful for the offered bottle, he nodded, his eyes not meeting hers, ashamed at how dark and bloody his thoughts of her had become. No. Not so much ashamed as genuinely terrified. Why hadn't he destroyed the scourge long ago? Before he could dwell on suicide for overly long, he took a different route and tipped back the bottle with a violent, jerky movement, swallowing rapidly. It hit his stomach hard and he had to stop. His head bowed, hair going before his eyes, he licked away a drop that had escaped.

Forget. Forget. He wanted - so desperately - to forget.

Time to speak. To get her speaking. Or he might very well find himself carving patterns into her lifeless flesh, his madness having completely overtaken him. "Were you one of the candidates who wanted the gold?" he asked, his eyes never rising, concealed by curls and shadow. "Or are you more interested in a fighting dragon? You must have some desire if you are a candidate - if you are to remain a candidate." That was something. A start. He swallowed on his own saliva and offered her the bottle before he drowned in it.

[marissa]

{As I said before, creepily amazing. XD I wonder what would happen if she gave a short, really clipped answer. –ponders-}

With her legs drawn to her, Shirk in front of her, Raen’s eyes slowly dropped shut, too busy thinking to try and keep her eyes open. And if they were open, then she’d have to point them at a corner, or a wall, or Shirk, to prevent them from drifting towards Mutasim. She didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, after all, and the candidate knew from experience that many people became uncomfortable when she stared at them without seeming to see them.

Her eyes slowly slid open again, when Shirk twitched and shifted her body. After stroking the green a few times, her eyes moved up towards the other candidate. He seemed pale, and it was strange. Nothing seemed to faze the boy, after all. All she did was quirk and eyebrow at Mutasim. What was the boy thinking? She couldn’t read him any more than he could read her, although it wasn’t strange for Raen. She couldn’t read anybody, except for those that left their hearts out on their sleeves, and Muta was certainly not one of those people.

He had been pale when she had extended the bottle to him, Raen simply hadn’t paid it much notice. Now, though, the girl frowned. As earlier stated, she would think that very few things would faze this hardened candidate. What was getting him all strange now, when he had some wine in his hand? Although, to be honest, he seemed a bit more relaxed now, and he was calming by the moment. He was drinking, swallowing rapidly, and Raen’s eyes widened with confusion. Really, nothing had changed in the few moments that she had had the bottle! It wasn’t as if a murderer had come into the room, and was holding a knife to his throat, so why was he acting as though this was the last thing he was ever going to drink?

And then he was speaking, his eyes fixed firmly away from her. Raen finally simply blinked, pushing all inquiries about Mutasim’s strange reaction to seemingly nothing that wasn’t in his mind, out of her own mind. He had asked her a question, and it was only polite to answer it. A smile rose to her face as she finally registered what he had asked.

It was really quite amusing, really. So amusing to Raen’s mind that she laughed, even as she took the bottle of wine. It was a soft laugh, an ironic one, almost. “Oh, most definitely not,” she told her voice. The voice was almost as quiet as the laugh. And Raen could stop there. She had answered his question, after all. But, really, so many girls did in fact want the queen, so she’d feel bad if she said that without any explanation. There was sigh that she masked, before continuing. “I just wanted a green. A flying, fighting dragon. Queens are necessary for the Weyr, and they’re wonderful creatures. But I’m simply not cut out for a gold, and I know it. I’m not going to be one of those girls that want the gold, yet have no chance for it.” Raen shrugged. It was one of those things that would have normally just been thought, and now she wondered what his reaction would be.

“I just wanted a green,” she repeated quietly, somewhat feeling sorry for herself. She just wanted a green, and she wasn’t even good enough for that. Raen took the wine that he offered and swallowed a few times, before banishing the self-pity. Shaking her head, Raen banished the self-pity from her mind. Who knew how many times Mutasim had stood? “What do you want? A bronze, a brown, a blue…a green?” She highly doubted he wanted a green, but hey, you never knew.

She sighed, tilting the bottle back again, then swallowing. Shells, this was strange. And the bottle was quickly losing wine: imagine that. But when she lowered it again, Raen knew that it wasn’t going quickly enough. He needed to drink more, so that she would have to drink less. Shells. Taking one last sip, she offered it back to Mutasim. Running her arm over her legs, she tried to banish thoughts from her mind.

“Why are you here, if I may ask?” She had spoken, and now it was time for him. “Why did you come out here with wine, all alone? You said that you wanted to forget…but why do you want to, suddenly now? After the Hatching, when everyone’s so happy. Surely you had friends that impressed.” Raen wasn’t meaning to pry, and she didn’t normally. Maybe it was the wine, making her a bit loose-tongued? Oh, shells, she didn’t know, and she wanted to find out. She needed to find out.

[reqqy]

Yes, he could feel her eyes on him. That didn’t help his mental state very much. A small, nasty little whining voice whispered at him. What if she can see what you’re thinking? She’ll let the whole world know what a vicious, terrible monster you are. They’ll send you away. They’ll pack you up and send you back to Bitra. Maybe even giftwrap you for our friend Liam. She can’t do that to us. You can’t let her. We want to kill him, not dance for him – or whatever he might plan. The young man shifted uneasily, feeling her extract the bottle from his hand. It clenched into a loosened fist. Kill her, Muta. It wouldn’t be hard. Just draw the dagger, and

Luckily for Raen, the voice wasn’t allowed to continue. Her own words broke through the silent one-sided argument. Muta’s head lifted, meeting her eyes, his own blinking in disorientation. There was such a mixture of rational pragmatism and utter fantasy in the hissed death words that he’d known a rare state of paralyzing confusion. Something was wrong with the evil voice’s reasoning. Something obvious and important. Yet he couldn’t find it. Both Jabari and Mutasim trembled, unnerved. The brown tightened its hold on the candidate.

It took a moment for him to register just what it was that she was talking about. Already, the line of questioning was completely forgotten. Oh, yes, dragons. So she hadn’t wanted the queen? Someone once told him that all girls wanted a gold, but he had never truly believed that. Some, maybe. Perhaps most when there was a gold egg on the Sands. But too many girls came to join the candidate ranks when there was no gold egg, and they certainly weren’t standing as a candidate because they thought it would be fun to be left Standing. They expected to Impress. Or at least wished it. In most cases, that meant a green, but they certainly wouldn’t be getting a gold.

His eyes searched her face as she gave her line of reasoning. Did she think so little of herself? Or was she merely a pragmatist, as he himself was? Well, she wasn’t idiotic enough to be a goldrider, anyway, though perhaps she was naïve enough. He wouldn’t have wanted a green, in her shoes, simply because he felt he couldn’t get a gold. Mutasim would have wanted a green because it allowed him to be useful in an aggressive manner, which was more or less the only way he knew how to be useful at all. Of course, he wasn’t female. And Raen wasn’t Mutasim. Still, she should have a reason other than that pathetic one. No dragon was of lesser or greater importance than any other, in the grand scheme of things.

The girl paused to drink the wine. When she’d repeated herself…she seemed upset. He could feel the whispering voice welling up again, but this time he was determined to quell it before it could work its evil. What better way than to concentrate on the other candidate? “Your green wasn’t here this time around,” Muta said, with surprising gentleness. “I’ve never seen anyone passed over twice.” Except me. “She’ll be better for you than any of these were, and you’ll be glad for the pain you feel right now, because without it, she would never be yours.” He stopped, surprised at himself. Was that what he truly believed? For Raen, yes. For him? Maybe he wanted to believe it, and it was buried deep.

Not what he wanted to think about. Yet her question still hung in the air, and he was afraid the voice would be back if he maintained his silence. “I would be content with whichever would choose me,” he replied honestly. It didn’t matter to him. He didn’t like the idea of what it would mean to be a male greenrider during Flight – at all – but neither did he like the idea of being on the other end of that particular scenario. And he’d always gotten on best with females. No. Bronze, brown, blue, green. They were all equally appealing to him. Equally terrifying. “Though I’m afraid to Impress.” Truth. Again. He wanted it, yes, but he was afraid that he’d never be able to escape his memories then. Worse, what if the dragon chose him, then realized just what a monster he was and rejected him, going Between? The thought was unbearable on so many levels.

Taking the bottle back from her, he raised it to his lips – and paused. Another question? Was she getting more social as time wore on? Must be the wine. “Not so many, this time,” he replied, answering the last of her questions first. His eyes unfocused slightly, remembering. “It just seems stronger tonight. Every other Hatching, he was there. Maybe you know of him? Z’hin?” Ah, maybe the wine was loosening his tongue, too. “We stood together, four Hatchings ago, and while I stood shocked at all the deformed dragons, he Impressed Jessereth. I didn’t really know him then. But we fought here together later that night when – well, when Bitra tried to take me back. Two turns ago, now. The night of the Hatching Feast. That’s the first time I truly noticed him.”

Mutasim took another pull of the wine, the action not so desperate this time, but equally deep. “His memory is strong tonight.”