to causing a commotion (open)

[glamourie]

What a sight he made!

Technically, K’lir was assigned ‘archive duty’ for chores and that was his reason for being in the records room. However, his behavior could hardly be described as chores (not that K’lir felt it was right for him to even be assigned chores – he knew enough to teach a weyrling class himself). He had a large broom in his hands and was… dancing. Yes, dancing. Technically his movements could qualify as sweeping, but most wouldn’t bother justifying it: he really was just kicking dust around and quite possibly making it worse, not really helping anything. The archives weren’t that messy but if you looked at the area around K’lir you might think otherwise. From the way he was spinning around and dipping his broom as if it was the ultimate dancing partner, one might actually think the place hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Yes, he was making more of a mess in his little spot – but fortunately, K’lir had sense enough to attempt his archive pole dancing routine in a corner instead of the middle of the room. At least passerbys wouldn’t end up getting hit by the end of the broom (hopefully). K’lir wasn’t paying attention enough to avoid being a danger to anyone else, after all.

He was humming, though. Or, it might’ve been better qualified as singing without actually singing words – and he wasn’t all that good, either. Not horrible, but K’lir was no harper, as evidenced. His hands curled around the handle of the broom and he spun before leaning back as though being dipped. He bounced back up, spun, and kicked a pile of dust up into the air. He was almost graceful (not really but he liked to pretend he was). Another quick spin had him moving around the back of the shelves. The archivist wasn’t around – perhaps fortunately, for right as K’lir reached the tables, he tossed his broom to the side and leapt up onto one of the chairs. He’d either been spending way too much time around R’wign (possible) or he was incredibly bored (likely). Whatever it was, he smacked his shoes onto the chair top, creating a rhythmic sound that lasted a few seconds before he jumped onto the table as well.

Click, click, clunk.

He wasn’t alone, though. While Baoth was outside (pensively watching the river as if it was the most interesting thing in the world, as was typical of the green dragon), Showoff was sitting on the edge of one of the shelves watching His as if he’d grown a second, significantly more interesting head. Typically K’lir was a grouchy individual and for the past seven months, he’d been anything but energetic – the furthest he’d go in terms of exuberance was typically to yell in anger. The dancing could be described as playful – which was very unusual for His. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. Showoff stood on his hind legs, frilled, and watched K’lir dance before cocking his head to the side slightly. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was pleased or annoyed by how strange His was being. He settled for annoyed and huffed, frill still flared wide. So odd.

I had no idea you were so flexible, Baoth commented privately to Hers; she didn’t need to see him to feel his movements. She was connected to him closely enough to be well-aware of what K’lir was doing.

You have no idea. Flexible was kind of an understatement, as evidenced by the way that K’lir quickly dropped down to the table, hands curling on the edges, before pushing his weight on his hands. He spun, moving his legs upward until they were underneath him and then, resting in a crouching position, actually somersaulted over the end of the table. Being small, thin and in decent health had advantages: he could do full-blown cartwheels, backbends, somersaults, true flips, and he could actually bend his legs behind his head when he wanted to (he liked to see how much he could push himself before he actually got hurt – and he was out of shape, so lately it wasn’t half as far as he used to be able to, more’s the pity). Testing that out in the archives when he was supposed to be doing chores was probably not the wisest idea but hey –

At least he was in the Archives at all!

[rii]

There should be a rule against allowing candidates and weyrlings to re-write documents. At least make them pass some sort of penmanship test. F'lix couldn't even bring himself to read some of the hides and papers because he became so.. distracted by the horrible blots, smudges, smears, misspellings–honestly they were copying the documents, how could they make such errors. F'lix had barely done any of the reading he had set out to do because of this.. pet peeve.. and compulsive need to re-write everything. He didn't often make a trip into the archives because of this slight.. problem.

Forget it, F'lix growled lowly to himself while rising from his seat. He shuffled the papers into a presentable order and stuffed them back into their hide cover. A few pieces still laid on the table, written in a flowing script done by no other hand than his own. His 'notes' so to say. The bluerider turned and stalked off to return the records to their proper place–too lost in his own dark brooding to hear the humming drawing closer to his secluded section of the archives.

The green and blue—Devil and Angel—Lilitu and Simper—sat on each shoulder respectively. Their heads bobbing only slightly as F'lix prowled through the shelves, sliding the hide back into place, then turning to retrieve his papers. Only to find.. some red-head jumping on on the chair he once occupied. Oh bother. Golden eyes narrowed to slits as the fellow proceeded to take his routine to the table top. Who in Faranth's name was the idiot putting a show on for? A side-glance went down to the abandoned broom, rationalizing the lad was either a candidate or a weyrling. Who else would turn a chore into their personal time to shine..

Of course F'lix watched, in silence. That was just what he did when he encountered something curious; he observed. Sadly the bluerider could not cure himself from being, to a fault, curious. It was interesting to watch. Simper seemed to like the demonstration of skill, bobbing his head and quietly imitating the off-tune humming until F'lix shot him a withering glare. Finally, much to F'lix tiring patience, the stranger rolled off the end of the table–off of the few papers that had been left behind.

"Bravo." Came the sardonic praise, along with three slow claps. "Was that all just for me?" More dry comments, a dead pan tone and looking utterly uninterested by K'lir's little performance. F'lix hated other people by default. F'lix could only hope the redhead would run off embarrassed–unlikely, if the guy felt comfortable enough dancing about in the first place. Stepping up to the table, F'lix began to pick up the few papers while casting a glance at K'lir. A single eyebrow arching as Simper climb down the length of his arm, perched on the ledge, and crooned a greeting at the stranger–following the act by frilling widely, individual spines moving to give an odd wave to the motion.

Dance~dance~

[glamourie]

Someone overheard him. Or witnessed. Whatever word fit the subject more. K’lir blinked, twice, and looked over his shoulder to the sound of the clapping before offering what could only be described as a flourishing bow in response. It was completely, utterly mocking. He wasn’t stupid (though he’d rarely been called smart either – that term was usually reserved for people with a vast intellectual intelligence or competence at controlling their mouths, neither of which K’lir possessed; he wasn’t stupid but he was no genius) and he wasn’t unobservant: it didn’t take a genius to be able to figure out that the man was trying to be insulting. The problem with that was that it was really hard to intentionally insult K’lir because he honestly didn’t care much about what anyone thought of him; it wasn’t that he was arrogant (though the word had been used to describe him before), it was more that he just couldn’t care less about other people. Most of them were drab, boring, or stupid themselves, so why should he ever let their opinions affect him one way or another? Mister I’m going to pretend I don’t like you but engage you in a conversation none the less qualified under the assessment pretty well. He was immediately reminded of a fourteen year old spoiled child shouting I don’t CARE what you think while reacting to every single insult. His deduction came, yes, from those few words… but also from the other man’s posture and tone. He recognized very well when someone was trying to pick a fight. He did that, after all.

Unfortunately, he’d probably just bitten off more than he could chew. K’lir possessed a very typical redhead temper and about as much shame as a common Bitran prostitute. It was very, very hard to get under his skin, and someone who was deliberately trying usually got the sharper end of his tongue… or mind. Either way, it was never good to have K’lir’s full attention and the speaker most definitely did.

“That depends,” K’lir said silkily, his hands coming over to smooth down his shirt and his pants. Pity. If he’d known he was going to get into a bickering fight with someone with a great big stick up their butt (and the tone was pretty obvious – anyone who walked up and started provoking a total stranger had issues, even K’lir didn’t start fights with people he didn’t know without a good reason), he’d have worn the leather pants that Uu’n bought him. They made his usual way of dealing with irritating people much more interesting. His hands settled at the small of his back and he circled around the table toward the speaker, head tilting to the side so that a long red wave fell in front of his face. His expression was a definite smile – but it wasn’t a nice one. K’lir didn’t own any nice smiles. “Did you enjoy the show? If you did, the dancing was for you. If you didn’t, you can blow me, because I couldn’t possibly care less.” Eloquence, thy name was K’lir.

Turning to the salamandyr (a decidedly more interesting conversational partner in K’lir’s not-so-humble opinion), he leaned down, crouching. “Hello, spawn of Showoff, which one are you again?” The question might have struck others as odd but K’lir just by default assumed any salamandyr (with a handful of exceptions) was in some way Showoff’s spawn. It was usually accurate too. Seeing as Showoff was Dael’s chosen mate, most of the salamandyrs floating around Selenitas were in some way related to the bronze (who took great pains to emphasize that the smart ones were his offspring and the dumb ones – like Darya’s Imp – were obviously firelizard-spawn). He held his hand out welcomingly; he didn’t know the salamandyr at all but most of them, K’lir was okay with. He kind of had to be, since Showoff was very fond of his own kind (and hated firelizards, so it probably came as little surprise that K’lir took great joy in deliberately leaving shiny objects for them in places that caused them to get caught and stuck, unable to fly – what? No one ever said he was nice). “Can I get a better look at you?”

Dungheadmine best, Showoff helpfully told F’lix from his shelf spot. Recognize, else stupid. He paused for a moment, flared his frill, and then leapt onto K’lir’s head, landing in the mess of red-hued locks with ease. He almost blended in. Stupid anyway. So pretty, you. And, in typical salamandyr fashion, pretty in that instance was an insult. Of course, coming from Showoff, it probably meant little; he tended to flippantly insult everyone. He didn’t even dislike F’lix; he had no real opinion, except that everyone but him and Dael (including His) was stupid and ‘pretty’ in the bad way. Because there were multiple ways to be pretty.

[rii]

Was he instigating a fight? If so, it was such an ingrained act that F'lix didn't even noticed. A habit in dire need of breaking. One rising due to a mounting annoyance from being within the archives, enough so to manifest itself on his features. Not that F'lix ever wore a happy expression. The narrowed gaze in which he regarded the redhead was so normal to him. Where others wore a false smile, F'lix chose to be blunt; as in I don't like you. Scram. It took far too much effort to lie and pretend.

A brief glance naturally went to K'lir's moving hands, merely checking to ensure no hidden blades were being drawn. The fact remained that F'lix was a bloody-minded individual, so he anticipated animosity and violence. Those were normal, even welcomed, responses. The corner of F'lix lips twitched–sneer? smirk?–as K'lir approached. The fall of red hair was examined, almost thoughtfully before those dark golden eyes shifted back to the youth's face. If the crass attitude was meant to put F'lix off, it had.. no effect. Bluntness? Not attempting to hide anything? Nope, F'lix had no problem with the other. Very straight forward, I don't like you, you don't like me, neither of us care. Just ditch the smile. It was almost relieving..

Bravo~Dance~ Simper mimicked a few off-key notes while bobbing his head. Which one was he? Lililove's. Simper Lililove's. The blue didn't think twice before bounding over and hopping into K'lir's hand. Completely trusting of a stranger, so unlike his mindmate.

"Just for me then." It had been interesting, wouldn't deny it. Not every day he found someone dancing in such a fashion in the dusty corners of the archives. Likely never see it again. The papers were set neatly on the table, putting them out of the way just so he could.. suddenly seize K'lir's wrist, torquing the limb to a near painful degree while tugging the limb toward himself. Fingertips positioned over the pressure point. F'lix would not trust his pesky little salamandyr in the hands of another. F'lix plucked Simper up by his tail before pushing K'lir's hand away.

Of course, his action to keep Simper in hand only spurred the dark green to rouse to attention–though her interest had been drawn more by Showoff's words than anything else. Dunghead. She repeated, testing out the name while moving down F'lix arm. She leaped, extending her wings to aid in the short glide to land on K'lir's side. Immediately she scampered up to his shoulder, destined for the bronze. Apparently this man bothered Lixhers, so of course she had to aid in any form of torment toward Lixhers before they left

Right into the locks of red hair she went, rubbing cattishly up against Showoff. No real greeting, but strangely affectionate toward the older salamandyr. Dungheadyours, best–for tormenting hers at the moment, wouldn't deny that. Slavemine pretty? She had not yet picked up that insult, but she was more than willing to learn more from her sire. And she knew hers didn't like to be called slave and at the moment it was far to tempting to overlook that detail. Dunghead, dungstain. Stupid, idiot. She crooned slyly, eyes slitted as she gazed over at her annoyed mindmate. Showoffsire know many?

Insufferable pests. F'lix leaned the side of his leg against the table, keeping Simper pinched between thumb and forefinger as he glared disapprovingly at K'lir's hair. "Should I thank you, or him, for such lovely bundles of joy." And short of ripping her from K'lirs hair, F'lix didn't know what to do. Probably just turn and walk away, that would displease Lilitu and probably make her stop. Yet the little annoyances were such a.. vulnerability. So irritating.

Yes. Lilitu preened. She was quite pleased.

[glamourie]

Simper, huh? Kind of sad name but – at least it wasn’t Stupid. Or Worm. Bronzeriders remained the worst at naming salamandyrs (though he didn’t think Merce was that bad). K’lir reached down to stroke over Simper’s back gently, ignoring the other man’s words. The salamandyr was worlds more interesting (but then, K’lir liked salamandyrs better than people and had for Turns – he blamed Showoff). He didn’t usually spend much time with blue salamandyrs. The only one he saw much of, other than Showoff, was Daeluunya because she was Showoff’s mate. He could deduce from the tiny blue’s size that he was from the evil pair’s most recent clutch. Still just a baby~ He could barely remember when Showoff was a baby. He’d been profane from the moment of hatching. Such a long time ago. The thought made him flash on when Calistoth was a hatchling and he just as quickly pushed it from his mind. He didn’t need to be thinking about Calistoth. The very thought of her just sent him into depressions and that was the absolute last thing that he needed.

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as his wrist was grabbed and the look that went over his face was anything but friendly. In fact, it was downright vicious. The green weyrlingrider jerked his wrist away with enough force that he was sure he’d bruised it – he’d be lucky if it wasn’t sprained, in fact. He immediately recoiled, barely seeming to notice the movement of another salamandyr onto him before his face twisted into a look that could only be described as nasty. K’lir didn’t hide things – he just didn’t. What you saw with him was what you got, and that anger was completely genuine, golden eyes flashing with something close to disdain. He didn’t much like being touched (unless he initiated it or it was someone that he knew – this person wasn’t even someone whose name he was aware of, let alone an associate). That lack of fondness for touch was strengthened following Calistoth’s death, heavily inspired by the constant feeling of vulnerability – something he loathed. How dare this one touch him without permission.

“You’re a right bastard, you know that?” he said as his good hand moved to rub his sore wrist. It really didn’t take much to actually hurt K’lir. He was small, built very petite, pale so he bruised quickly, and way underweight… the latter more pronounced in the past few months, thanks to his not eating at all. Depression did that to a person. He had to be forced to eat anything and usually it was Baoth doing the forcing, which had mixed results. In short, it was perfectly easy to actually damage K’lir… and most people didn’t realize that. It may not have been intended as a rough touch, but there was a good chance the green weyrlingrider’s wrist would be bruised up from the contact. “If you wanted your salamandyr back, you only needed to ask. What kind of damage do you have that you think it’s suddenly okay to just twist someone’s wrist? Shards, you might have sprained it and if you did, by Faranth, I’m going to hunt you down and tie your cock into a knot!”

The arrival of the green on his person made Showoff turn to look at her critically. He flared his frill, testy, and then lowered it again. Not a threat. His was loyal to him. No other salamandyrs. He fanned his frill for a moment before standing on his hindlegs. He watched her rub against him thoughtfully before answering, Wherrymater dunghead Yours hurt Lovemine, he explained to the green; he did not at all appreciate K’lir being manhandled. Asshat, he is. That word was picked up from Brat, but hey, Showoff had a remarkable memory when it came to insults. Teach better, him and Simper. No hurt. Filthy stupid dungheaded wherrymating treelicking flying dimglow nitwit. No hurt bestmine. So pretty. ‘Pretty’ was the worst insult he knew, after all. He trembled and jumped away from the green, flaring his frill angrily at F’lix. He wanted to bite him, he did. Dragondung for brains.

Still rubbing his wrist, K’lir went cross-eyed… and then smirked. “Oh good. I don’t have to wish horrible things on you, you already have them come time for her to Run,” he said silkily; it was pretty obvious he meant those words just as viciously as he could possibly say them, too. The implication was obvious. His mind brushed Baoth’s, comforting; the green was steadily growing more upset over his moods, but he was calming down… slightly. “You should probably thank only yourself, you’re the idiot who went near hatching salamandyr eggs without repellant, and the only thing that repels them much is a whole mess of firelizards or another salamandyr. Kinda funny, the only other person I know with two salamandyrs got lucky and didn’t end up getting herself off in public. You on the other hand will probably not have as much luck. Poor baby. I’d offer to tell you how to resist the effects of salamandyr Runs and Chasing but since you were so nice to me, it’s better to just let you fend for yourself… You can be Darya the second.”

[rii]

Really?

F'lix calmly curled Simper into a closed fist while shifting to cross both arms loosely over his abdomen. His eyes had narrowed, but there was a definite hint of an amused smile curving faintly at the corners of his lips. Little spitfire. F'lix had not even been that rough; just quick and to the point. He didn't trust his salamandyrs in just anyone's hands–more so, he didn't trust Simper around other people. The blue had absolutely no sense of well-being (F'lix thought he was bad. Paled in comparison). There would be no benefit of the doubt, or giving a complete stranger a chance. Having one of his salamandyrs in another's hands, he might as well be handing over his life, just one squeeze and he'd be at their mercy. Any right minded mandyr would try to escape if it ever happened, but Simper wouldn't.

Eventually he'd teach Simper what was good danger, and what was bad danger.

Ask? A single brow arched, but F'lix didn't bother responding–no point, really. They all sounded like rhetorical questions. If K'lir really wanted to know, F'lix would answer, but he wasn't about to waste his time with petty verbal quarrels. But yes, he could have just asked. In F'lix's experience that always had mixed results. More often than not asking made people do exactly the opposite. F'lix was perfectly fine with going straight to being a bastard, taking back what belonged to him. He wasn't there to make friends.

Teeth flashed briefly in a feral smile. Oh the thought had certainly crossed F'lix mind that Simper would not only chase Lilitu, but likely catch her. They had come to him as a pair, afterall. Nothing a locked door and a dragon laying outside can't solve well enough. All hot air, Red and that salamandyr of his; an annoyance, for certain, but not a threat. Not a fighter–at least in how F'lix knew the word. F'lix knew how to read motions, to gauge skill; turns worth of practice. It didn't matter if K'lir was small or young, in fact those could have been his advantages; to be easily underestimated. F'lix didn't take those chances, relying on people's perception of his own similar weaknesses to be his strengths. Instead K'lir was so very.. southern.

Lilitu's head cocked to the side, pleased at the string of insults coming from both Showoff and his Dunghead. She watched the bronzesire jump away, half tempted to go after him and curl around him–but she had already gotten what she wanted, for now. Wrong. A simple statement, no room for arguement. Bastardmine no hurt Reddungstainyours. She knew hurt, that had not been anything near what she did to Simper–and she went easy on her simpering fool. If hurt, hurt self.

Her frill flicked, the venomous green so vibrant against her dark hide and the surrounding red hair. Lilitu no teach. Why? No fun if good. Punish though, Lilitu know /best/ way. Indeed Lixhers could do what he wanted, and if she didn't approve.. that just gave her the justifiable excuse to annoy him. Tormenting Terror had the most pleasing results. Though Lixhers was hers to punish and torment. Coiling, Lilitu leaped from K'lir's head, making a sharp glide down to land on F'lix leg–quickly climbing up to tightly ball in his hair. Her slitted green eyes almost glowing from between short raven black strands Idiotmine no more touch. Poor /baby/.

F'lix brow arched a second time, this because Lilitu had returned to him. Why, he didn't really know, and she wasn't forthcoming with a reason. The bluerider gave a lofty shrug, meeting K'lir's gaze with indifference. Mouthy Red-head, did he get it all out of his system yet? F'lix had his own temper, but someone spouting out a blunt opinion really didn't phase him much. He operated on a more physical level. And, well, the faint urge to strike K'lir's throat to make the redhead be silent did cross his mind a some point. "How's your wrist?"

Tie cock in knot.

What a pest.

[glamourie]

Hurt, Showoff countered. No like, is hurt. Is bad. Oh he knew very well that K’lir wasn’t truly injured: his point was that K’lir didn’t like the contact; he felt that it was unpleasant, and that meant it was hurt. Showoff found that unacceptable. It was pretty easy to follow the bronze’s logic: if His didn’t like it, then it wasn’t good, and he wouldn’t tolerate that. He didn’t feel compelled to argue and explain further, though – Lilitu was a green, not a gold, and therefore not worth bickering with. Actually, Showoff didn’t typically bicker with golds either if they weren’t Brat (and he only argued with Brat because he flat out detested her) so it could be considered almost a compliment that he didn’t feel inclined to disagree with everything that Lilitu was saying verbally. Maybe. Or maybe Showoff was just feeling lazy. Either was equally likely and, in many cases, just as true. The bronze nested in His’s hair contentedly as the green moved off of His. Much better. Even if he did like her, Showoff had little tolerance for other salamandyrs spending very much time perched on His. Only Daeluunya was allowed to sit on His. Only her. He was possessive that way.

Glancing up at his salamandyr (going cross-eyed in the process), K’lir reached up (still favoring the twisted wrist – it actually was hurt but it was very easy to hurt K’lir) and snatched Showoff from the blood red locks. His fingers moved gently over the salamandyr’s back and the bronze flared his frill momentarily before snuggling up to K’lir’s sleeve.

“It will fine, no thanks to you.” The redhead gave the taller man a positively murderous look. “I hope she Runs all the time and is always caught by different salamandyrs every time. Preferably by ones looking to particularly big men.” He didn’t wait for a response to that statement. Still sneering, K’lir turned on his heel and positively stormed away from F’lix (intentionally leaving the dust mess right where it was – he was counting the day as chores and the bastard could clean it up; he probably would have if his wrist wasn’t hurt). He did not want to deal with someone who obviously thought violence was the answer to everything (never mind that K’lir was tempted to punch the other man in the face in retaliation and probably would have if his wrist wasn’t so sore – as it was, K’lir ate once every two days, usually only one decent sized meal, and thus was not only underweight but pretty fragile). He had better things to do than deal with irritating people.

Right out of the records room K’lir went, like a small redheaded storm. The green weyrlingrider made his way down the stairs of the tree that made up the main hall, good hand coming up to rub his wrist. It was sore; he was intelligent enough to recognize that it wasn’t intentional to actually hurt him (K’lir wasn’t totally stupid) but the fact was that it was… ridiculously easy to hurt K’lir. He was small, and extremely underweight; he looked like he could break in two at the slightest contact and while that wasn’t true, his wrists and ankles were particularly susceptible to injuries. And he hadn’t even done anything to deserve that. He usually expected to get hit or harmed in some way because he was such a pain in the ass (intentionally) – but he hadn’t done anything to provoke that one. Not fair, not fair at all…