Scuttlebutt (Group II Chores/Candies)

[reqqy]

Of all the chores that a candidate was expected to do, this had to be Mutasim's least favorite.

He could overlook the oppressive, sweltering heat of the kitchens as he attacked a tuber with his knife. Though Muta was not southern, it could be argued that at least someone in his genetic line must have been, given his coloring. Nearly two turns was plenty enough time to become accustomed to it. True, the humidity and warmth of a summer day in the south was enough to dehydrate the most stalwart, but it was nothing compared to the stuffiness of this room, packed in like sardines with all the 'homey' types and other young people roped into these chores. He wiped away a rivulet of sweat that got into his eyes.

He could even overlook these ridiculous smocks they were supposed to wear. The Headwoman apparently believed in the 'one size fits all' principle, which of course left the giants with barely enough material to cover all of their stomachs, and gave people like Muta what amounted to a dress to get lost in. The thing was overlarge, dangling practically off his shoulders at the neckline with the hem a good couple inches below his knees. He felt like he was wearing a great white, billowing sail that some crazed sailor had seen fit to wrap him in.

Then there were all these old, crusty women wandering about, barking orders because they were so completely ancient that they couldn't be trusted to so much as stir a pot. But oh, their wisdom and knowledge was completely indispensible! These harpies with their strident voices and rheumatic eyes made even a Bitran-born lad want to run away screaming and hide under a table somewhere. Mutasim endured their shrieks with as much composure as he could manage, and tried not to get blood all over what he'd already prepped when the flailing of a wooden spoon resulted in the slip of his knife. Obviously, blood on the produce would earn him an additional box to the ears for his pains.

All of these things he could endure with some grace - albeit you'd better believe he'd be out the door and hiding in the woods somewhere if he wasn't absolutely certain that the hard-hitting Aliscia would put him on kitchen duty indefinitely were he to attempt that - but for the one other thing. The candidate was not of a disposition to wait on tables. This had been noted early on, to the detriment of a good deal of weyrfolk. He clearly wasn't suited for the kitchens, either, however, for the counters were built for decidedly taller people. Every day he pulled kitchen duty, Mutasim was presented, with much aplomb, the crate.

Oh, it was certainly a useful thing. He could actually see what was on the countertop, for one. It certainly made it easier to prep the vegetables. Unfortunately, it had an invisible target painted on the side, and every weyrbrat or young candidate with a death wish and a sense of arrogant superiority would invariably play 'let's kick the crate out from underneath that small kid.' Every single one of them learned quickly; they only did it once. It would even be worth the welts and smarting ears, if there wasn't an endless supply of idiots in this Weyr.

Yes, he hated kitchen duty, and the scowl on his face was more than enough to indicate that as he attacked the tuber with unbridled ferocity.

[boober]

Are you enjoying yourself, Mine? C’lryn sighed at the obviously taunting question coming from his bronze. For whatever reason, the idea of him on kitchen duty positively tickled Minoath’s funny bone. Maybe because His just hated it so much.

What do you think, chucklehead? A wave of amusement from the dragon was as good as a verbal response. He no doubts that the bronze was sitting in their weyr rumbling his fool head off at the visual of his rider in an apron. Heap big bronze rider, stuffed into an apron and made to… cook. It was insufferable. But being the relatively laid-back and well-mannered lad he was, C’lryn suffered it better than most. He was able to smile appeasingly at the old aunties who ran the place with an iron fist. The kitchens were not a democracy; they were the worst kind of dictatorship, and there was never any doubt of this in anyone’s mind by the time they left.

Fortunately, the same nature that let him take most things in stride also qualified the bronze weyrling for waiting tables. Yippity skip. It was a vague improvement over being stuck in the kitchens, for sure, but only a vague one. Now he was leaning over a table giving it a thorough scrubbing as he tried to get bits of what appeared to be dried mashed tuber off the surface. Shells, didn’t the last shift clean..? Or the one before that? Or did they just leave it all for him? Resisting the urge to sigh, C’lryn reached up and swept his hand across his forehead, flicking his fingers slightly. It was an old habitual gesture that came from having much longer hair than he did now.

He’d made the decision some months ago to crop his hair back to a more manageable length; it had been just past his chin, and now there was only enough length to his hair for it to rise into unruly spikes whenever he ran his hands through it. The shorter style suited him, once his friends got used to seeing him without all the length. Some even speculated that he looked better without the long strands framing his face. Made him look more the man and less a feckless gawp of a boy. He still was the latter much of the time, but he was changing; whether Minoath was to blame for this or if it was simply a matter of growing up was hard to say, but it wasn’t hard to spot for anyone who knew the bronze weyrling.

Straightening, having triumphantly removed the anonymous crust from the table, C’lryn glanced about before looking into his bucket of water. Yeuch. Making a face at the murky brownish-gray slop inside the bucket, he picked it up and carried it back toward the kitchens to dump it. At least he’d finished wiping down the tables. His free hand reached up to brush his shoulder, then made a movement as if dusting off some invisible particles. Another habitual movement. The weyrling was used to having his golden beauty perched on his shoulder almost all the time. But the little green disaster that was Bite was not allowed to accompany him to his chores, and so, to be fair, C’lryn had told Darling that she shouldn’t come either. So they were both with Minoath now, the queen doubtlessly sleeping and Bite… Faranth only knew. He didn’t want to.

The bucket was upended over a basin, the murky water splashing out into it before draining away as C’lryn turned to survey the kitchens. What next? As if sensing the question, a plate of steaming food was shoved under his nose. “Take this out.” Hands automatically came up under the plate, and if the old auntie hadn’t still been holding it, it was entirely likely that he would have dropped it. Shells it was hot! Giving the old woman a look somewhere between dismayed, beseeching, and disgruntled, the lad quickly stuffed it all behind a smile and a nod, lifting his arm to take the brunt of the hot plate’s weight as he brought up the other hand for balance against the slightly cooler edge. “Yes ma’am.” With that, he turned and strode dutifully out of the kitchen to do as he’d been told. He was merely a bronze weyrling; who was he to argue with the old ladies of the kitchens?

[reqqy]

Apparently the glower wasn't going to be enough.

In Bitra, that expression would have kept even the Lordholder's guard at bay. For a time. In Bitra everyone was considered dangerous. In Bitra, where dangers were common, Mutasim was known, which made people even more wary of him. What sort of boy managed to make a name for himself amidst a holding full of cutthroats and rapists, after all? Definitely not the sort you wanted to be messing with.

Selenitas was so sharding soft.

These boys had no idea what life was like beyond the protection of trees and weyr. Here, when news travelled, they got it into their fool heads to test the small lad from - for all intents and purpose - another world. If news travelled. It was definitely a different sort of place than Mutasim understood. This time, when the crate was kicked out from beneath him, Muta actually considered doing something that would certainly prevent any further instances. A dead boy should get the message across. He was not about to go through this routine every single time he pulled kitchen duty.

The crate toppled, Mutasim landing nimbly on the balls of his feet, dagger held before him. Then he stumbled on the long hem of the sharding smock. No sound, yet, and the women were not looking. Today they'd decided to gather together. His eyes darkened. Narrowed. Normally he was faster, but not today, not with the overlong garment tripping him up. His instinctive crouch was not well-suited to such clothing.

A kick. Almost avoided, but not quite. Muta grunted. Why did they always pick a fight with him? Apparently it was no longer a 'let's mess with the midget.' It had become 'let's show that scrapper a lesson.' He caught sight of one of the wherry-headed scum from last week. Cruel smile. Child's smile. Mutasim returned the grin, and the boy backed up, fear flitting across his face. He visibly straightened his shoulders.

The next kick was caught, the foot pulled and twisted, landing a nameless, faceless boy on the ground. That's when they finally noticed something was going on, the harpies of the kitchen, but no one gave them any mind. Muta was one step away from murderous, and they had better things than wooden spoons to worry about. The candidate darted between flailing limbs and caught the one he'd beaten soundly not so long ago about the knees, bearing him back and through the door. They tumbled out into the main dining hall.

Mutasim was the smaller of the two. Somehow, his opponent had gotten ahold of Muta's wrist. They wrestled, the bodies writhing, slamming into a couple of tables and tripping up anyone not quick enough to get out of the way. Mutasim was the smaller. He was also stronger. After a few seconds that seemed more like minutes, the Bitran had his assailant pinned, his knees pressing down on biceps. The smile was cold. He wrenched his wrist from the boy's grasp. Eyes narrowed. Muscles tensed.

The pinned boy let out a terrified cry. None of the crones that ruled the kitchens were close enough to intervene, and even if they were, he wasn't so sure they'd be able to stop this tiny demon.

[Ruby]

They tumbled out into the main dining hall- and right into Raila's legs.

She hit the ground hard as the boys continued to wrestle, plates of half-eaten food flying everywhere. She had been busing tables, and now everything she had collected was all over herself. Raila was not a person who fell often- she took the care to be more graceful than that, and on top of that, she was covered in food. Other people's food. Other people's nasty food, which was CERTAINLY going to stain her good white top. Why she had worn a white top to kitchen duty was anyone's guess, but Raila was rarely logical about her wardrobe choices. Even the smock that she, too, was forced into wearing wasn't much of a help, as the brown stew that had been served along with the rest of the food seemed intent on seeping through it.

It took her a moment to get to her feet, as Mutasim pinned the other boy to the ground. But get to her feet she did, stew on her shirt and tubers in her hair, with plates littering the ground around her. And she was clearly furious. As the pinned boy let out a cry, Raila took a deep breath.

And screamed.

"Do you KNOW who I am? I am the daughter of the late Fort Weyrleaders!" Here, she normally would have wiped a way a fake tear and said something tragic, but she was much more angry than ever before, and her usual act slipped her mind. "YOU two are just stupid little boys, and you got food all over me! What do you intend to DO about that?" she shouted, stamping her foot occasionally for emphasis. If all the Hall's attention wasn't already on the two boys, it was now. Raila was still fuming, waiting for them to somehow fix this indignity.

[boober]

What in Faranth’s name--? C’lryn whirled around to look as the fight seemed to explode into the main dining hall. He had been in mid-conversation with one of the diners, his usual bright grin plastered on his face. The young bronze rider was nothing if not sociable. He preferred busing and serving to mucking around in the steamy kitchens, by far. He’d rather be out with people who weren’t armed with wooden spoons and were usually more willing to speak with him rather than just shout orders. But this duty was quickly turning out to be… interesting, for lack of a better word.

Holding plates of half-eaten food, the senior weyrling blinked as similar plates flew through the air and clattered to the floor. Food was flung everywhere, and C’lryn suppressed a groan. He knew he’d be the one cleaning it up later. One eyebrow quirked, however as the girl who’d been carrying them stood up and proceeded to shriek at the fighting boys. Unable to help himself, an amused grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. As if they would listen to her! That was one fight even he wasn’t in a hurry to break up; he knew what the brats had done to instigate it, and in his opinion, Mutasim had every right to kill one or two to make an example.

Which was why he skirted the fight ever so carefully until he drew even with Raila. “I don’t think it would be a good idea to interrupt them at the moment… they might decide to drag you along.” He had absolutely no sympathy for the girl; if she was worried about her clothes, she needed to be more practical in her duties. It just made her seem bratty and stuck up, and while C’lryn was usually against judging someone so harshly without even having met them, it just couldn’t be helped. He was only human, after all. “Come back to the kitchens and I’ll help you get cleaned up if you want.” It was just an offer made out of an attempt to be polite. No ulterior motives here.

Before anything more could be done or said, however, a shockingly bright green object streaked in through the door. Fight! was yelled gleefully as the salamandyr dashed toward the two boys on the floor. C’lryn paled visibly beneath his tan, eyes widening. He knew that voice. Faranth help him. He whirled around, but it was far too late now. BITE!! With that final announcement, Bite rushed up and over the boy on the floor, sinking fangs into his nose and proceeding to shake it viciously, like a canine with a favored bone. Mutasim was ignored, for now, something for which the candidate should have been grateful. Drawing attention to oneself while Bite was in ‘fight’ mode was not a bright idea.

“BITE! Stop that! Get off, now!” C’lryn unceremoniously dumped his load of plates on the nearest table and rushed over to extract his wayward green from the fray. Raila was all but forgotten. But the ‘mandyr was having none of it. Raising her head, she hissed warningly at her bonded, extending her frills fully. “I mean it! Stop that!” Apparently C’lryn wasn’t taking no for an answer, as he reached in and plucked the green from the boy’s face. Bite shrieked, putting all of her fury and indignation into it and sounding as if she were being brutally slaughtered. Her claws raked furrows along the boy's face as she tried to keep her grip. She flailed about in C'lryn's grasp before clamping down on the bronze weyrling’s hand with all her might. Oh, she was furious!

BITE!

“NO!” was yelled through clenched teeth. “No bite!” Getting bitten himself was better than having someone else being mauled, he supposed, but shells. C’lryn still didn’t know which was worse, losing an argument with the green, or winning it.

[missa]

Once you got into a rhythm, it wasn't so bad, not the sweeping or the chopping, at least she was moving. Rielana hated chores as much as the next weyrling or candidate, but she'd found very quickly that with two flitts and a slamandyr, a dragon and the fact she could move, kitchen duty was less boring than records. Pride was currently on her shoulder, hiding in her hair as best he could with an electric blue hide, occasionally letting out a soft chirp.

The standing rule was only one of them was with her at each time, any more than that and she was well aware it got hectic, since Aakesh and Pride couldn't share her shoulder. No, Aakesh couldn't share her shoulder with even Fiel who was nearly two turns his senior.
Ma? Pride asked softly, looking towards C'lryn before the kitchens, it was with these movements he indicated two things he was proud of, he'd recognized C'lryn, and the kitchens were where the dirty food went. Rielana sighed, leaning on the broom for a moment as she scratched Pride's head.

Moments after that, chaos erupted. First the boys tumbled out, and Pride screeched with excitement, and then there was a girl, screeching.
"Ugh, chaos." Rielana wasn't bored enough that this was exciting, and Pride very nearly leapt from her shoulder to join in.
"Pride no." She hissed, heading over to see if she could help.

Shards, that girl was annoying though, and Rielana had thought she was annoying. Least she didn't screech about rank.
"Oh for Faranth's sake! Shut up!" Rielana growled, moving up next to her to grab her arm. Enough was enough, C'lryn was busy with bite now, so she might as well shut the girl up, screeching did no good.
Fight! Ma look! The blue was very excited by Bite's action, and only the fact that Rielana had threatened him with Jeminorth had settled him.
"Who ever your parents were, it doesn't matter! They don't have to do anything, but I'll tell you something, you need to stop trying to be a queen rider-" A glance at her knots and Rielana released her arm, stepping back.
"Candidate." Pride turned then, chittering at the girl, Rielana glanced at her clothes with a confused expression,
"They're just clothes. Go get changed, I'll clean up here." Back to nice in a heart beat, Rielana offered a smile to apologise for snapping, she blamed it on Jemmy.

[reqqy]

He'd almost forgotten what it felt like. The power of having someone beneath you, completely at your mercy. An adrenaline rush like no other. Mutasim only had to extend his arm. It would be a lightning strike, the strike of an adder, and the dagger would plunge into that wide, pleading eye. His expression must have transmitted his thoughts clearly. He shifted away from the growing wetness between the idiot's legs, chuckling mercilessly. The boy's face was red with humiliation and white with terror. Blotchy. Almost beautiful. Muta licked his lips.

Her scream shattered the moment. Looking up, the candidate snarled at Raila, a baring of teeth that was pure animal instinct. Two familiar forms that he vaguely recalled descended upon the screeching harpy. The mood had already been shattered. Lord Lyam's face still interposed itself over that of this weyrbrat. A second ago, he could have done it. Could have ended the child's life with no remorse or hesitation. Now, the knowledge of where he was surged in on him, and his enemy's face took on a different meaning. He could not afford to be thrown out of the weyr. Much as he wanted to exact vengeance on Lyam for his den - for his Shitaki - the timing wasn't right, and Mutasim well-knew that, even were he successful, the attempt would end in his death. The candidate was not yet ready to die.

He could not kill this boy.

That didn't stop the pleased grin that took his features - cold, cold expression - when the small salamandyr decided to join the fray on Muta's side. He remained on the child's arms, leaving the boy defenseless against the small, scrappy critter. The bronzeweyrling from a moment ago removed the green all too soon. Mutasim suppressed a sigh. No, he could not kill him. But he sure wasn't going to allow the boy to ever forget this day, if the scars from the salamandyr attack weren't enough.

One of the crones from the kitchen approached. Brave woman. A look from him was enough to stop her in her tracks, fearless though she normally was. The demon inside Muta had come to gaze out from his eyes. He leaned in to his victim's bloody face. Dagger came to rest against a carotid. Mutasim relished the terror in those eyes. Finally, though, he let the blade rise, holding the kid's head in place as the dagger cut skin, separating the lower part of the ear from the wherry-brained wherbrat's head. Screaming. Muta pressed upward. He stopped after about an inch, waiting for the screeching to descend into sobs. The candidate casually cleaned the blade on the boy's cheek. "Next time," he hissed, "I take the whole thing. Now go change those soiled clothes and get a healer to stitch that back into place. Would be a shame if you lost the ear."

The dangerous gleam was still in Muta's eyes as he stood. He was tempted to give the boy a kick. Refrained. Instead, his eyes met those of the idiot girl-child who thought to disrupt him, the delusional candidate. His lips cracked in a humorless smile. Splattered blood painted his face, none of it his. "Daughter of D'loro and Kamerai? Northern Weyrleaders." The tone itself was enough to reveal a burning hatred. "I wonder how I could make them dance if they knew I held their daughter? Oh, yes. That's right. C'leon murdered them. Too bad."

[Ruby]

Neither of the boys did anything to make Raila less embarrassed- instead, a Weyrling boy (by his knots) appeared at her side, carrying plates as she had been doing before they had knocked her over so rudely. This endeared him to her for a moment... but his words did not. "Look. No matter what they're angry about, it is incredibly rude to knock people over, and fighting is absolutely no excuse," Raila practically snarled. Who was he to tell her not to get involved? These boys were old enough to know better- both of them. Maybe in Bitra this was acceptable behavior, but in the REST of civilized Pern, it was not. Of course, Raila had no way to know that Mutasim was, in fact, Bitran. "And I can clean my own clothes, thank you very much. I'm only angry because it was the only shirt I had left that hasn't been spoiled by this rotten job!" Good Faranth, Raila had told the truth for once. Maybe being angry was a good thing for her personality.

As she was starting the bit about her shirt, though, something green flashed across her vision, and an odd little green creature- 'mandyrs, she had heard them called- started tearing at the face of the boy being held down. The Weyrling rushed forward, extracted the creature from the middle of the fight (the one he had just warned her to stay out of, she thought with a hmph), and got his own hand savaged instead. Raila didn't exactly think he deserved it, but if that was his creature, it was better that it was savaging him, and not... well, the other boy. Certainly neither of the boys down there were "innocent".

And then someone else was at her side, grabbing her arm and immediately sounding equally as unhelpful as the other Weyrling- and oh, surprise surprise, this one was a Weyrling too. What was with that, Raila wondered? The only thing Weyrlinghood meant was that they had been chosen, and far more likely than otherwise, it had been determined that they were not Queen material. A candidate at least still had a chance! Weyrlings, for the most part, had already been deemed unworthy. Males were unworthy to begin with, until their dragons were able to fly- then they might prove their worth by catching a gold, but any female Weyrling had no right to talk down to a candidate.

Of course, that is exactly what the girl did, and instead of shutting Raila up, it just made her bristle again. "At least I still have a chance to be a Queenrider, greenweyrling. Don't take your jealousy out on me because you lost the chance. Until you're a full rider, I'm no lower ranked than you. And I am capable of doing my own chores, thank you very much," she snapped back, despite the other girl's nicer tone at the end. As much as she hated being dirty, Raila liked chores- it gave her a chance to help, and to pick up other people's slack. Plus, with food all over her, people might feel a little sorry for her, and she'd of course use that to her advantage.

In the meantime, the brat boy on top had finished up the fight by trying to cut the other one's ear off. Raila was shocked and disturbed that no one did anything about it- if this got reported to the Candidatemaster, the boy would be stripped of candidacy for sure. At least if things here were done at all like they were in Fort Weyr. In fact, she was shocked the boy hadn't been kicked out of the Weyr already, with behavior like that. Raila hated the thought that she would be the one to report him, though, despite his rudeness. Being a Candidate... it was such a great chance. But it was a lot scarier with a person like this around.

Suddenly he was meeting her eyes, and speaking to her. Raila drew herself up- at 5'9 she was much taller than him, and she looked down her nose as maturely as she could, putting an expression on her face that had made many in the past melt with shame. She didn't think it would work on this one, but there was no harm in trying, especially when he so clearly thought he was better than her. Well, news flash little boy, Raila was better than EVERYONE.

"I would not be here in your insolent presence if they were alive. I would be in my rightful place in Fort Weyr. I'm sure we'd both prefer it that way. Of course, with C'leon around, it is highly dangerous for any blood of D'loro and Kamerai's line, which is why I'm here. Believe me, brat, if I had my choice I would be a-dragonback, headed north right now. But, clearly unlike you, I have foster parents who care for me and wish to keep me safe. If only they had known what little monsters they had sent me to." Sure, she was probably kicking a broody Queen's egg or something, but Raila didn't care. She was used to standing up for herself and defending her beliefs- no matter how wrong they might be.

[boober]

Mine, please wait. It would not be wise to step in there right now.

But I’m hungry, dammit!

One would think that over the Turns, Aryna would have learned to listen to her brown by now. And she did… when it suited her. But it didn’t suit her now, as he was basically telling her not to eat! She needed food, no matter what the hang-ups were, and she was going to get it! But the raised voice coming from the main hall made her hesitate briefly. That sounded like a shrew if ever there was one. Well, it wasn’t like she had to eat with whoever was putting up such a fuss. Brushing it off, the brown rider walked into the room and immediately wished she hadn’t.

I told you so.

Dramuth was ignored as his rider took in the scene. At least two people bleeding, one bitching about it, and yet another trying to get the situation in hand, but it was clearly not working. Scowling, Aryna propped her hands on her hips. Where were all the adults?! All the seasoned riders? She glanced around at the rest of the diners, none of whom were moving to help. A few were even eating still, pretending nothing was going on. Damn it! Why did she have to do this? Where was that air-headed Weyrwoman? If she were a dragon, Aryna would be growling by now. She stood there glowering at the weyrlings and candidates until Raila her annoying yap, then made an impatient motion with her hand at the girl.

“Are you finished?” She glanced at Mutasim, Rielana, and C’lryn, who still had a bright green salamandyr attached to his bleeding hand. “What is going on here?” She addressed the group as a whole, but made another impatient gesture, cutting off anyone who would try to answer her. “I come in here to eat, and I find this scene instead. If you have a problem, take it outside!” It was obvious that the brown rider was pissed, her eyes eerily pale and her face set into a scowl so hard it looked as if it might be permanent. “You, stop whining and irritating everyone and go get cleaned up! You’re nothing but a candidate here until you become something else, so I don’t want to hear you mouthing anyone! You, go see a healer and stop bleeding all over the sharding floor!” A long finger was thrust in C’lryn’s direction, causing the weyrling to nod weakly and slink out of the room, with an enraged Bite still latched onto his hand.

“You! Get back to work” was barked at Rielana. Aryna wasn’t actually yelling, but her voice was clipped and sharp in a way that made yelling obsolete. She turned her angry eyes to Mutasim. “And you, stop cutting people’s ears off in the middle of the sharding dining hall! If you’re going to mutilate people, do it where others aren’t eating.” How odd; she didn’t seem remotely horrified at what the candidate had done, only irritated at the place he’d chosen to do it. Once she made sure that covered everyone, her thoughts immediately turned back to food. It wasn’t that she expected everyone to obey her, it just didn’t occur to her that they might not. Aryna knew both what she was capable of and what she was willing to do to people who defied her, but it never occurred to her that there were people who didn’t know the same.

Would she be carving off a few ears herself? Not if someone fed her.