One for you, Two for me [ Sym ]

[rii]

What a boring bunkmate. Quintrell wrinkled his nose as he carefully rifled through the half of the trunk that did not belong to him. Not for the first time, but he had been wondering if the other candidate had acquired anything new. A disappointment. Dark eyes skimmed the other trunks sitting conveniently at the foot of the bunks. He had gone through every single one of them the first day he had arrived. All he got for his trouble were a few pieces of memorabilia, and he was actually surprised some of them had yet to notice the missing items.

Footsteps. Quintrell grabbed a shirt from inside his shared trunk and casually folded it.. and put it away as the stranger entered the barracks. He flashed a smile, carefully closed the lid and headed out the door–waggling his fingers at the other boy in a peculiar wave that made his rings glint energetically. People found him suspicious, yes, but only in the sense that they had an inkling that he was.. completely crazy–hey, he had a sandwich. Not fair. Quintrell's own stomach rumbled in envy. Must be time for lunch—

—Sprinting out of the barracks, Quintrell twisted around a corner vaulted over the railing without bothering to look below. He already knew what was below. Whoever had built Selenitas had been a child at heart, or a madman (maybe even madwoman) because there were so many fun nooks, crannies, rising platforms and rope bridges. It was a giant jungle gym. He fell to the dragon landing platform below, easing off his landing into a tuck and roll to avoid harming himself. A rise of dirt marked his landing, ending with him sitting in a cloud of dust. A goofy, lopsided grin on his face he directed at a young green dragon curiously regarding him.

"I need to work on my landing. I'm not quite as graceful as yourself–" He hopped back onto his feet and began brushing away the dirt. If he wasn't suppose to be talking to someone's dragon, Quintrell didn't know. They never talked back, so he tended to babble at them. He suddenly flapped his arms in a mimicry of wings. "Although, I shouldn't be trying to fly. Having no wings tends to set me up for failure, don't you think?" He shot the green a wink before–his stomach rumbled a reminder–Right, lunch. Quintrell set off again, with a parting wave over his shoulder at the dragon, from standstill into a sprint in the blink of an eye. Out over the rope bridge to the Main Hall. Nearly to his destination of the kitchens, not the dining hall. No excitement in eating free food.

Up the stairs and–pretty face! Quintrell tripped over his back foot, stumbling and ending up in a graceless heap at the feet of a female green rider. "Ow." He sat back on his heels, nursing a sore shoulder. Warm, dark brown eyes gazed up the profile of the young woman, sparing her an apologetic smile when.. she gave him scolding glare before stepping around him. Quintrell snorted, dropping his act and giving the girl a nasty look as she walked away from him. "I'm okay. Thanks for asking." Stuck-up trollop. Huff. Probably only interested in actual dragon riders. Quintrell stuck his tongue out after her retreating back. Tch, he had learned enough about the Weyr to know green riders didn't really get to be picky so obviously that one was just a prude—

—He smelled pies. The kitchens must be making them for dinner later. What luck. With a smile back on his face, Quintrell jumped back onto his feet, flew up the stairs and came to a skidding halt in the kitchens. Roguish grin in place, rings flashing mischievously, Quintrell close in on the working staff. An older woman noticed him right away, wooden spoon ready and when his hand descended toward the berries meant for pie stuffing, she rightly smacked it. "Don't even think it."

Quintrell gasped in disbelief, but quickly snatched a handful anyway–then skimmed away with the old crone at his heels. He dodged around the other staff members, weaving, ducking, snitching with his free hand while they were distracted by the fistful of berries. "Hi." Duck, spin around, step. Another drudge. "Lovely day, isn't it?" Dodge the crone, slip under the arm of a younger woman rolling dough. He flashed her a broad smile. "Very nice." Now, the pocket sew in the inside of his front shirt heavy with goods, time to make his escape. Quintrell flailed, catching his foot on the corner of a table and making a heavy landing on hands and knees leaving squished berries on the floor.

"Noo, not the berries.." A solid thwack caught him on top of his head and Quintrell quickly fled away from the harpy woman and her damn spoon. She didn't give chase though, since in her eyes, he had only taken the berries which now scattered across the kitchen floor. Mm, Quintrell licked the red stains on his fingers. The south had such lovely variety of sweet fruits. He found a relatively secluded spot on the walkway and plopped down, legs dangling over the edge of the platform. Time to see the goods. Quintrell reached inside of his shirt and pulled out–only two pastry pies? Bah. It would do. Quintrell began in on the first one while watching the river below; absently kicking feet through the empty air, fingers drumming along his stolen lunch, rings glinting with the motions, drawing attention because.. yes, Quintrell was quite smug with his petty theft.

[glamourie]

Not smart, came a lofty scolding from the underside of one of the nearby tables, close to the walkways around the main hall. Little clattering was the only sound that followed that pair of words; claws scraped against the surface of wood as the source of the speaking glided upside down to one of the winding table legs. A blur of glittering dark bronze with unmistakable red zigzags descended to the floor, unusually long tail twisting behind him on the ground – long and serpentine. It curled up against the salamandyr’s body as he scrambled across the floor to the person that he was addressing, and he zoomed up the back of the boy’s shirt with what could only be described as expertise; Showoff was very good at climbing. On the back of the candidate’s neck, he settled, flaring his frill before speaking again. Caught, caught. Not smart. Stupidling learn goodly. You give, you give. I show. To emphasize what he meant, Showoff turned and leapt over the boy’s shoulder and onto his wrist. Altogether, he was only a few inches long, but he glided with superior skill to most salamandyrs – there was a reason that he always caught Dael, and it wasn’t just because of his brilliance (though surely there was that, too). The salamandyr wrapped around the boy’s wrist and reached forward with one claw for the little pie in his hand. He recognized food, he did. Showoff had an internal food detector that went off whenever anyone nearby was eating.

Warning, warning, the little menace was out without a leash. Run for the hiiiills!

Actually, Showoff had been running around the main hall for the better part of the afternoon. With Baoth so young, K’lir was very insistent on babying her and the salamandyr finally flew into a jealous rage. He’d spat insults at both Baoth and K’lir (and was completely ignored – the dragon had no interest in fighting with him and K’lir knew better than to indulge his bad behavior) and then positively stormed out of the weyrling barracks. He’d eventually found his way to the main hall to sulk and the majority of his time was spent on table tops trying to be cute (see, see, look, he could do tricks – feed him). So far he’d gotten a single piece of meat and flung from the table top for his trouble, and he had no intentions of hunting down K’lir to get a proper meal. Then he had to deal with that icky flyer, and he would not abide. She was bad and he was sick of the bad ones.

Give yums. I show better. His frill, solid red, flared wide and he looked up at the boy with an expectant gaze – but the slight yellow hues were indication of his mistrust. It wasn’t personal, though. Showoff just didn’t trust anyone that wasn’t K’lir or Uu’n. He was okay with some others, but only Dael’s and His were worthy of him. Others did bad things, like hold him over the steaming place. He remembered that. And then there was the one who threw things at his babies. He remembered that, too. If this one tried anything, he’d bite his eyes out. And then take his pie, yes. Give yums now, please, stupidNotMine?

[rii]

Voice in his head. Quintrell froze mid-bite, brown eyes wide as he slowly scanned for possible sources. He still had to get use to that particular little quirk of the Weyr: voices in his head. The first time he had heard one Trel thought he had finally gone crazy. Not because of the fact of actually hearing a voice (because he talked to himself all the time, plenty of voices there), but that the voice didn't make a lick of sense to him. Babbling nonsensical things, and Quintrell thought he was bad at rambling nonsense. Later he learned it had not been a dragon he heard, because dragons never spoke back to him anyway. Apparently there were tiny lizards about that chatted up a storm if given the chance, and broadcast to everyone in the vicinity. So, guessing by the disjointed speech, and the distinct creepy-crawly feeling zipping up his spine, Trel made an overly-educated guess of exactly what draconic being spoke so boldly in his head.

"I beg your pardon," Quintrell cocked his head and grinned broadly at the bronze settling on his wrist. Kind of a cute little critter with it's vibrant red piping. He suddenly wanted to keep it in a jar. The pie was shifted into his free hand, moving the occupied wrist to eye level. "I did not get caught, little mister. They have NoOo idea they are missing a couple of pies right now. And when they do count them, all evidence will be gone." He gave a sagely nod and patted his stomach for emphasis. "You want one though, huh?"

At least it said please. Quintrell broke off a small piece of the pie and handed it politely to the perching mandyr. The thief had no qualms over sharing his plunders. It wasn't really his anyway. It was the act of taking that he enjoyed the most. For all he cared about the pies, they could be tossed out into river to feed the fish. "You are going to show me better? Better what?"

It was his turn to give a mistrusting peer at the lizard, although his was just a play. Really, what did he have to worry about from a tiny rambling lizard. In two big bites Quintrell finished off the first pie, then held up the second, waggling it in the air like a bargaining tool. "I don't need anymore food, so what is better, hm?"

[glamourie]

Pfft. He did get caught. Showoff saw the yummies splattered over the floor, the red and the blue ones, which meant that he was caught. If the NotHis stupidling didn’t realize that he saw that, that was just his problem though. Showoff clamped his body tighter around the boy’s wrist to avoid wavering, his tail twining more firmly to act as an anchor. His eyes flashed – not quite whirling as dragons and their kin did – but there was a definite color shift nonetheless. His frill flared quite wide, making his little head seem twice as large as it normally was, and he dug his claws into flesh to keep himself balanced. No moving. He didn’t expect to fall (he was a good climber, he was) but this one was moving far too much for his liking. His frill wavered, before finally snapping in. So they wouldn’t know the pies were gone, but they would know something was and the scary loud uglies with the sticks would come after him the next time he went into the kitchens. A true master did not get caught at all! Showoff could teach him. Yes, yes. He could show him how not to get caught at all, and then he’d be able to keep up his ruse indefinitely.

(Of course, Showoff was an arrogant creature; it hadn’t yet dawned on him that the drudges knew very well what a little thief he was, as did most of the Weyr, and they simply indulged his whims to keep from having to listen to his loud, insulting outbursts. The fact that he was only a few inches long, not counting his tail, also didn’t register in his mind as an advantage. He was just that good.)

The offered piece of pie made him uncurl the upper half of his body in order to delicately take the pastry from the boy’s fingers. His claws grasped it much the way a little human would and he grabbed the bit of food to poke it into his mouth. He had to chew, due to how positively tiny he was (no matter how small the bit he was offered happened to be, that would have been the case), and he managed to snarf down one – two – three bites before his head lifted to look back at his perch-slave (he’d decided that was what this one was – ‘perchslavehis’) inquisitively. His head cocked to the side, and he tightened his tail slightly before flaring one small, thin wing out to the side. The tip of his wing gave a slight twitch, and then it folded against his body once more. Salamandyrs typically didn’t have much use for their wings, save for gliding off of high branches or tables or people’s heads (and things they shouldn’t have been on in the first place) and mating Runs/flights. Showoff tended to use his to express his moods. He was currently quite interested.

Much better than yums, he replied defiantly, before stuffing the last bit of food into his mouth; the action distinctly resembled a terran squirrel, complete with cheek puffing. His body uncurled and he scampered up PerchSlaveHis’s arm at a speed that was definitely faster than most people would give salamandyrs credit for. He leapt from the boy’s elbow right to his shoulder, claws catching on fabric to even himself out, and then spun around to look up with his frill flaring again. You see. Much better than yums. Collector, I am. Catcher of Shinies. Showoff king, king me. Showoff. Treasure hunter. Which was really a nice way of saying that he was prone to stealing other people’s valuables but ‘treasure hunter’ sounded better and he learned the phrase from K’lir. That was what His called him and he liked it better than ‘thief.’ Me best. Good finding shinies. Daelmine proof. See, he always caught the only real salamandyr gold, which meant he was better at seizing shinies. Obviously. How could a human hope to compare?

The answer was: They couldn’t. Even if he was infinitely better at stealing than Showoff, Showoff would still be convinced he was superior, simply because he was a salamandyr, and no self-respecting salamandyr would ever acknowledge that they could possibly be inferior to a two-legged. It just didn’t happen. And Showoff was very much a typical salamandyr.

[rii]

The clamping of tiny claws into his wrist made Quintrell want to flail ever so much. Fling the little critter away while yelling 'get it off! get it off!'. If he hadn't already been attuned to the presence of such tiny lizards (they seemed attracted to his rings and earrings) the thief may have been worried at the constant frilling at him. Vibrant colors usually indicated poisonous; and the frililng, wasn't that suppose to work as intimidation? Be warned or I shall bite you! Quintrell wrinkled his nose at Showoff. If the bronze bit him, it was going to get a quick fling over the side of the platform.

A large bit was taken out of the second pie. "Ish thaph sho?" He arched an eyebrow at the curious critter now seated on his shoulder. A better spot, in his opinion. Now more clawing of his hands, Quintrell didn't like to get all scuff and scratched up without having a good reason. Like stumbling in the path of a pretty face in hopes of earning that sympathetic 'Oh are you alright!? You poor dear!' Yes, Quintrell smiled with the daydream, eyes growing distant as the play continued on in his mind's eye. She would apologize profusely then insist that she treat his trifle scratch. Yes, yes, he'd deny, 'it's just a scratch' but go anyway. She'd would take him to her room to get a bandage where he'd proceed to charm the panties off her.

Or, something like that.

Quintrell took another bite of his pie and began to kick his legs again. This time he swallowed before trying to speak. Kind enough to take a small piece off the pie and hand it to the Showoff King. "That is an impressive title. You must be the best catcher of shinies to have earned it." Could the little mandyrs be thieves? Their tiny demeanor certainly could help with getting around undetected, but what really could they steal–thimbels? coins? rings? Hmm. Quintrell lifted his free hand and purposely wiggled his fingers, catching the light against the numerous rings; thirteen on just that one hand. Some plain metallic bands while others adorned colorful stones or elaborate designs. Not a single one properly bought. Could always use another.

The rest of the pie was tossed out to fall down to the river. Quintrell quickly hopped up to his feet, glancing at his shoulder to make sure his little thieving friend had not been dislodged, then he set himself out on a path toward the bridging and stairs that would take him toward the weyrfolk apartments. "You show me. Yes. You find shinies, best shinies. I'll watch Showoff. Learn that he is king. He is best."

[glamourie]

Hmph. Bad dummy. Showoff took the offered treat anxiously and munched on it; given the opportunity, it was likely that the salamandyr would eat everything not nailed down. His stomach seemed to be bottomless. The truth was that he’d eventually pass out from eating so much, but… until then? He was going to scarf. Though, in his opinion, the pies were not that tasty of treats. He much preferred chunks of herdbeast marinated in sweet red wine – yes, Showoff was definitely spoiled. If he couldn’t have marinated, he still biased toward herdbeast meat over anything else. He could eat other things though. Fruit was decent enough to chew on. This One wasn’t His, so he couldn’t expect him to know what was favored. At least he was sharing. The dainty way that Showoff ate was almost polite – he nibbled, rather than snatched and shoved down his mouth, and he didn’t make a mess the way that his winged cousins did. Rather, he held the treat within his grasp, frill flared anxiously as he munched his treat. The way the weird one spoke sounded mocking, and he was tempted to insult him for his audacity. He was the King of the Salamandyrs, didn’t he know – they were all his babies (except that bad stupid FlyerChaser Imp – he was someone else’s).

Always catch Daelmine, Showoff insisted, looking up with dull hints of orange in his eyes. Always. Never anyone else. My Dael. Only real queen. Hepaticath, Millieth, Jingth, Brat, Ellie – they weren’t real queens. They were just fake ones trying to steal Dael’s glory, obviously, and he wouldn’t abide by that! See, you will. See. Best, Showoff is. Better’n Lust. Because yes, Lust was the pillar to be judged by. None of the other bronze salamandyrs were remotely worthy of Showoff’s acknowledgment. He didn’t consider them his competition because they were his offspring – and he didn’t really believe any of them to be a “threat” to him. Though he’d deny it, Lust was the only male that qualified and only because Lust hatched from the same clutch as him. Never underestimate the arrogance of bronzes. Especially not ones like Showoff who thought they ruled all of Pern.

After finishing munching down his snack, Showoff gave his perch a curious look. He bounced down the boy’s arm and hit the floor, claws clattering, and looked back at the boy.

Learn.

Without waiting for a response, Showoff bolted back toward the kitchens, darting in and out of people’s legs. Several times, he narrowly avoided being stepped on. He slipped along the kitchen floor, up the cabinets and onto the counter. His gaze fell on a particularly small sauce pan and as the drudges moved about working, he ran forward, launching himself onto the handle. His full weight hit it, effectively knocking the pan flying into the air and the sauce splattering all over the counter and the floor. Showoff leapt off the handle in the process, smacking onto the nearby counters before scurrying up the wall and into a crevice as the drudges turned around to see what the source of the clattering was. He waited until all of them were distracted cleaning up the mess and bolted across the tops of the cabinets, then onto the counter again before snatching a sufficiently large chunk of meat intended for a stew.

Showoff clasped his prize in his mouth and bolted out of the kitchens, running along the edge of the wall this time to avoid drawing attention to himself. He quickly turned the corner and came to an abrupt stop at Quintrell’s feet, holding the meat in his mouth still before chittering in his throat.

Spoon dummies not know, he proclaimed, perhaps with a touch of arrogance. He was getting very good at distracting the drudges from his mischief and odds were, they had no idea that Showoff was there… but his prize was about as small as he was and it wouldn’t have made a difference either way. Not that he cared about that. He got what he wanted. See why better? See why? See where error?

[rii]

The little thing had gone back toward the kitchens? Silly thing. Quintrell waited, crossing one arm over his chest, the other arm bent upward so he could fiddle with his earrings. His foot tapped, impatient, always impatient. He didn't care to actually go and watch the salamandyr.. do whatever it was doing. The thing was small, trying to observe it's movements would just be.. annoying. Like studying how a runnerfly buzzed around the stables. Quintrell grinned oddly at the image, then began to spin in a slow circle, head tilted back in mimicry of watching a said fly.

Ah, Showoff was back, Quintrell kick out his foot, doing a quick spin around before hunkered down to peer at the bronze. A hand rose and began to rub at his chin, a very overly thoughtful and appraising expression etched on his features. In the back of his mind he snickered. Spoon dummies. He'd have to remember that one.

"I thought you were a collector of shinies? That's food.. not very shiney.. So no, I don't see why you are better.. " He frowned at the creature, so utterly baffled by how food was better than shinies. "That's not much better than the yums I got.." A sad shake of his head, a sigh of disappointment and then Quintrell rising to turn sharply on heel. He torqued his body around to waggle his fingers purposely at the little bronze, a wave goodbye, or mocking him, who really knew. Quintrell was far too up-beat for anyone to really decipher what he truly felt. "I'm going to go do some real treasure hunting. Spoon dummies aren't much of a challenge."

Bounce in his step, Quintrell began to hum merrily while heading toward the bridge that would take him toward the barracks. He'd go check out the girl's level. They usually had jewelry.