Disarm [Open]

S'cer scowled as he dragged his hand over the back of his neck and it once again came away dripping with sweat. Oh, what he wouldn't give for snow! It didn't even have to be snow, but temperatures that were cool--Katila never got cool, only slightly more tolerable, as the seasons changed. The humidity made him feel consistently damp all over, and though S'cer was no stranger to the feeling, that didn't mean he had to like it.

He had finished oiling Quelseth for the night and left her to sleep in her hollow on the roof of the weyrling barracks, and had decided that a little bathing was on his agenda as well. S'cer wasn't fond of going to sleep filthy (something that Quelseth found amusing) and the familiar heat of the Bathing Houses was the only heat he found acceptable. Smothering a sigh, he found the nearest unoccupied room and began to shuck his clothing, leaving the dirty in a haphazard pile and setting the clean on one of the seats that lined the room.

The heat of the water made S'cer swear under his breath, a mottled flush creeping up his neck and down his chest. When had he last had the chance for a good, proper soak? His days were filled with feeding, bathing, and oiling plus the addition of Quelseth's ability to catch just about any minor sickness in Katila did not help with stress. Stressed did not begin to describe the worry he felt when he heard his green had a lung infection, a rattling cough, or any other minor ailment--S'cer was still afraid she would between, though Quelseth herself chose to try to focus on the bright side of things rather than wallow in fear.

She was so happy to be learning new things, and S'cer couldn't begrudge her that. Quelseth just wanted so much to be normal even if they both knew she would probably never achieve that, and S'cer just went along with her half the time. But now wasn't the time for fretting; S'cer folded his legs and dipped his head under the water, slicking it back with one hand before beginning to scrub it with brutal efficiency.

Ghalath came down with a harsh backwing; her shorter wings always made landing... inelegant. But it didn't bother Z'jan in the least. Before her wings had even stopped beating he was on the ground. Still damp from the lake, Ghalath's forcefull landing now had him dusted like the top of a pastry cake. He shielded his eyes from the worst of it, as Ghalath settled into her terrestrial orientation. When it was all over, any sign that either of them had been bathing was hidden under a layer of silt.

"Why'd you land here, in the bare spot? There's a grassy bit just over there." Despite his nearly two turns as a weyrling, Z'jan had never adapted to speaking with Ghalath inside his head. Instead he walked around the weyr like a crazy person, seemingly babbling to himself. Ghalath looked down at him, though it wasn't particularly far down since she wasn't particularly tall. [ghalath] I was aiming for the grassy bit.[/ghalath]

While her failure was admitted, there was no lack of imperiousness in her voice. Z'jan just chuckled. Why? Because it was funny. Ghalath didn't find it funny. But she wasn't mad. And he wasn't mad ether. Why would he be? So all was good. "Well, you're a mess now, but hey, it's your hollow." [ghalath] you're worse [/ghalath]

Was he? Z'jan looked down. His clothes, as per the usual, hadn't been particularly clean when he began the day. The lake had helped, somewhat. Though it had also left him somewhat... lakey. But now, with the icing of a backwinged-dirt shower, he didn't really have a card to play against Ghalath's hand. "Yeah, well, the bed sheets need washing anyway." Ghalath snorted a sigh. [ghalath] you did laundry yesterday[/ghalath]

Z'jan had already headed in the direction of his hut when he stopped dead. Had he? He looked at Ghalath, lifting an eye. "No... I didn't? I never do laundry." Ghalath merely scratched her face against a foreleg. Said nothing. Z'jan frowned."Shit... why did I do that?" rubbed grit from his eye "Fuuck. Fine."

And that was the end of the discussion: Z'jan headed for the bathing house. Ghalath remained seated in the dirt, watched him for about twenty paces. [ghalath] take clothes [/ghalath]
I'm wearing clothes.
Ghalath snorted, but Z'jan was out of earshot, and his mind was elsewhere, already submerged in the hot water of the bath.

[ghalath]always with the water...[/ghalath] she spoke more to herself than her oblivious bonded. Ghalath grunted from a sitting to a standing position, and with a painful launch, took off towards her hollow. He'd sort himself out. One of these days.

~~

The Bathing House was quiet. It was pretty late, after all. Late for a bath at least. Z'jan frowned as he was pelted by the humid air. Though his frown wasn't because of the humidity, but from the apparent lack of activity inside the bathing house. This place was dead. Was there anyone here?

He casually pushed opened the first few doors he came to: empty. Empty. Empty. Empty

When he was beginning to think all of pern must be snuggled up in bed, he swung open the next door to confront a young man scrubbing his hair senseless. A wave of contentment swept through Z'jan. Cool, he wasn't alone. Alone sucked.

"Oh, awesome," Z'jan blurted with a smile and no reservations, "glad someone's here." Before prying the sweaty, damp, dirty shirt off his back and dropping it in a pile near his feet. Didn't even bother with the benches. Benches, please. The pants came next, but halfway out of those, a thought occurred to Z'jan:

"Hey, man, have we met?"

S'cer didn't startle, exactly, as the door to his bathing room was pushed in; he tensed, visible in the ramrod straight posture as he straightened up to his full height, pausing to wipe errant suds as they slipped down his forehead with the inside of his wrist. But when he saw that it wasn't a woman, the tenseness abated--S'cer was hardly a prude, and had been brought up with brothers and then with all the boys in the Farmcrafthall. Whatever modesty he had possessed had died long ago, and he was just about to rinse the suds out of his hair when the new arrival spoke.

S'cer was still uncomfortable with all the new interactions; his fellow clutchmates were one thing, but it seemed that once you Impressed people decided to chat more often. He, being used to the many Turns of simply ducking out of conversations with dragonriders, wasn't sure what to even think anymore, let alone say. He would likely never get over his being Stolen, but his resentment would have to take a back seat for the forseeable future--for Quelseth's sake, but also his own.

But the face looked familiar, though S'cer couldn't put a name to it. Not a Farmcrafter, else it would have come immediately, and he frowned. "No," he replied after a long moment, tone clipped. "Although you look familiar." S'cer couldn't help the distinctly wary look he shot the rider; the sheer amount of dirt that had been tracked in pointed to a trouble-maker, for who could get that dirty in a day unless they went looking for trouble? At any rate, it would take a lot of soap sand to get rid of all that dirt, and S'cer was of a mind to hurry up so the water he washed in wouldn't be so filthy.

"I'm S'cer, formerly Isscer. I Impressed Quelseth at the last Hatching, but I used to be a Farmcrafter." Used to be, he thought bitterly, and that still hurt--his dreams dashed, but replaced with a tiny green dragon who loved him with every fiber of her being. And Faranth help him, but he loved her too; it was enough,it had to be, and S'cer reminded himself of that every time he doubted her choice in him as a rider.

He sloshed over towards the side of the bath, wet fingers curling around the bag of soap sand. Scooping out a generous handful and setting it aside for himself, S'cer drew closer, dropping the bag on the side of the bath so it was situated closer to Z'jan. "You'll be needing this, I reckon." And from his closer vantage point, S'cer frowned, eyes narrowing. "You look familiar. You're not in the Weyrling Barracks, are you?" There were so many of them that it was hard to keep names straight, plus all the older weyrlings were scattered in huts.

S'cer knew he didn't have a chance of remembering a name, so he waited patiently for an answer, eventually giving up on standing still. The suds were beginning to make his head itch, and he scowled. S'cer made his way back over to his pile of soap sand, bending slightly at the waist to rinse the suds out of his hair, occasionally shooting Z'jan curious looks every now and again.

Z'jan took in S'cer's tense posture, upright appearance and... didn't think anything of it. Did it mean something? He didn't know. Didn't care, really, in a 'if it's important surely I'd know' sort of way. And he didn't know. So it must not be. This is the point where Ghalath would be frowning at him.

He listened to S'cer's credentials while pulling his other leg out of his pants. Not much left after that. And it all fell in a heap on the floor by his dirty shirt. Underneath the clothes, however, he wasn't nearly as dirty as his exterior implied. Though where the dust had made contact with his wet skin, he now had something of a faux-farmer's tan. About as close to farmcraft as he'd ever get.

"Cool, man." Z'jan slid into the water, mouthing 'Yow, Owo, ow," several times but otherwise remaining silent.  Since Ghalath wasn't there to prod him into appropriate conversation etiquette, he had to remember on his own. There was a long pause.

"Oh, I'm Z'jan. Green Ghalath."

He dunked himself at that point, rising shortly thereafter and knuckling the hair out of his face. "Definitely--" reaching for the soap sand.  He smeared some into his hair and around his neck, beginning there and working his way down... unabashedly.

"So you're a snatch and grab too, huh? Fun times." Z'jan snorted, but it was more of a 'roll your eyes' snort than a 'I have real beef with this' snort. If snorts came in varieties, that is. 

Oops... Z'jan should be in a hut, not the weyrling barracks... still learning. Uh. I'm editing the first post, so just pretend I'm not a complete idiot. Kthanks :P

S'cer flicked his clean hair out of his eyes, combing through it with callused fingers. His expression didn't waver from warily curious, mouth set into a thin line as he committed the name to memory. As he had time to actually think about it, it came to him--a weyrling, though they had to be getting close to graduation, from T'lian's clutch. Of course, S'cer had been in the habit of previously writing off Impressed weyrlings as gone forever--now that he was one, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he now had to interact with the Weyr at large.

S'cer had just returned to his task of getting clean, scrubbing down with the same single-minded efficiency that characterized his work as a crafter, when Z'jan's seemingly off-hand comment made him stop. The neutral expression shifted, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows, the tightness in his jaw as it clenched and unclenched speaking to his discomfort. "Excuse me?" He snapped, tone frosty, fixing Z'jan with a glare. It wasn't appropriate to make fun of their plight, and S'cer tended to look down on those who assimilated into Katilan culture--he was still very much the same man he had been, but now with the addition of a dragon.

"I was Stolen, yes. Six Turns ago." And this was why he didn't speak to people! S'cer suppressed the urge to sigh, and returned to scrubbing himself clean, anger resulting in a scrubbing that was brutal, pale skin going pink. His face was flushed, high spots of color dotting his cheekbones, annoyance writ clear in his expression. "I suppose you're Katilan now, as opposed to Telgarian or Istan, hm?" S'cer wasn't typically the sort to needle others, but he was frustrated and Z'jan was just there, having said the wrong thing at the wrong time. It was a good enough excuse for the time being, though S'cer would probably regret lashing out later. "I don't know how you can do it, just rolling over and taking it." S'cer shook his head, scowling at Z'jan in disapproval before beginning to scour himself clean.

Z'jan was nearly to the point of scrubbing his intimates, when S'cer turned cold. Z'jan halted, raising his gaze in utter bewilderment. What just happened? Z'jan fixed his eyes on S'cer, trying to figure out what'd just triggered that reaction. Ghalath would know he thought to himself. But his green was too far away to provide him any useful coaching or commentary. Z'jan would just have to figure it out on his own. Not exactly his strong suit.

He'd stopped washing himself at this point, and had straightened, still staring unapologetically at S'cer. The other man was scrubbing his flesh to the bone. Z'jan cringed, his face an open book. "Take it easy, man." While the statement was technically ambiguous, it was obviously directed at the jr. weyrling's washing technique. "If I scrubbed Ghalath that hard she'd be as pale as Pistoth. And she'd probably bite me."

But while S'cer's verbal snarl had surprised him, it hadn't really offended him. Why would it? "I'm not sure I'm Katilan, or Telgarian or whatever. Aren't we all our own thing, when it comes down to it?" he began sudsing again, though more slowly. His own anger only rose incrementally when S'cer accused him of rolling over and taking it. "That's pretty bold. I mean, you don't know a damn thing about me." But his tone was matter-of-fact.

Then, as though the whole thing had been a big joke, Z'jan sidled over the nudged S'cer's shoulder conspiratorially with his elbow. "Besides, we're goddamn greenies, man. Rolling over and taking? It's kinda our MO." He smirked, with a 'what can you do?' raise of the brows. Like the fish with the five second memory, Z'jan went back to washing himself as though tension hadn't passed between him at all.

Had it?

The look S'cer shot Z'jan was nothing short of scathing; he didn't mind criticism provided it was actually useful, and if it had been about soil condition or even about how to find a way to ease Quelseth's infernal itching he might have taken it better. As it was, he huffed a dry laugh, mouth thinning as he pressed his lips together, biting back what he wanted to say.

But at the comment about everyone being their own thing, S'cer couldn't help himself. He shook his head, and very nearly asked Z'jan if he was crack-brained or otherwise just plain stupid. Everyone came from somewhere, didn't they? Else what was the purpose of families, even, as a way of identifying oneself? Thankfully S'cer managed to keep that thought to himself, simply because he didn't see the point in dithering over something so silly.

His eyebrows hiked up to nearly meet his hairline, a rosy blush beginning to spread up his neck and over his face as well as down his chest. For a brief moment S'cer gaped at Z'jan, surprised that someone would be so blunt (other than A'liran, but that was only because S'cer expected it of him). And then he laughed, though it sounded strangled to his own ears, embarrassed in part by Z'jan's frankness and partially because he was right. He hadn't ever considered that side of what Impressing green meant, and it was still somewhat scandalous though he'd had Turns to acclimate to the idea.

"I suppose you're right," he admitted after he managed to close his mouth, shooting Z'jan a small, tentative smile. S'cer had to count his lucky stars that Z'jan was not a bronzerider, or really anything other than a greenrider; he highly doubted anyone else would be so quick to let him get away with such churlish behavior. "I, uh, apologize for that," S'cer began after a long moment, taking the time to catch Z'jan's eye--something he typically avoided, for eye contact meant investment in a conversation. "It's a touchy subject still, even after six Turns."

Embarrassed by his own behavior and feeling like he had to make it up to Z'jan somehow, S'cer shot an appraising look at his fellow weyrling. Slightly shorter, though no less thin, Z'jan appeared to have the good fortune to tan instead of burn--something that S'cer envied, being cursed with too many freckles and too pale of skin. "I think you missed a spot," he pointed out matter-of-factly, trying to be helpful now that he was being mindful of playing nice, and moved closer. "Right here." Two fingers were tapped between Z'jan's shoulder blades, drawing back after a moment. "Shall I?"

Z'jan shrugged all of S'cer unsaid commentary. He could tell the fellow weyrling was holding back, but no idea to what extent, or if it was even relevant to Z'jan. Maybe he was thinking about someone else entirely. How was Z'jan to know?

"You know, I'm probably not right, to be honest," he said with a smile, rinsing soap from his torso. "I don't worry to much with right. Doing right, being right... who really cares? As long as I'm happy, and Ghalath's happy, well,--" he hesitated, finding himself in an awkward vocabunundrum "then everything's alright."He recovered quickly, however. And by recovered, he simply forgot he'd been awkwardly stuck a moment before. As was his style.

"And man, what're you apologizing for? Do whatever you want. Think whatever you want. You're probably right either way. And if you're not? Fuck it. Fuck em." he shrugged and grinned. He held S'cer's gaze willingly, but had no knowledge of its significance. Z'jan made eye contact all the time. Technically, it was the best way to look at people.

At S'cer's appraisal, Z'jan peered down at himself. He was waist deep in water, but he seemed clean enough. At first he thought S'cer was referring to the small scratches that marked his chest and arms. "Oh, yeah, fucking thorn trees--" he'd already started to answer, when instead S'cer shifted, pointed. Oh. His back. Z'jan twisted, gazing quizzically at place that was obviously not gazeable. At S'cer's offer, Z'jan was more than willing.

"Knock yourself out!" He turned his back to S'cer with full trust and absolute comfort in his skin. "When Ghalath was growing insanely fast, her hide cracking like dried wherry, I swear my arms were so tired I dreamt of someone taking me out and washing and oiling me for a change!" He concluded with a laugh... and utter obliviousness to how suggestive he'd just sounded.

It did not occur to him that he was being suggestive; practicality had always ever been S'cer's aim in life, and even that had extended to his relationships. Not that he was particularly good at those either--one brief, secret relationship with a fellow Apprentice Farmcrafter that ended when they gained their Journeyman's knots wasn't a lot of experience. He scooped up a handful of sweetsand, pausing to survey the damage the thorn tree had done. Fardling crackbrain! Who jumps into thorn trees for fun?

It with with a slightly gentler hand that he began to scrub down the middle of Z'jan's back, from shoulder blad to nearly his lower back, cleaning the streak of dirt that had probably worked its way down the collar of Z'jan's shirt. Still, S'cer snorted at the remark, a wry grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "Oh really now? And no one was willing to oblige? I find that hard to believe." At the Weyr there seemed to always be a plethora of romantic entanglements, and among weyrlings and Candidates there were even more.

"At least now, so close to Graduation, you can take anyone you want to bed." S'cer dropped his hand, sure that he had scrubbed away all of the dirt, tone matter-of-fact. "That must be nice, I suppose." He hadn't thought about it, hadn't particularly cared one way or the other; there was always something else to occupy S'cer's time--chores, bathing, oiling--and Quelseth was more than enough excitement in his life.