Riddle Me This [C'vir]

"How far can a firelizard fly into the woods?" repeated M'din softly. He cracked his knuckles noisily, brow furrowed in thought. He sat cross-legged in the shade of his hut, thick body propped against Armath's hind leg. The brown's torso lazily splayed out into the bright spring sunshine. M'din could practically feel his dragon's upper lip curl into a smirk as he struggled with the riddle.

Go ahead and guess.

A cool gust of wind tore through the pages of M'din's book. He shut it quickly, unconcerned with the lack of a bookmark, as he never forgot his page number. "There's always a trick to these, but I can never get it," chuckled M'din. He strummed his fingers along the spine of his novel, not ready to admit defeat at the hands of another one of Armath's riddles. Pursing his lips, he said, "I don't think this is right, but... all the way through the woods?" He awkwardly grinned, beard rustling in the wind, painfully aware of his shoddy record in contests of intellect.

Armath flopped sideways to peer at his rider. What the hell sort of riddle would that be? I waited half the day for that piss-poor answer? I think not. Try again. He rolled back towards his hollow, wings blocking his head from the disgraceful riddler known as M'din.

With a sigh, M'din surveyed the sea of huts around him, hoping to find inspiration in the simple wooden structures. He had known Armath for 21 turns and, while his patience would wear thin in most areas, he could wait an eternity to see M'din solve a riddle. His dragon sometimes overestimated his cunning, in his opinion. Armath breathed deeply, seemingly asleep, half of his body still jutting out into the walkways. M'din tilted his head, brain finally operating at a speed faster than a crawl.

"Halfway," he said. He slicked back some strands of errant hair. "A fire lizard can go, um, halfway into the woods and halfway out of the woods?"

Armath abruptly turned about, projecting, Congratulations are in order, everyone. He solved a riddle meant for turnip-headed infants. Behold, the Riddle King resplendent. M'din laughed, swatting at him with his book.

Passersby ignored the dragon's announcement, as per usual, in favor of their chores. It was a fairly regular occurrence to hear Armath's dripping sarcasm from afar, and certainly didn't warrant slowing the rhythm of washing clothes or daily sweeping.

"That one didn't take me as long as they normally do," M'din muttered with a sheepish grin. You'd think I'd improve after all these years.

Armath shrugged lazily, You're just upset everyone knows you're the Riddle King now. They'll be challenging you left and right for the throne, I'm sure.

The morning had been a quiet one, free of both major duties and -- mercifully -- any outlandish requests from Besulth. C'vir had taken the available early hours as an opportunity to clean his hut, in which the chaos of clutter had reigned for the past sevenday. His rooms were never dirty in the way some Katilan's rooms were dirty, but for a man disturbed by anything remotely out of place, even the most moderate accumulation of clutter was cause for concern. He'd been uncharacteristically testy of late, blaming his short temper on the articles of clothing that littered his floor and the faint trace of dust on the furniture. The candlemarks he spent sweeping and folding finally cleansed his mind as well as his quarters, returning his emotions to their appropriate interior compartments and levels. When he had finished, the bulk of his irritability had been brushed away along with the dirt. Feeling balanced and a bit hungry, he tidied up his appearance and set off for the dining hall, choosing a meandering, indirect route through the huts.

Despite the relative ease and speed of navigating the sprawl of Katila aboard Besulth, C'vir routinely opted to walk instead. The busier he kept his body, the less trouble he got from his mind. As a pedestrian, the brownrider was far more aware of what was happening around him than the path in front of him. He'd turn to nod to a rider stepping out into the sunlight, or survey a particularly well-made hut approvingly. He trusted his legs to keep him going in the appropriate direction and his reflexes to keep him from bumping into anything while his eyes were otherwise occupied.

Armath's abrupt announcement was solely responsible for saving him from colliding with the parts of the brown's body that lay in his path. He jerked to stop, halted by both the intrusion of the unfamiliar draconic voice into his mind and the protrusion of an unfamiliar draconic body into his way. He corrected his route, edging around Armath with a faint frown of displeasure. Before continuing along, he took a peek at the rider sheltering himself in the shade of the adjoining hut, less out of curiosity than commiseration: he, too, was bonded to a brown with a penchant for being a pain in the ass. C'vir noted with an upward twitch of his eyebrow that the "Riddle King" was anything but resplendent. He was a bit plain, and a bit hairy, but at least he wasn't a greenrider.

C'vir cleared his throat. "I hate to interrupt the war of the wits, but your dragon is blocking a sizable portion of the road. I'll attribute the fact that you haven't noticed to the amount of concentration that solving riddles evidently demands." Perhaps cleaning hadn't completely soothed his surliness after all.

M'din started at the disgruntled voice emanating from Armath's stomach. It wasn't until his fellow rider stepped around the flying lump of a beast that M'din could place a name to the speech: C'vir of Brown Besulth. He'd heard some of the female greenriders and more of the males, for that matter, discussing the handsome blue-eyed, curly haired man before him. Dusting himself off, M'din stood with his book in tow, completely unfazed by the man's borderline rude tone. "It's never a battle of wits when I'm playing," he grinned, hoping to soften C'vir's displeased visage. The younger rider reminded him of his sister for a reason he couldn't place, probably the pretty face marred permanently with a scowl. 

"I'm M'din," he said. He stepped forward with an extended hand. 

And I'm Armath. He tapped a sharp claw daintily on the ground in his hollow. This land is my land. With a less-than-graceful flop, he slumped heavily into the pathway at C'vir's feet, a single blue eye rolling up to stare at him. This land is also my land.

"You'll have to forgive him," said M'din quickly. "Now that he knows you're bothered by his presence, he's never going to leave you alone." Armath huffed disdainfully and slouched out of the road, relocating as if he'd never been prompted. 

I move of my own volition, he projected haughtily. 

Although his hut was untidy--clothes lying on the floor and bed unmade--it was cleaner than usual, and M'din thought it only proper to invite C'vir inside. "Would you like to come in? I'm sure you'd be a better match for Armath's riddles than I am, or you could borrow my books if you'd like."

He found himself hoping C'vir would spend a bit more time with him, if only to explore the similarities between the young rider and M'din's older sister, Khindra. She had been a strong and charming woman, determined to do something great with her life without sacrificing her dignity. It had been ten years since she died, and still M'din sharply missed her intelligence, advice, and steadfast friendship. Even when he was a weakling child, Khindra had always been good to him, and merciful when others were not. He felt a painful sense of déjà vu looking at the irked rider.

This man is not Khindra, M'din, said Armath privately. His voice gentled in warning.     

No, he isn't. But I like him. Maybe he'll play at riddles with you like she did, M'din suggested. Armath brightened considerably at the possibility. He addressed C'vir impishly, Bring Besulth if you stay. I hear he's fun. 

The downturned corners of C'vir's mouth twitched rebelliously at M'din's admission, leaving the brownrider's scowl tempered by his efforts not to appear unduly amused. He shook the proffered hand without enthusiasm and offered a terse introduction -- "C'vir." -- before dropping his chin at an angle to fix both of his muddled blue eyes on the dragon's single one. He sighed, unamused. "Wonderful," he muttered dryly. "As if I need another brown bent on tormenting me."  He paused to watch Armath withdraw to the appropriate confines of his appointed hollow,  blinking impassively at the dragon's public assertion of independence. In a battle of the most purposefully infuriating, he thought, the brown would give Besulth a run for his money. Difficulties of personality notwithstanding, the dragon had moved out of the way, and C'vir's personal duty to civic safety was done. He turned back to M'din with the intention of bidding him a good afternoon and continuing on to the dining hall, a plan thwarted by the offering of an unexpected invitation.

"Come in?" he repeated, mildly incredulous. The only two things that interested him even less than becoming an impromptu houseguest were M'din's books and Armath's riddles, but his fondness for simplicity stopped him from refusing outright. There was, in the other brownrider, something completely guileless: an eager and earnest affability reminiscent of the companion canines C'vir had encountered. He inwardly cursed himself, incapable of rejecting the rare opportunity for genuinely easy companionship he believed a candlemark or two with M'din would offer. The man was disarmingly nonthreatening on every conceivable level, and while he was already somewhat convinced he would soon regret his decision to be sociable, C'vir accepted the invitation with a nod. "May as well," he muttered, skeptical of the quality of his own judgment. It had been an off morning.

Sardonically, and without so much as a backward glance, he replied to Armath. Call him yourself. You clearly enjoy making noise. Both browns presumably taken care of, C'vir swept his arm toward the hut in a gesture of mock gentility, a motion intended to free M'din to lead the way.

Snappishly, Armath rejoined, Noise-making is an art. With a sassy turn, he loudly projected, Besuuuuuuuulth, my almond princeling, where are you? I long for your luscious company, your dulcet tones, your enormous girth. Sagging melodramatically in his hollow, Armath awaited the arrival of his fellow brown with an air of desperate sorrow. He peeped at the riders waggishly.

You're terrible, sighed M'din, questioning how a dragon as large as Besulth would take to being called an "almond princeling". He had never been formally introduced to C'vir or Besulth before today, but it was perfectly characteristic for Armath to summon the younger dragon as if they'd hatched from the same clutch. Hopefully, if only for Armath's near-term success, Besulth wouldn't be as obdurate as many of the other browns.

M'din smiled as C'vir gestured to his hut's door. "Oh, thank you! Come on in." He apologized, "It's not very clean right now, but I can shuffle some clothes around and find you a seat." The bearded man gathered the abandoned clumps of brightly colored fabric into his arms, shoving them haphazardly from his main room into a corner beside his bed. He dragged a second wooden chair across the floor to C'vir as he said, "Normally, my children like to help me clean up because we make it a race. Or sometimes, if we're lucky, we can fit all six of us inside at once to read stories, but Armath get jealous and shoves his head in the door."

It's chaperoning, not jealousy, Armath muttered to C'vir.

The young man looked decidedly uncomfortable with his surroundings, perhaps defaulting to aloofness in a foreign situation. Again recalling images of his older sister, M'din wondered if C'vir had the same cleanliness tic that Khindra did. She could scold his untidiness for days if the mood suited her, and had largely been responsible for instituting the clean-up-daddy's-hut parties with his progeny. He smoothed down his rumpled clothing self-consciously.

"Feel free to look at the bookshelves if you want," said M'din, clearing his throat. He grabbed a fuzzy flitt doll from beneath the table, ragged from turns of being carried by his daughters, and propped it up happily next to a jug of water. The stuffed green flitt smiled back at him, tail wrapped around the base of the pitcher. "I have lots of books," he added proudly, "Thirty-two of them, actually, but two are loaned out right now." M'din never lost count of his books; they were too precious of a commodity at Katila to be careless, and his tiny library was his most prized possession.

He sat heavily in the creaking chair, brushing back his bangs. C'vir's piercing blue eyes stared at him from above sharp cheekbones, and M'din swiftly decided that the younger rider was likely starving to death. "I also have some food in the kitchen if you're hungry. My son- well, my oldest son," M'din clarified before ticking off his thick fingers, "made some sweetcakes, a berry mix, a baked meat casser--"

Oh joy, joy, joy unspeakable, Armath cried, cutting off M'din's laundry list of brunch options. My savior has arrived.     

Besulth has been (vaguely) powerplayed with permission from Katy.

C'vir, arriving at the conclusion that a roll of his eyes would only further incite the antics of incorrigible Armath, once again blinked stonily at the dragon's clamor. Don't let him encourage you, he preemptively warned Besulth, sensing his dragon's amusement. He referred to me as an "almond princeling" and you ask me not to be encouraged? You act as if you don't know me at all. The rider exhaled audibly, rapidly losing any hopes he may have held for a peaceful lunch. Two intractable browns and a gregarious bear-man did not a relaxing mealtime make.

Reservations, he followed M'din, eager to get inside before Besulth arrived. He couldn't will himself into being deaf to the dragons -- especially not with Armath consistently attempting to "speak" to everyone within a kilometer radius --, but he could escape being forced to look at the smug brown bastards. Unfortunately, when it came M'din's hut, it was out of the frying pan and into the fire. Confronted with the clutter, his eyes widened and he unconsciously rocked back a step. He watched, silently, as the other brownrider hastily gathered handfulls of alarmingly hued clothing, balling them together to shove into a corner at which C'vir would be compelled to glance distastefully at sporadic intervals for the remainder of his stay.  He took the chair M'din supplied, drawing it gingerly towards him with two fingers for closer inspection. He brushed off the seat, hoping not to come into contact with any crumbs, and sat quickly, placing his folded hands in his lap. Occupied with an anguished appraisal of his surroundings, M'din's words registered only following Armath's aside. Something about -- Faranth forbid -- a large brood of children that the brownrider habitually used for labor.

C'vir's finger's tightened as his companion ducked to retrieve a faded fabric firelizard and set it on the table. On the table. The table meant for food. He swallowed forcefully, smiling wanly as M'din babbled on about books. He appeasingly shifted his gaze to the shelf, making no attempt to move closer. He could see everything he needed to see from his seated position. "Thirty-two," he repeated in a tone he thought may narrowly pass for interest. M'din hadn't struck him as a reader.

The other brownrider finally sat, seemingly satisfied with the slapdash job he'd done of tidying up the still-sloppy environs. C'vir's eyes flickered to the clothes-corner, then back to M'din, who was rattling off a rather elaborate list of edibles. While he was hungry -- he'd been on his way to the dining hall before being delayed by a draconic roadblock -- he wasn't confident enough to entrust his stomach with anything that had was on hand in the disorder of M'din's hut. He had started emphatically shaking his head when Besulth landed, heralded (unsurprisingly) by the waiting Armath. Block the path and I'll use your hide for a wall-hanging, C'vir threatened, earning the mental equivalent of a chuckle from the unphased brown. It'd be far better looking than the one you've got up now, he quipped, obligingly ambling towards Armath's hollow. Make room for my "enormous girth," handsome, he purred to the other brown. 

C'vir released a disgruntled sigh, no longer capable -- if he'd ever been to start with -- of concealing his discomfort. "Thank you, but no thank you, on all counts," he managed, holding up a hand to keep the man from picking up where he'd left off. "I'm afraid I'm not much of a reader, and I'm sure there will plenty left for me to pick through when I get to the dining hall. I'd hate to eat all of the... lovely things your son has prepared." M'din was clearly quite the family man, and thus a bit of an oddity to C'vir. His own siblings had been short-lived or shipped off, and if he had any progeny, he prayed he'd never be made aware of them. "It is quite a collection you've got," he continued uncertainly, nodding toward the bookshelf. As much as it pained him, he couldn't completely reject the man's avid attempts at hospitality.

I thought about our discussion on anachronism yesterday when I wrote "out of the frying pan...." but decided that the Pernese prob have frying pans and definitely have fires, so it doesn't count. :P Also, almost 700 words. Don't know how that happened, haha

C'vir watched M'din's bulky form disappear into the kitchen, and, finding himself alone, gazed longingly at the hut's front door. If he moved quickly enough, he could get out before the other brownrider returned, escaping the grime and the specials of the day. Besulth could say he'd been called aware on urgent business... or something. C'vir no longer particularly cared. You'd ask me to disappoint our lovely new friend? I wouldn't dream of it. It'd break his little heart. The brownrider rolled his eyes, sinking despondently into his chair as M'din returned, eliminating his small window of opportunity. His "little heart" has plenty of padding.

To his renewed dismay, the man came bearing what appeared to be the entirety of a cooked herdbeast. Despite C'vir's fervent hopes that the spread was the other rider's morning snack, the platter was placed directly in front of him -- not M'din -- on the table. He eyed it uneasily, not the slightest bit interested in chancing his good health on the consumption of a hunk of congealed meat that had been exposed to who-knew-what for who-knew-how-long. The food was further devalued by the fact that it was sharing the table with a dirty flit doll. He smiled tightly, trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste as he nudged the plate away from him. "Thank you, for the... refreshments, but as I said, I'm not particularly hungry." He took a sip of the water, but not before surreptitiously inspecting the liquid for any floating food particles. He had to assume that M'din's dishes were only as clean as the rest of his home, and thus highly suspect. The water itself was palatable enough; he raised his glass briefly in M'din's direction to indicate his (admittedly limited gratitude), then set the beverage back on the table before him.

Alarmingly, M'din did not remain seated for long. The rider shuffled off into the corner where he'd earlier shoved a mass of soiled clothing and proceeded to dig around in the lump of garish garments. C'vir, for approximately the seventh time in his short encounter with M'din, almost groaned. What the hell is he doing now? You should have let me escape when I had the chance. Besulth, ignoring his rider, chortled mentally at Armath instead. That's not going to go over well. He's already tried to bolt once.

C'vir had started to feel as though he were in the midst of a bad dream, a nightmare in which an overly solicitous man with a distressing amount of body hair tried in numerous unconventional ways to kill him. Disease-ridden living quarters, contaminated foodstuffs, and now, floral tunics distressing enough to potentially trigger seizures. His eyes bulged when M'din deposited the shirt -- bedraggled from the squalor of the surroundings and bedecked with woven golden daisies -- directly into his unprotected lap. He stared, perturbed, at the rumpled wad, refusing to put his hands anywhere near it. He drew in a deep breath, fingers tightening in on themselves until his knuckles were white. Not only was he stuck with this thing on his lap, M'din was suddenly rambling on about weight gain and greenriders, and Besulth's unabashed delight was pressing uncomfortably on the edges of his consciousness. When he finally looked up, he'd conjured the closest semblance of equanimity he was capable of under the circumstances. "You are. Too kind." He took another drink of water, wishing M'din had poured him a bit of something stronger. "I couldn't possibly accept such a generous gift." 


Eager to both forget the atrocities lying on his legs and evade any further conversation involving greenriders or his nonexistent love life, he waved a hand dismissively. "I don't date, and I most definitely don't bother myself with greenriders. Or any other riders, for that matter." He wanted to be sure that particular subject came to an emphatic end. "But it sounds like you've a whole horde of offspring. Does that mean you've got a horde of women, too?" C'vir had learned that, in most situations, it was possible to deflect questions about one's own relationships by inquiring into the relationships of others. Though M'din didn't look like a ladies' man, he'd sired enough children  for C'vir to assume there would be at least one or two females the other brownrider would be willing to ramble about for awhile, even if he weren't the sort to brag about his conquests. Poor women, the brownrider thought. M'din didn't seem to practice the standard "love 'em and leave 'em" approach, but females were stuck being little more than broodmares for a succession of men nonethless. "I had four sisters," he volunteered, further steering the conversation into the comparatively safe realm of familial ties. "Three of them died in childhood, which meant our family rarely had more than two children around at a time." He rarely thought of his deceased sisters. They'd lived too briefly, and he'd been too young to think of them as real. Even Vecena, his sole surviving sister, had been sent off before they'd been old enough to develop any genuine relationship. He remembered his slightly older sibling as a quiet, obedient girl, who stayed out of their mother's way (and thus also C'vir's) as much as she could manage. They exchanged dry letters lacking warmth and familiarity once a turn; the brownrider thought of her as little more than a polite but distant stranger.

Total word count: 919. I'm sooooorrrrryyyy. Don't continue to match me; I'm afraid my word count will continue to swell outrageously if you do, lol.

As soon as C'vir politely declined the gift of the delightful blue shirt on his lap, M'din knew the poor young man was too frightened to accept such a token of friendship. With a sage nod, M'din sat back in his chair, fingers entwined on his stomach. He would have to be patient with the youth, tender to a fault to convince him of his safety in the home of a veteran rider. It seemed improbable that C'vir would eat the small brunch set before him in his anxious state, so M'din resolved to invite him to dinner another time, hopefully loosening the taut strings of formality around his backbone, and perhaps introducing him to his eldest son. Mariltin always liked a handsome face.

"Not to worry, young C'vir," M'din magnanimously replied, feebly attempting to match the other brownrider's ceremonious tone. He pulled the shirt from atop his guest's legs, laying it over the back of his own chair. "My clothes are always available for your use, should you ever require a change of wardrobe." Surreptitiously, he updated Armath, We're making progress in here. He's warming up!

I sincerely doubt that, Riddle King, the exasperated brown replied. Turning to Besulth, he dryly added, Prepare yourself for a suicide watch when C'vir finally escapes.

M'din's mouth opened in surprise, slackened the moment C'vir claimed he didn't date. To M'din, women were lovely creatures worthy of respect, and they held him in similar esteem. He knew though, without a reservation or doubt, that the ladies would be especially kind to an attractive young man with bright blue eyes and a headful of curls. As a matter of fact, most of the men at Katila would favor a gentleman with C'vir's looks with equal fervor. "Not a horde of women, no," M'din answered with a chuckle, scratching at his beard. "At the moment I'm quite single and just fine with it, but I think dating and relationships are such wonderful learning experiences. I have five children, and have never discovered more about myself than I have watching them grow. There were four women, their mothers, who mattered a great deal to me, each in their own ways." He took a sip of water, a fanciful smile gracing his visage. M'din was prone to daydreaming about such fond memories, and forced himself to continue advising the younger man on women. "I see them from time to time. Everything is cordial, of course," he wisely concluded. The rider did not feel the need to mention his first serious partner, Marialta, who had died in childbirth. She was a beautiful person, inside and out, and M'din considered himself an incredibly lucky man for having a child who resembled her so completely. His eldest, Mariltin, had fortunately inherited his mother's looks and the best aspects of her personality.

As C'vir spoke of the tragic loss of his sisters, M'din instinctively reached out, resting a heavy hand on the younger man's shoulder. A part of him was pleased that he finally opened up. "I'm so sorry about your sisters. When my own sister, K'dra, died, it was the hardest day of my life. That was nearly ten turns ago, and I still miss being able to talk to her." His attractive houseguest so reminded him of Khindra, something in the way he held himself- the familiar facade of aloof strength masking sensitivity that his sister adopted to protect herself- inspired M'din to explain, "You would have liked her, I think. She was a bluerider and her dragon was called Toboreth. K'dra was a fierce, ambitious woman, but she cared more deeply than anyone I've known about the wellbeing of others. You remind me of her, you know, and that's a high compliment." He warmly smiled at C'vir, inexplicably fond of the brownrider.

"Let's hope you don't share K'dra's vices though," M'din sheepishly mentioned. "She chased every green skirt she could find. Now that I think about it, I'd absolutely say she was the one with the horde of ladies." 

Okay, okay, under 700 words. If we keep going at this rate we'll have a novella by July, lol.

 

C'vir exhaled gratefully when M'din removed the wrinkled tunic from his lap, sliding into a noticeably more relaxed position in his chair. His fingers unfolded themselves; he flared them out and stretched them back in a few times underneath the table, restoring the circulation. He smiled weakly at the older brownrider, halfway hoping that M'din, predisposed as he was to see only what he liked in his guests, would mistake C'vir's relief at the shirt's removal for appreciative approval of the man's unwarranted, unasked-for, and entirely undesired offer. If he'd wanted to dress like his new acquaintance, he'd have taken up dressing in the dark. He'll fare a bit better now that the clothes are off -- so to speak, the brown remarked to his companion, rolling an amused blue eye up at the other dragon. Care to wager on how long he lasts before there's another escape attempt?

C'vir's brow furrowed when M'din's mouth dropped open; he'd hate to be the one to have to provide impromptu aid to the rotund man were his slack jaw the first signs of a medical criss. Thankfully for both of them, the younger brownrider soon realized that his companion was expressing his astonishment, albeit a bit melodramatically. Any show of feeling is melodramatic in your book. The brown had broken his silence. C'vir, distracted by the barrage of gifts and conversation from his companion had forgotten that his dragon was also lurking outside. Don't do this to me now. Play with your friend. I can't deal with all of you at once. The dragon decided to show mercy, satisfied that the strain of M'din's effusive company was enough torture to keep his rider on his toes.

The brownrider, comforted by the smug silence inside his mind, caught M'din scratching his beard -- again. He felt the corners of his mouth drape downward, drawing the firm line of his lips into  a stern frown of distaste. Judging from the frequency of the itches originating in the older man's facial hair, some sort of insect/infection had taken up permanent residence in the unruly beard. C'vir unconsciously reached to run the back of his hand over his own stubble, checking for signs of infestation in the closely cropped whiskers. He found nothing, aside from a renewed desire to examine the cleanliness of his surroundings.

If he could say nothing else for M'din, the man clearly respected women -- an unpopular attitude among Katilans, but one that raised him slightly in C'vir's estimations. Though he wouldn't encourage the man to procreate further (he had questionable genetics and had already done his fair share to populate Pern), the older rider's focus on his family was refreshing in its rarity. C'vir graced him with a curt, assening nod, but found the hint of approval fading as soon as he felt the weight of the man's hand on his shoulder. The gesture, meant to be comforting, returned the brownrider's jaw to its former degree of stiffness. It was bad enough that the man kept giving him things -- now he insisted on touching him, too?

He'd hit on the wrong topic; now he owed obligatory condolences to M'din, who evidently had a deceased sister of his own for whom he still felt considerable fondness. "Ah, yes, terrible, tragic." He wasn't certain how to respond to the comparison to K'dra, though the comment did perhaps explain the untoward level of familiarity M'din had automatically assumed towards him. Don't flatter yourself. I'm sure he tries to feed and clothe everyone he meets.

"Ah. The love for women is a family trait, I see." It was as close as C'vir would come to acknowledging the woman's sexuality -- another topic he preferred to gracelessly gloss over. "Does it appear your sons will follow in their father's footsteps?"