Who Carellos I'rly Reksler
What I'rly mistakes Reksler for V'sri, but Carellos comes to her rescue
When Spring
Where Living Cavern, Fort Weyr


Fort Weyr - Living Cavern
This cavern, having been created by bubbles in the volcanic flow of this extinct volcano, has a breathtaking ceiling — a vast dome that arches high above the heads of the weyrfolk that scurry around beneath it. A hollow echo can be heard from loud enough noises, and the chatterings of various firelizards are consequently multiplied into a chaotic babble. All in all, the living cavern is a loud place.

Tables are scattered around the room, apparently in no particular order. Over to one side near the kitchens, two medium sized serving tables are constantly spread with snacks, klah, and other goodies. The tables look worn, yet perfectly fitted to the atmosphere of the caverns. In the 'corners' of the cavern, smaller two and four place tables are set up for more private talks or just a less chaotic atmosphere in which to eat.

It's sleeting. Stinging, sharp little pellets of ice from on high; tossed by a wind just shy of grounding the working Weyrlings. It's been either sleeting or snowing all day, and early afternoon draws a lull in the 'cavern activity. It might be frigid outside, but inside it is warm and cozy, a quiet murmur of conversation here and there. I'rly pauses when she crosses the threshold, still jacketed, blinking a little dazedly as she squints around the room. "Shut the shit up." The weyrling snaps at nobody in particular, starting towards the food-table, a woman on a mission. "I didn't forget." She sighs, shedding the top layer of coat and tossing it over a random seat on her way to food. It's well past lunch, but clearly Ibby hasn't eaten, if her rabid eyeing of a bluerider stealing her porcine belly roast is anything to go by. Meat, meat, and several types of sweets seem to be the only thing she wants at this juncture — that, and the world's biggest mug of hot broth, jealously guarded. People in her way? A line? Maybe. Care? Not so much.

Enter, V'sri. That is V'sri right? He's got his face, but that is definately a book tucked under his arm, that is a harper knot on his shoulder, and those are normal everyday people clothes and not weyrling leathers. Whoever this imposter was, he was not carefree goofy-smiling bronzerider that everyone has come to know and love. That there on Voss' face, was definitely a scowl, the bright blue eyes that were so like his cast with a darkened expression towards the kitchens as he stops to talk to someone on the other side of the serving counter, ridiculously attractive in comparison. "Are you fucking kidding me right now, Carellos?" he snaps at the poor guy, who only smiles which makes him even more ridiculously attractive before scooting quickly out of harms way, because that ladies and gents is a redfruit being violently tossed immediately afterwards. Snarling, the V'sri clone makes a very growly cup of tea before stomping his way to a table and dropping himself into it. Tea. SLAM. Book. SLAM. Back against chair. THUMP. Arms crossed tightly across his chest as he glares red hot death where the baker once stood. I'rly and her mug of coveted broth? IGNORED, like he didn't even know who she was.

"Voss, it's not my fault Kralkth tried to trip Diqth, I swear, he says he was 'helping keep him on his toes'." Ibby grumbles in her classmate's direction, not looking up from sipping her broth as she follows. Clearly, she's pissed the friendly fellow off — not easy to do, given the slightly stricken look on I'rly's face. "I'm sorry, okay? He's an asshole." This has the flavor of something oft-said, worn into the tired mantra of somebody who has snotcicles still and a dragon who gives no shits. "Shells, you're going to break the sharding table, and then we'll all be running laps. Take a breath and —" Ibby falters, on the up-glance. Wait. That's definitely not V'sri. She's been sleeping a few cots down for forever and a sevenday, now; she knows the guy. It takes longer than it ought to for the cogs to switch over, and the brown-weyrling's expression to clear. "Oh. My mistake." The harper eyes her fellow for a long moment, then shrugs, digging into her food with all the enthusiasm of a ravenous wher.

Contradictory bright blue eyes refuse to be snuffed by the darkness of not-Voss' expression, but they are slid to the weyrling brownrider as she called him the wrong name about a million times. Which, sadly for I'rly, means all that death is now directed at her. No, that was not V'sri at all. Legs are crossed at the knee, book slid gingerly off the surface of the table and immediately flipped open to a seemingly random page. Was he…ignoring her? Yes, yes he was. Though as she falters to contemplate how in the world this person came from the same place as the other version, he turns a page lightly and without looking up, "My name, is Reksler," he says with the growl embedded into every syllable, ashen lashes lowering in such a way as to convert his looks to downright haughty. Clearly, this was the 'better' twin, or at least in his own mind he was. There is a snort from the harper, picking up his tea that had somehow managed not to slosh all over the place when he slammed his mug down in his baker fueled fury, soon sipping of the perhaps-not-as-calming-as-he-really-needed-it-to-be, dark contents.

I'rly appears utterly unruffled by the death glare — she shoves an entire piece of some sort of orange-creamy pie into her mouth, chewing surprisingly neatly. Wasting crumbs? Shells, no. Any dropped go right back in as she observes the pissy harper, still sipping the hot broth. "Wish I could have tea." Ibby sighs wistfully, eyeing the mug. She'll fight to the DEATH for that broth, wanted or not. "Reksler. I know who you are, apprentice." A careless shrug, a slight inflection on rank; either she's guessed, or has researched, or maybe just she's psychic. You never know with the terrible trio. They could have dossiers on every potential person of interest in the Weyr. Or maybe he just looks too much like V'sri to be anybody else. "I'rly. Journeyman, until they got me." The weyrling sighs, theatrical, eyes drifting back over to the baker's general direction. Prying would require more time with her mouth not stuffed full of the wherry kebobs that she's shotgunning like a crazy person, though. So she's quiet for a good long pause for stewing, eventually washing the meat down with another gulp of broth. "Who pissed you off so bad?"

Normally the reaction to being called apprentice, should have brought all the stiffening, all the apologies and a soft explanation as to what the heck crawled up his butt and died. Reksler? NOPE. The senior apprentice merely turns another page, sips his tea, and even releases an appreciative 'ah' once its swallowed. Can't have tea? Too bad. He can. There is only a glance upwards past his lashes when rank is brought up, one that slides uncaring over the knot on the woman's shoulder before it descends back to the written word. "How nice for you." he says, rather flatly and without any indication that he at all cared. While he might appear to be reading, but every time someone moves near the serving table his eyes dart in that direction if only to narrow and bring on a muttered string of words undecipherable but unmistakably laced with poison before another page is turned. Everything about him, other than mannerisms, was identical to V'sri. There was little doubt that this was the 'little brother' that the bronzerider had gushed about throughout candidacy and weyrlinghood. Gushed of course, being a relative term. There was nothing there anyone should be anything about, lacking all the goofball charm of the very friendly bronzerider. Her introduction is met only with a rolling of tension racked shoulders, but nothing else, apparently back to pretending that the brownling doesn't exist. At least she can hork down her meal in relative peace? That's something, right? "I don't see how that's any of your business." Mild irritation had slipped into the voice he'd stole from the sweet angel that is V'sri, eyes lifting off the page and leveling in lazily upon I'rly.

"Not really. Have you ever shoveled a pile of shit half as tall as you?" I'rly sighs, still dramatic, but then it's back to stuffing her face. Meat pie, this time; the best of both worlds, liberally smeared with redfruit preserves. The strangeness of this doesn't seem to come to the weyrling, who hums happily around puffed-out cheeks. Something about delicious food, probably. Or possibly the gloriousness of being inside out of the cold to eat. Reksler's attitude doesn't seem to bother her, either — unlike the toughness of the meat in the pie, left out to warm for a little too long since lunch has long come and gone. Still, she battles onwards, spearing a greasy fried tuber and shoving it in just as soon as there's room. Her business? Both eyebrows raise into damp, only just-now-melting hair that's in need of a haircut. "Gifme igetin." Is the weyrling's scoff, nose wrinkling as she realizes that nobody (excepting Leia and Syn) is going to understand that. Sigh. Gulp of broth. "Giving me indigestion, buddy." She points out, mildly, sipping on her broth.

Those eyes drop back to the book opened in his lap, "Just this conversation." Reksler replies, heaving a sigh as if to report just how bored he was, turning another page. The words are scanned but too quickly to actually be properly digested, a flicker of his attention cast towards the serving table as someone comes out with a large tray of freshly baked bubblies but not the person he was looking for. "Crafty bastard," he mutters under his breath, roughly turning another page before eyes are cast downwards quickly. He breifly looks in Ibby's direction when she muffles her way around her pie to speak but doesn't linger past another long sip of tea that was now perfect drinking temperature. "You're the one that sat here after mistaking me for my brother." This pointed out, whatever he was looking for is found amongst the language spelled out in letters inked onto well worn pages and he settles himself back in with another sip of tea. "If I bother you that much there is plenty of other open seats available elswhere." Another sip and his eyes begin to move in that regular rhythm that one's does when they are genuinely consuming knowledge.

The lunch rush has long died down, and it's miserable outside — sleety, snowy, windy. The frostiness inside isn't much better, at least at Reksler and I'rly's table. Well. The Weyrling seems mostly oblivious to the iciness, though, still shoveling food down her gullet as fast as she can manage. The bitchy anti-Voss seems to have lost Ib's attention; or maybe she always looks at her dessert like that? Also entirely possible, that. Another slice of the orange pie is snarfed down in a glorious bite, chipmunk cheeks and all. It takes a good long time to chew this, after which the harper coughs a few times, sipping at her broth to soothe whatever damage she's wrought on her poor lungs. "Your brother's got better manners to be a harper. You fail those courses, kid?" Ibby snarks, briefly following his gaze to the table. Oh. Look. "Bastard?" She catches up belatedly, staring at the bubblies wide-eyed. Blasphemy. Bubblies.

Oh, yes. Bubblies. Fresh from the oven with that sugary crackly glaze on the outside, glimmering in the light as though they're displayed not in the living caverns, but in a showroom of valuables. So prized, that a platter seems to materialize right before Reksler, steaming and still crisp. "Sorry I'm late, didn't know it was going to take that long to cover down." Carellos stands there, sans apron, and he quietly pulls up a chair with his own meager tray to finally take a break while he can. He needs his strength if he is going to keep the Harper sated in public. He peers over to the weyrling sitting amongst them and he turns to I'rly, offering a warm and welcoming smile. "I hope this crazy weather isn't making your lessons too miserable?"

With I'rly shoveling food into her face so quickly that her cheeks puff out, Reksler leaves her to it, seeming to enjoy the silence considering only the occasional passerby at the serving counter was enough to draw his attention away from his reading. Bitchy anti-Voss was managing not to throw any more fruits that direction at least, one leg still crossed over the other and his book still open in his lap. Sips of his tea are taken, a page turned when necessary, and all might be well with the world. "My brother is a fucking idiot," he says without pause to consider just how that might sound to someone not used to hearing him talk about V'sri that way. I'rly not knowing the the younger of the twin set well enough to understand that he spoke to him no differently. Blue eyes lift once again to peer past the thickness of his lashes at the brownling, "Or hadn't you noticed?" Down his attention goes, removing the finger that was holding his place so he can pick it back up again with another long sip of tea that was nearly gone at this point. "But yes, I passed them. I just don't give a shit presently." Plus he was irritated, especially since every person moving around behind I'rly in the background was not the baker he'd given a drive by fruiting to, a scowl given that direction as another page is turned. He falls into relative silence, save for the occational grumble or growl, that is until Carellos finally appears. It's then that the book is closed and set back onto the table, beside the tray laden with fresh bubblies and a second cup of tea. "This doesn't mean that I forgive you," he snaps up at the poor weary baker, helping himself to the tea as his empty mug is set aside. Bright blue eyes lift upwards as he thwumps back against his seat. "Bastard." Grumble. Grumble. Yes I'rly, this was the bastard of which had been foretold.

I'rly might finally be slowing down on the eating. For such a tiny person, she's sure put away some food, but she only leans on the table a little sleepily and eyes the bubblies. It might be worth the pain, for freshly-baked goodness. "Oh, they're a joy. A real joy." I'rly snarks gently for Carellos, expression mostly docile. Her snotcicles have melted, and she's warm and full. Nothing too terrible. Plus, any idiot knows not to sass the folks who make pie too much. "Bet it's warmer in the kitchen." Somewhere between sympathy and envy, the weyrling sighs — and freezes. A little. Diplomatic classes from boths sides or no, the slight on her friend gets Ibby's feathers ruffled in a quickness. Eyes narrow, shoulders hunch a little, and she draws herself up, scowling thunderously. "I've noticed nothing of the sort." She snaps, entirely unaware of any normal sibling ire — or the fact that she talks about her own the same way. DETAILS. "He's smart enough to know when to keep his trap shut, anyhow." After the first burst of indignation, though, the ire dies down into pleasant snark; maybe she does actually grasp the familial bitchiness. Or maybe she's. Going to nap. Here at the table.

Well, naps shouldn't be had at the tables. There's no telling when someone disinfected them last and what you think you're smelling as bubblies could possibly be some new variant of the plague or some other awful thing. "Maybe a little… too warm. Sometimes I go hang out, out back, for some fresh air." Poor Carellos, he should just keep his secrets as a polar bear to himself. For now, though, he'll just beam stupidly at the Harper, even if he knows it'll eventually lead to his demise.

Reksler is pointedly ignoring the beautiful arrangement of freshly baked bubblies lovingly delivered by the ridiculously attractive baker man, all the tension that had been building up in his shoulders suddenly vanished with his appearance. The apprentice harper lets I'rly and Carellos discuss the weather outside and in with not a single comment on it by his royal bitchiness, content to sip his tea and occasionally glance in their direction. However, when the discussion turns back to V'sri, a single brow lifts upwards slightly. Otherwise, there is little change in the smoothness of his expression. "Have you…met him?" he asks, sounding dubious at best, because keeping traps shut apparently did not compute in Reksler brain; especially that of his twin's trap. His gaze slowly slides towards Carellos, brows leveling out and giving him a very long look over the rim of his mug. "You're going to blind someone with that thing." That thing, meaning that stupid grin of his, ashen lashes lowering as he slides his attention off elsewhere even as he colors vaguely pink across his cheeks. "Do yourself a favor brownie, and don't look directly at it." Grumble. Grumble.

"You wanna go sack 'stone for me?" Ibby sounds hopeful, sliding sideways onto the heel of her hand a little, gaze unfocused. Carellos really is pretty, but honestly, those bubblies are what she's staring lovingly at. Bless. "I can take a nap in the nice, warm kitchen." A long, wistful sigh goes there. ALAS. Shoving her emptied plate a little away to allow for both elbows — she's a risk-taker with the potential deadliness, this one — on the table, Ibby props herself up. Squints at not-Voss. "Hrmph." She sniffs, staring around thoughtfully for a minute for some sort of defense that isn't completely ridiculous. "Well, he's got those puppydog eyes. You could stand to work on those, big guy." Huff. You can definitely get out of many more things with cute big puppydog eyes, right? And, ever the idiot that looks at rukbat on a dare, Ibby lets her unfocused gaze drift up to the baker. Frowns, considering, for a long moment. Then she smirks, making an amused face. "Aw. Freckles. Shit, put that away, it's indecent."

It's a shame that poor arrangement is being grossly neglected by Reksler. Shame. Looks like Carellos is going to have to take one of them and slowly bite into it with more relish than absolutely necessary. He even makes sure his eyes are on the harper while he licks his fingers all… normal and boring like? In this case, the baker wasn't expecting the filling to find a crack in the crust so soon, since he's used to getting the last and usually cold ones. This warm platter thing is still taking some getting used to. "Couldn't be much different than tossing bags of grain, I suppose." He won't be allowed to, but at least he considered it a possibility? As for that smile of his, he smirks and winks at I'rly, picking up his napkin to take care of a bit pie he can feel on the edge of his mouth. Silly pie, lavishing him with attention that should be that slacker Reksler's job. A bellow echoes across the way and the baker's smile turns into a bitter scowl, pushing himself to his feet while muttering about shifts. "You'll both have to excuse me, I'll be right back as soon as I find out what they want now." Hopefully not a double shift for Carellos. He takes a deep breath, and strides back to the kitchen head with a purpose. The sooner he gets there, the sooner he can get back. Hopefully.

"Ugh," Suddenly offended, Reks stares long and hard at the brownling, as if she'd just told him to eat a handful of dragon dung straight out of the poopmaker. "I'd rather die." Almost gagging at mention of puppy eyes, he recoils from the mere thought of it, letting I'rly get an eyeful of the brilliant white teeth and perfect lips wrapped around a smile that could fell whole cotholds as punishment. "Did warn you." is mumbled around the edge of his mug before he helps himself to more of its contents. Feeling eyes upon him, Reksler makes the horrible mistake of looking up and over at Carellos, the blush streaked across his cheeks darkening considerably as he is completely and utterly entranced with the blatancy of that display. Tension zooms back along his shoulders as his mouth hangs open however slightly and the grip on his mug tightens to the point of blanching the knuckles of his hand. As soon as its over the spell is broken, leaving a bristling harper boy in its wake. Fuming, Reks poisoned dagger eyes repeatedly stab at the beautiful baker from across the table, promising all the demise ever dreamed up by the human mind and then some. "You…" he starts out with, more venom then ever before, which is cut off as Carellos suddenly gets called and trots off like a faith hound. "Carellos! No fucking double shifts after that shit you prick!" he barks out across the cavern, probably ignored, undoubtedly making the baker laugh his ass off as he thlumps back into his chair and growls nastily to himself, setting his tea down with a very ungentle slam, collecting his book and throwing his chair back roughly as he stands. "Ugh! Fuck this." Book shoved under his arm, Reksler doesn't even say goodbye to Ibby, soon stomping off in the same direction as the baker went, the kitchen staff clearing him a path. This was probably not the first time he'd gone after Care this way, and probably wouldn't be the last.

Add a New Comment