Oh Faranth, not you (fin!)

[tuathade]

Before coming to Warden's, C'ross was always a morning person. Up with the crack of dawn, grab a cup of klah and he'd be set for the day. That was before Warden's took his internal clock, smashed it to pieces, and reset it to the peculiar pattern of day and night shifts.

He was still unerringly on time for every shift. Morning and evening lost some of their meaning, however, when the only difference was how well you could see the area you were supposed to be patrolling. And getting up was considerably harder on days when C'ross and I'saac flew opposite shifts. Invariably he would reach out for the greenrider, to wake him, only to find an empty place.

He could feel Merceth's insistent mental nudging to hurry up, and he did, pulling on his flight leathers and sorting himself out so he'd hopefully look less like he just rolled out of bed. It wouldn't set a good example for the rest of the squad if he got sloppy. The mental nudging got harder - something was bothering his dragon, but he couldn't tell what, and the bronze wasn't saying anything.

He stepped outside, moved to the shelter where Merceth was waiting, and rested a hand on the bronze's huge foreleg. One amber-hued eye surveyed him silently. No real words passed between them, no true conversation; the bond worked on a more visceral level than that, and neither dragon nor rider needed to articulate words to the uneasy, restless feeling that passed between them.

Tensions were running high - but the Watch would be leaving soon. Hopefully everything would go back to normal after that.

[giftwrapped]

Above C'ross and Merceth, a dragon whose hide was the unusually-striking blue of an autumn sky circled lazily on a thermal. His rider, tense and terse, had been unable to enjoy any of the hospitable Southern weather Warden's had to offer, and in spite of her best efforts, she hadn't quite been able to convince her dragon to take things seriously. And so he had taken her to the sky, hoping to relax her with the gentle rise and fall of flight. They had passed over the sea, chased a shipfish in good fun, and then turned back over the shore, toward weyrs. They passed over dragons, and the rider cast a careful eye over each of them. No sign of the freaks, at least. She had had enough of interviewing them.

A glimmer on the ground caught her eye, and she and the dragon cast their eyes downward.

That bronze.

She would recognize that bronze anywhere, from any distance. The darkened back, the curiously hooded face...the sheer, lithe size. For a moment, everything in the rider tensed up, and her dragon faltered in the air, missing a wingbeat before regaining himself and arching his slender neck, glancing back over his shoulder at the woman.

Arene?

Anyath, down we go.

And the graceful dragon began a lazy spiral descent, casting anxious glances between his rider and the dragon below. The bronze stirred something in his memory, but he couldn't place it. What are we doing, Arene?

Paying an old friend a visit. And the rider pulled her lips back from her teeth in something that could only be loosely described as a smile. Four sets of claws hit the earth, maybe a dragonlength away from C'ross and Merceth, and the stocky woman undid her straps, slipping down from the blue's back and tossing her head, looking up at the man with an expression of harsh defiance. "Wingleader C'ross. It's been a while."

[tuathade]

C'ross.

Merceth growled - not his usual rumble, the deep sound that could signify anything from curiosity to impatience to hunger, and which he regularly used to greet his weyrmate. This was a true growl, with the resonance of potential menace, and his eyes flared an orangey-red in warning as the blue landed in his space. His space. A stranger blue, intruding in the weyr that belonged to Merceth and Nicoth only, and not even one of his wing.

They used to be, C'ross prompted mentally, a note of warning in his tone. He recognized the voice of the woman who'd addressed him, even before he turned around. It was... rather difficult to forget Arene, actually.

He turned, met the stocky woman's defiant gaze with a coolly level one of his own. "Watchrider Arene," he greeted her, putting about as much respect into the way he used her title as she had put into his. "I doubt you're here to catch up on old times. So if you're here to interview me about the clutch, make it quick - some of us have work to do, and a schedule to keep."

A cold dismissal? Not the best start. But he could read the look on her face and the tone in her voice well enough. She wasn't here to listen. She was here to pick a fight.

[giftwrapped]

Merceth's hiss was met with draconic indifference, though at the confrontational bronze's warning, Anyath lowered his head slightly, eyes momentarily whirling yellow before settling on a very pale green shade. Like a canine, the blue kept low to the ground, offering a dragon he only marginally remembered the most nonthreatening pose he could. He didn't grovel, though; ever the traditionalist, Anyath was submissive to the higher colours, but he was by no means afraid of them.

Peace, brother. I have no quarrel with you. Were the blue dragon's face a little more expressive, the look on it would have been one of mild abashment. Arene was going to make a fuss and rile up a Weyr that already resented their presence. Life was difficult enough for the blue dragon without a bronze coming after him. Particularly a bronze as large as this one.

"You remember me. I'm surprised you remember any of the lowlifes you left behind in the Watch."

Cold dismissal was met with harsh mockery, and Arene wasted no time striding right up to her former wingleader, looking up at C'ross with an expression equal parts dismissive and angry. It had been three turns since she had seen the man, but apparently three turns wasn't long enough to erase the spike of hatred that flared up in her when she saw him. At least the greenrider wasn't there. Arene wouldn't have been able to contain herself even the degree she was managing at the moment if the greenrider had been there.

"And there's no need to rush into business just yet." She forced a wicked grin there, running a hand through her hair and cocking a hip in a gesture that might have been appealing coming from someone who wasn't radiating 'confrontational' from every pore. It was a strange contrast, the flirtatious body language coupled with the nasty grin and sharp tones. Arene was making a point to C'ross. What that point was, even the bluerider herself wasn't entirely sure of yet. But she would figure it out soon enough. "It's been three turns, we might as well catch up."

"How's that greenrider?" she asked, and the forcedly merry tone took on a razor's edge. "Still tumbling him, or have you moved on to another wingmate?"

[tuathade]

The blue offered no resistance, and was therefore of no consequence. Merceth still fiercely resented the unwanted intrusion - left to his own devices, he would have unceremoniously ejected his visitor by force, but C'ross was keeping him in check for now. Besides, the situation was clear enough from the blue's tone. Then keep quiet and tell your rider to leave, Merceth shot back, before turning his attention to the angry woman. She was the one who was antagonizing his rider... but Merceth couldn't make her leave. He could no more harm a human than any other dragon.

Still, the massive bronze hunched his shoulders, claws splayed and wings half-spread to make himself look larger, and lowered his head nearly to ground-level to increase the visual impact of his half-opened jaws. This... interloper, this Watchrider, was insulting C'ross and insulting I'saac. None of this was acceptable. C'ross' anger and Merceth's anger boiled over into a single mass, only barely contained.

But if that anger shone through clearly in Merceth's bearing, C'ross kept himself outwardly cold and collected. He didn't give an inch as she closed the gap, nor bat an eye at her confrontational posture. She could bait him, but he would bait back. "I'saac's doing just fine," C'ross retaliated, voice light and casual as if he were discussing the weather with her. "Still a better rider than you'll ever be, in more ways than one. But I suppose you can't help that, can you, Arene?"

He never had figured out why Arene hated him so badly. Jealousy? Disgust? Anger that he'd left the Watch? Resentment of his position, or his love for I'saac? She'd been difficult to handle from the moment she joined his wing, Turns ago, but after Merceth flew Nicoth she'd gotten nigh-unbearable. No matter how scrupulously C'ross policed his own behavior, how hard he worked to not favor I'saac unfairly, it wouldn't be enough for her. Not until he left entirely... And then she followed him here. Sharding impossible woman.

Still, it meant that he could attack her without feeling morally bankrupt about it. Why shouldn't he, if she was going to attack him? The grin he gave her had barbs in it, as he added, "Did you finally get your own wing, like you wanted? Since you're here, I'm guessing the answer is no."

[giftwrapped]

I make no claim to Arene's behaviour, Anyath answered mildly, and then he turned his head away from Merceth. It was not any sort of attempt at pointedly ignoring Merceth to rile him up, but rather a way of ending a conversation he knew could not end well. He felt no need to respond to a bronze that clearly hated him. This was Arene's battle, and if it got too heated he had no qualms leaving her alone, or even picking her up and carrying her off. Arene's short temper was a point of dispute between the two at the best of times.

Arene, my dear, we're here to discuss the freak hatchlings, not incite the prison to riot, he reminded privately.

Sod off, Anyath.

Affronted, the blue lifted his head and snorted, staring at his rider hard for a moment before pointedly standing up, turning away from the entire conversation, and re-settling himself so his mantled wings faced C'ross and Merceth. He washed his talons of the situation...and Arene's behaviour.

Arene herself paid her dragon's irritation no notice, so intent was she on the sudden rush of anger C'ross had incited in her. For a moment, she simply glared sharply at the bronzerider, and if looks could kill, Merceth would have been blinking between as C'ross dropped dead. But they couldn't and Arene managed to get a handle on her fury in the nick of time. Punching a wingleader, regardless of where he worked, was bad form. And it could get her (or worse, Anyath) into a whole mess of trouble. No, she wouldn't land the first blow. Though if C'ross struck her, and she simply defended herself...

"Oh, you know the Watch," she answered in a drawl that stayed surprisingly light, shrugging slightly as if he hadn't just insulted her dignity and her ability as a rider and made implications about her sexuality. C'ross always had been tasteless and stupid. "Only bronzeriders are fit to lead wings, because a penis and a shiny dragon are sure indicators of leadership ability. Doesn't matter whether or not you're actually fit to lead a wing, long's you have those two."

"But, I digress, don't I? I'm here to ask you questions, because when the Watch looks away for a few weeks you folks shoot your little sandweyr straight between to rot." Her expression became momentarily harsh, but she turned it into a cheeky grin after a moment. "So. How do you feel about the freak hatchlings? They fit right in here, don't they?"

[tuathade]

For an instant, C'ross' vision blurred as Merceth projected violent images into his head. Of grasping Anyath by the throat, of shaking the blue, worrying him as a canine would worry a tunnelsnake, of Arene begging for it to stop -

No.

It would be easy. I don't care what she thinks of me. If she won't respect you, I'll make her fear me.

That's not how we do things.

For her, we could make an exception.

Merceth. Go.

C'ross, Mine -

Go.

And with a massive sudden downdraft that kicked up sand everywhere, Merceth launched himself into the air. As soon as he was far enough off the ground he blinked between, re-emerging in the open air over the beach. Any passing squads would probably be rather confused to find the infuriated bronze taking out his wrath on any target that presented itself, or just hurling himself through aerial maneuvers to burn off frustration.

He wouldn't be much use during shifts today, C'ross realized. But it was better this way. Now, he could take the gloves off without worrying about Merceth tearing into her dragon. Not to mention the unspoken message: I don't need a big angry shiny dragon backing me up to take you.

He rubbed the worst of the kicked-up sand off his face before responding. "You know, for someone who hates bronzeriders so much, you're awfully quick to put down the only weyr to allow a blueriding Weyrleader. How about you decide whether you're a traditionalist or not before you open your mouth?" Continuing to bait her was a terrible idea and he knew it. He was going to get into so much wherrydung with the Warden.

"As for the hatchlings..." On his own time, in private, C'ross would admit to the ambivalence of his feelings about the prisoner weyrlings with their odd colored partners. In front of Arene, he would be nothing short of ferociously protective of Semith's children. "I'm not a dragonhealer, so I don't know why you're asking me. But as far as I've heard, they're healthy. They're dragons. All dragons are welcome here. Except those belonging to the ignorant."

He didn't usually hit girls unless they hit him first. But if he got the overwhelming urge to punch Arene again, he was going to follow through.

[giftwrapped]

"But the ones belonging to criminals aren't any problem at all," Arene shot back, maintaining that self-satisfied grin as if the bronzerider hadn't just baited her more. "The freaks Impressed by Pern's most dangerous. And you're letting them keep their one-way tickets out. Why not just open all the doors right now and let them stroll on home, for all the good your 'guarding' is doing?"

She paused, then, crossing her arms over her chest and letting her expression fade from the vibrant smile of someone so angry they had passed through rage and come out the other side to something a bit more serious, but still just as intense and cutting. "I don't blame you for any of this of course, C'ross. You're not in charge here. After all, a blue's far better for a freak gold than a bronze." And a glimmer of the grin returned.

"But here you are, turning a blind eye while a bunch of criminals make off with a clutch of mutants. Tell me, C'ross, are your precious Weyrleader and that Warden of yours blind, or just too stupid to figure out that the only way to make criminals more dangerous is to give them dragons?" Her stance had changed subtly; she was expecting a blow at any moment, and was tensed all the way through. She wasn't stupid and knew full-well what she was doing. "Or is it that they're all too worried about that freak gold's feelings to do what should have been done as soon as those mistakes broke shell?"

But shardit, if she was here, then she'd get exactly what she wanted, get her closure and satisfaction and bring a report back to J'lan. It would be wonderful if she had a bone to throw him that was as juicy as one of the failed attempt at a Weyr's wingleaders had physically attacked her.

[tuathade]

And right about then, C'ross punched her in the face.

Far off on the beach, Merceth knocked over an unlucky palm tree and bugled in triumph. About sharding time.

[giftwrapped]

It had been a while since Arene had been in a proper brawl; it wasn't exactly the favoured behaviour of riders, after all, and generally someone else was around to separate people before things escalated too much. And even if she had been expecting the punch, there was still a sharding great deal of man behind it. Arene stumbled back, hissing, and then lunged forward, aiming not for the face (he had nearly a foot on her, much as she hated to admit it, her advantages were few and far between) but for a solid tackle to the solar plexus. Knock the wind out of him, get him down, take it from there.

It was pretty much the only way to level the playing field at this point.

At the same time, Anyath turned around and bugled with alarm. Arene, what the shards do you think you're doing?

Anyath, sod off!

[tuathade]

If Anyath was being responsible and trying to get Arene to stop, Merceth was doing entirely the opposite. Far away as he was, he could nonetheless sense his rider's adrenaline spike, and the bronze was egging C'ross on. Enthusiastically.

This was not a fair fight. C'ross was considerably taller and heavier than his opponent, and with the constant threat of the prisoners he'd never let himself get out of practice with brawling. Arene was lucky - C'ross wasn't aiming to incapacitate her, only teach her a lesson. He'd keep the dirty fighting to a minimum... well, by his standards, anyway. No going for the eyes, kneecaps, or breathing passages. And no taunting. (At least, no more taunting than he'd already accomplished.)

When she lunged, C'ross realized there was no way he was going to dodge the tackle. Instead he simply stepped into it, taking the full brunt of the hit but hoping to throw her off with the unexpected move. Shards, he was going to have some interesting bruises tomorrow - but he was still upright, if wheezing, and he responded in kind by attempting to drive his fist into her kidneys.

[giftwrapped]

Arene might have been a dragonrider right then and there, but people like the stocky bluerider didn't get to where they were by keeping their faces clean and staying out of trouble. Well, some of them might have, but Arene wasn't one of those people. She had grown up running with a gang of Dusters and thugs. Faranth, one of her closest 'brothers' in the gang had been just about C'ross's height, though not as broad as him, and shards if she didn't know how to defend herself in an unfair fight.

Usually, the key to that was a knife. But knifing a dragonrider was so far out of the rules that Arene couldn't even consider the possibility. Killing a rider, even accidentally, was a travesty to end all travesties. On the other hand, there were ways to win in a conflict, even one like the one she was in right now. And most of those methods consisted entirely of cheating. Or, if not cheating, then fighting dirty, beyond the bounds of "appropriate" behaviour.

And oh faranth he was punching her in the kidneys and this was not all right. Any reservations Arene might have had about going for the kill at that point were gone. She was short, and she was right up close to C'ross, and the position presented her with a compelling target. She didn't think, didn't try to shift out of the way of his fist, just brought her knee up between his legs. Hard.

Anyath was considerably distressed at this point, and the fact that C'ross was now punching his rider in vulnerable (and painful) places did nothing to assuage the blue's near-panic. Creeling, eyes whirling pale yellow in concern and orange in irritation, he snapped his jaws and leaned down, hoping to get his muzzle in between the brawling riders and force them separate. Usually, the blue spoke only to his rider, but for this one tense moment he'd make a very brief exception.

Stop it! Stop it, the both of you!

[tuathade]

"Faranth fucking shards!"

Foul play. Penalties for everyone. C'ross doubled over into a ball of pain, shoving Arene away as hard as he could to prevent follow-up assaults from adding insult to injury. Shards, that hurt. The blue's muzzle shoving in between the two of them was almost welcome, if only because it meant a moment's breather. Tough guy or no, sensitive bits were sensitive bits.

"Son of a bitch," he rasped to no one in particular. Well, he'd asked for it. Granted, Arene had asked for it first. But he'd responded in kind. "You whore," he added, this time actually directed at Arene. But while his tone was openly vicious, the fight had gone out of his posture. If only because he could feel Merceth tugging at his thoughts again, reminding him that the previous offer regarding mauling blues still stood.

Warden was going to murder the both of them and toss the bodies in the river.

[giftwrapped]

The opening C'ross presented when he shoved Arene away was all that Anyath needed. Swinging his head toward Arene, he knocked his rider backwards, then unceremoniously grabbed her by the back of her tunic and dragged her a few feet away from where C'ross stood. At least the fight had gone out of the bronzerider, and Anyath pressed a forepaw lightly down on Arene's stomach to keep her from getting up and going back after him while he was vulnerable. She struggled briefly, but after a few seconds the fire went out of her, too, and she lay back, staying still and catching her breath.

Then, "Anyath, you can let me up. No, really, you can," she added, when the blue looked doubtful. Carefully lifting his paw, the dragon leaned down and nosed her thoroughly, then snorted in her face and clicked his teeth in irritation.

By the egg, Arene, what did you think you were doing? he snapped, tail lashing in irritation almost like a feline's and wings bristling as he stared down his rider. I demand an explanation for that, that idiocy! Dragonriders do not come to blows, Arene! You should be ashamed of yourself!

"He hit me!" Arene snapped, sitting up and scowling at her dragon. Then after a second, she winced, touching her side just below her ribcage. "Faranth, that hurts." Not to mention her face. She could feel the bruise rising on her cheekbone; if it hadn't risen already, she'd have one mother of a shiner in a few hours.

You goaded him, Arene! Whatever personal feelings are, riders do not strike other riders, and riders do not bicker! And he is a bronzerider, for Faranth's sake!

"Shut up, you sharding great lizard," Arene muttered, scowling first at her dragon, and then at C'ross. "Forgot you were such a bastard in a fight," she remarked flatly.

[tuathade]

You let her knee you? You're losing your touch, Mine.

Shut up and stay where you are. The last thing he needed was for the dragons to end up brawling, shards and shells.

Not a chance. I'm coming to get you. The voice in his head was half-concerned, half-amused, but the all-consuming rage had quieted for the moment. Apparently C'ross brawling with Arene, however briefly, had been sufficiently cathartic to sate Merceth's bloodlust.

The bronze reappeared, landing hindlegs-first and wings half-unfurled, then let his forelegs hit the ground on either side of C'ross in a sort of protective shield. Merceth's eyes were still whirling unpleasantly aggressive shades, but he was no longer hissing or posturing at the intruders. The point had been made.

The both of them, C'ross and Merceth temporarily in accord for the moment, watched the exchange between Arene and Anyath. Or at least, they watched the part of it that they were privy to, not knowing what the blue said to his rider. It would have been funny, in other circumstances. Merceth snorted in amused satisfaction at Arene getting pinned, but C'ross just scowled at the both of them.

"Get out of my weyr," he told Arene flatly, when she turned to him again. "I don't care what the shards you do. Go off and tell your wingleader, or whatever you hoped to accomplish with this. Just get out."

I'saac is not going to be happy with us.

I know.