I didn't need to see that much of Mine.
Then you should help me find my pants. The bronzerider made a point of wiggling his rear to either side before straightening himself, shaking out the sheets as though it might make his trousers magically appear. Granted, he could have simply gotten a fresh pair, but these were nice and broken in. Freshly washed trousers took a few hours to lose the stiff feeling of freshly washed hide; to shards with that. He wanted his worn, patched, immaculately comfortable pants, and he wanted them now.
Perhaps they've gone between, like your sense of responsibility. The dragon's eyes gave away the forced nature of his annoyance, as they stayed a perfectly pleasant shade of blue. Skelath stretched his wings out to either side, but remained laying with his head resting on the warm stone floor. His cool disposition was unusual, given the bronze's less than complacent nature, and his rider seemed to catch onto something of suspect in the dragon's demeanor.
I'ver seemed unamused as he threw his hands up in the air, placing his fists on bare hips. He looked utterly ridiculous standing there in only his tunic – a fact which Skelath was quick to remind him of – but seemed unbothered by it. I'ver heaped the thoroughly searched covers back onto his cot, sighing irritably as he spun on his heels and strode over to the sleepy bronze. One palm was presented, flattened, fingers waggling in suggestion.
Give them up.
I have no idea what you're talking about. Skelath forced a yawn, closing his eyes to hide their color. Still, I'ver could feel his amusement through their bond.
Give them over, or I go walk to the dining hall just like this. I'ver wiggled his hips again to accentuate the point, even going so far as to turn the motion into a little dance. He grooved backwards in a half-circle around Skelath's massive head, all the while keeping one hand extended in hopes of a stop-bribe in the form of the aforementioned pants. The bronze opened eyes that whirled red-orange.
Mine wouldn't.
Yours would. I'ver grinned like an idiot, pausing his dance to do a little spin, Now gimme.
I'm hungry. The dragon stated promptly, feigning boredom with his riders antics before lifting himself up off the floor in one graceful movement. He snorted his annoyance before turning to head for the Weyr entrance. By the time Skelath had taken flight, I'ver was already pulling the warm, flattened trousers from the floor previously occupied by Skelath's stomach. He sniffed them to make sure they were clean enough, and pulled them on with a low chuckle.
------
The dining hall was a shining example of Igen's strict social hierarchy. I'ver had visited other weyrs and was given pause by their lackluster rules on fraternization. In Igen, bronzeriders ate with bronzeriders, greenriders ate with greenriders, and female riders usually didn't bother even eating in the dining hall, lest they end up with a plate of food in their delicate hair. There were, exceptions to these rules, but most people knew where they stood. For I'ver, that meant knowing that he stood closer to the top than most. Most.. but not all. The thought caused his wide grin to falter a bit as he entered the dining hall, scanning the room for the presence of last night's conquest. The last thing he needed was a kitchen girl causing a scene when she found out that his excuse to get her out of his Weyr (a long and dramatically articulated story about... something I'ven barely even remembered) was nothing more than a load of wherryshit to get him out of the obligatory post-nookie cuddling.
When his worries had been cleared, I'ver strode proudly over to the currently empty table where bronzeriders usually dined. It was still early in the day for lunch, but there was an abundance of work to be done. I'ver hadn't gotten to where he was by being lazy, after all. With a grin and a wink he requested a meal from a passing drudge girl. Never one to miss an opportunity for entertaining conversation, I'ver scanned the hall for persons of interest.
