Kneecapping Ogres

Day 23 of Month 8 of Turn 2716
Half Moon Bay Weyr - THE LUV NEST
Do you hear that sound? THE LAUGHTER AND JOY OF CHILDREN RUNNING fUll throttle with messy things in their hands, and then the SCREAMING? You have entered a den of eternal childhood, lights and nose and things to attract the attention of the ungodly number of children living in this weyr sit strewn everywhere along with a LIME green piano well loved and used from the look of the keys. The rough stone walls covered in crayon and paint where someone managed to sit quietly for a few minutes while the parents were distracted. THE LUV Nest has become a wild playground for the scores of little hands and feet constantly running amok. Welcome to Chuck- ok Pern does not have Chucky Cheese's believe it or not this is actually the weyr of the weyrleader, weyrwoman and their weyrmate. Someone should talk to them about the lime green paint.


WHAT DAY IS IT TODAY? SHUT UP, IT'S A BIRTHDAY. Okay, so it's not a birthday, but when did Ila'den ever need proper dates to celebrate anything. You know what happened while Cita and R'hyn were out (because FUK U I POWERPLAY HOW I WANT) doing Cita and R'hyn things? Ila'den. Ila'den happened; he gathered up every single blanket, every single pillow, every single towel and sheet and thing of questionable origin that could serve as cover and he MADE A FORT. A VERY. BIG. FORT. The kind that spans up to the top of the stairs and basically covers the bottom half of the house - using kitchens, and chairs, and various other pieces of furniture to make it work and make it obnoxious. And there's Ila'den, on all fours, perhaps a little slow for being on his bad knee, but certainly not deterred from crawling after Ibsyglei and Heribly who are AT AN ADVANTAGE OVER DADDY because they are SMOL and can duck run when they must. So there's much shriek, much growling, much CAKE that's been applied to tiny faces and clings in unattractive chunks but somehow remains because frosting is a miraculously sticky thing. "DADDY!!!!" comes as a chorus as the girls team up, as they FACE OFF AGAINST MONSTERS by way of FIERCE HUGS and DANGEROUS BACK CLAMBERING. "DADDY, RAWRRR!" "RAWWWWWR!" This is your life, these are your choices. Also, it looks like they probably made the cake together, because it's a sad cake, and there's two little aprons alongside a bigger one that are absolute messes. And okay, maybe there's still stuff clinging to all of them, but shut up.

Alas that all good R'hyn and Cita things must come to an end! Well. Alas for rampant chaos; not alas for R'hyn's ability to catch them in progress. Dragonless, having taken the narrow stairs approach, the weyrleader halts just outside the entrance to the weyr proper, fingers lifting the parchment pinned to a wall of blanket, bemusedly amused gaze tracing over scribbled silhouettes, shamefully-posed stick figures, and the words 'KEEP OUT'. Does R'hyn listen? He does not. ARE YOU EVEN SURPRISED? BECAUSE YOU SHOULDN'T BE. To his credit, it's a very minor intrusion at first, listening at the edges of blankets, expression soft, crooked with fond amusement, amusement that lingers even as he thumbs the would-be curtain aside and slips in just enough to watch goings-on. How long does he linger? Even he doesn't know. Long enough to mark cake smears and icing splatters across persons, places, and things upon which they do not belong, to watch precious tiny terrors attempt a coup upon Ila'den's person, to laugh for the image of his weyrmate crawling on all fours and bitty bold 'RAWR's, to commit all to memory with a glitter of something that aches for such chaotic perfection and then— "Is that my bathrobe?" BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. Those are the sound R'hyn is making as he hulks over ogre-style to stomp towards children and weyrmate, voice pitched somewhere storytale deep as he makes slow progress into the weyr. Too tall for low clearance by far, his head is soon swallowed up in the fabric miasma, head whipping back and forth dramatically. "HEY. Who turned out the lights?! Where did those little girls go? I'm going to get them, and when I do…" Ticklefingers! BOOM BOOM BOOM.

The chorus of squeals increases - if that's even possible. Tickle-finger monster daddies earn both delight and feigned terror as Ila'den suddenly goes from CONQUERABLE BEAST to BEST HIDING PLACE. The bronzerider is rasping out his own laughter as both girls clamber behind him, clinging to the loose fabric of his tunic as they shout out commands that probably make sense to each other but certainly lack any real diction to make them words. There is, of course, the occasional bout of something in a language they understand ('Daddy!' and ''illows!'' and 'Git'yuuu!' among them), and just enough for Ila'den to realize that there must be a plan. "I see you fell for our trick," Ila'den intones, because one must have a dialogue when they are suddenly the hero. "Girls, attack!" WHERE DID THEY GET THOSE FROM? It doesn't matter; suddenly two small children are charging forward with pillows, pillows that they can't quite swing, but are certainly able to throw, and retrieve and squish against R'hyn along with their little bodies because the pillows are about the same damn size. And Ila'den shifts, moving from all fours to settle into a sit, legs extended before him, arms slightly behind him to support his upper body as he watches the interaction. "Higher, Ibsy - there you go baby. Get him, Heri." BUT BELIEVE that the moment R'hyn breaks free is CHAOS, the girls scattering with SCREAMS OF DELIGHT to find new places to hide. And by new places, we clearly mean it's probably behind Ila'den again.

"ARGH, not pillows! Nooo!," bemoans ogre-R'hyn, charicature tones threatening to come undone on a tremble of laughter. No! He is strong! He is ogre! Ogres do not laugh! "Pillows are my weakness, do not hit me with those! Nooo!" Tickle-hands become hands of dramatic agony, shaking in midair as downy fluff and tiny bodies alike collide with legs that slowly grow crooked with each ramming blow. "No, why do you - oof!" Okay that was an actual blow to somewhere not pretty, but hey, listen, it adds an extra flair of hilarious pain to the thready growl of his voice. "Why do you do this to daddy arrrrgh," he manages, though booming vocals are strained as he goes to one knee amidst delighted screams and frantic flocking from his person. "RARGH," careening sideways, "BLARGH," timber!, "BLECH!" And he's down, head thumping to Ila's thigh, the rest of him sprawling out with a PAT of every limb, tongue flopping deadly from his mouth. Peek up at Ila. Wink. Then dead again. RIP RYN. WE HARDLY KNEW YE.

BADUM. BADUM. BADUMBADUM. CUE JAWS THEME. Where is Cita? …well. As it turns out, she's here, now, picking her way through the fort of madness with a pillow she pulled somewhere from the front of the mess held out in front of her. Do you think she missed the shrieking? The shouting? The pillows? She's tired, but she's not that tired, folks. Quiet, quiet, she goes, tip-toeing as quiet as she can. Not that it really matters — there are children yelling, and now R'hyn in dramatic death throes, and HERE SHE IS. Cita emerges from the chaos above the downed, R'hyn, expression caught in a picture of tragedy. "Heryn!" The goldrider gasps, pulls out the Full Name for GRAND EFFECT, glancing around wildly like the Real Actual Murderer might still be around. "No!" Can you feel it coming? Can you feel what's coming next. Because what happens is: Citayla tosses the pillow aside, and full-on body-slams poor R'hyn, contorting to avoid any babies, so that she can dramatically mourn over his corpse. She does it good enough that she groans, a little pained herself, definitely not because she bruised any kidneys or organs so recently moved back into place. "Ila, what happened!" The goldrider wheezes, just a lil bit.

Ila'den watches, lips pulled in a rare persistent smile, that grey eye marking every victory blow and fatal twist of Too Big Body until - TIMBERRRRR - Ila'den has R'hyn's head in his lap. He's rasping more laughter then, something low and deep in his throat, something that increases when suddenly Citayla is there and BODY SLAMMING R'HYN. BUT OF COURSE THE DRAMA CAN'T JUST STOP THERE, NO. The girls see what Mama-Cita has done, and there's a chorus of, "MOMMY!" as toddler feet carry tiny blonde and brunette bodies over to their felled Daddy and winded Mama and - DIVEBOOOOOMB - they body slam him too. Don't look to Ila'den for help; he probably could have stopped it all AND YET HERE WE ARE, with the man almost doubled over in laughter, pulling his leg out from R'hyn as he shifts with effort to laugh and probably hold his insides in. But JOKE IS ON YOUUUUUUUUUU. He's maneuvering himself quick but gently to squish Cita, and girls, and R'hyn in some kind of quasi-squish-hug of DOOOOOM. What happened? Ila'den can't quite keep the hint of laughter from he drawl, but he does manager a sober-er sounding, "I believe, Citayla, that Heribly and Ibsy defeated an ogre, and you made sure he was dead." SQUISH. "We should probably all remain, just to be sure."

FARETHEEWELL, SPLEEN. IT WAS A GOOD RUN. WE DIDN'T NEED YOU ANYWAYS, RIGHT? Wait, right? Spleens are one of those things that are redundant and unnecessary, aren't they? Because R'hyn's pretty sure he can feel someone's elbow digging into his, cutting off its circulation as he groans increasingly dramatically for every single body smushing down upon his, whether tiny or no. Cita's noise is honest, a dull WHOOSH of ACTUAL AIR being forced from ACTUAL LUNGS before he inhales with a choky sort of noise that might be real or might be laughter for the sheer Shakespearean DRAMA of it all. The girls earn colorful gags and oofs for their attempts at full-bodied contact, noises rather ruined as breath is caught and he can't help but laugh along with Ila'den, caught up in its utter infectuousness of it all right up until that leg is pulled from beneath his head. "Oh, no," he croaks, either for the seeming leaving or because he can see where this is going, most likely the latter because hands tense into pillows as he playfully wheezes for his weyrmate's weight added to the, "Stacks on the milllll." Khhhhhhh-h-hhhh. It's a long droning noise broken by laughters and attempted wild buckings of his body, jostling girls and weyrmates, hands reaching for any stray party of anyone with ticklish wiggles, trying without really trying to dislodge anyone at all as he pitches his voice back low and growls, "I'll still eat your eyes for breakfast rawrrr," that'd be a lot more threatening if he could just stop grinning for a second and focus. SMH.

Citayla's mourning period doesn't last so long, or maybe she's just mourning on the inside, because on the outside she's laughing helplessly. "Babies!" She rejoins, pressing her lips together in a desperate attempt to keep from laughing. Not that it's easy to hear over the general din and Ila laughing, but she tries all the same, shoving her face briefly into a shoulder to try and regain composure. Or possibly mime-weep dramatically. Or BOTH. Too bad she misses the moving Ila, then, even with R'hyn's warning, and squeaks a gasp of laughter when the pile is PILED ON TOP OF AGAIN, OH NO. "Ilaaaa!" A protest? No, not so much, more an accusation, given in a general fit of giggles and mock-squirming. Which might be just to further squish the ogre, now that she knows she's not mourning the dead weyrmate, only A SCARY MONSTER. "Oh, okay," The goldrider wheezes, nods, crooking a knee in a dangerous position for one of the men; it's anybody's guess which hits the dangerous leverage-giving obstacle first, but Cita's busy hooking the other leg around somebody else's. She can't possibly mind both knees. "Go for the legs, girls! Ogres can't get up if you kneecap 'em!" Life lessons from mama, learnt right, clearly. And though she's been relatively content to be still and cozy, right up until now, tickles? Oh no! Catch Citayla trying her best to extract herself from the pile, squeaking the whole way in a terrible, utterly undignified kind of way. "Get hiiiiiim!" Sacrifice everybody else to save herself from tickles? Oh, you bet.

There's also squeals and protests from tiny girls, who use hands, and limber bodies, and tiny VICIOUS feet to shove at Ila's face, and pull his hair, and try to WIGGLE WORM THEIR WAY TO FREEDOM. ALSO FOR YOU, MAMA-CITA (DO YOU GET IT YET? HAS THIS JOKE BEEN MADE ALREADY AND I JUST DON'T REMEMBER? MAMACITA AHAHAHA). AND YOU OTHER DADDY. Tiny DOOM FISTS AND FLAILS FOR ALL. They scream, "NOOOOOOOO!" as one around baby giggles and delight, every squeak and 'heeeeee' drawn out and embellished with more fingers, more toes. BUT THEY POUNCE AS COMMANDED! "I scratch you! Daddy, I scratch you!" as they GO FOR THE LEGS and ATTEMPT TICKLE FINGERS and Ila'den makes an exhale of sound like maybe he found Cita's leg, or maybe not, or maybe he's just laughing and moving out of the way of escape, making to grab for the healer without committing to the actual capture, and giving up as he THUNKS DOWN on his back beside R'hyn and gets one tiny body ELBOW DROPPING ON HIS STERNUM for good measure. Another whoosh of air, but Ila'den is pointing Citawards. "Get Mommy!" COUNTER ATTACK! He's even rolling onto his side, bodily shifting a tot with the movement so that he can push up on his elbow and just… watch both of his weyrmates suffer. MOOAHAHAHA.

"Hey wait you shouldn't take that as permission to—" AGAIN WITH THE OOFING, for a mixture of Citayla's shifting and baby kicking to the side and, "That was definitely my kidney, ow," the sound drawn out and broken into staccato notes by amusement that persists it's way to huffed laughter. Baby-hees finally bring it to full boil, mirth for their amusement overflowing into chuckles that just won't quit, likely bouncing and jouncing the lot of them in minute abdominal quakes as he finally manages a weak, "Not the scratches! Anything but the scratches! Nooo!" A wheezing inhale. "Cita, you egg-be-damned traitor, how dare you do this thing to me. A second ago you were - get 'er, husband! - bemoaning my fate and now this!" DECEPTION. DISGRACE. EVIL AS PLAIN AS THE SQUEAKS FROM HER FACE. "And you!" ILA'DEN. "I have frosting up my nose and I blame you!" But, weyrwoman retreating, weyrmate dropped at his side, R'hyn presses his advantage and hauls baby bodies up into his arms, fighting potential kicks and protests in favor of smothering his face into each of theirs, a mixup of mashed kisses and teeth-clackies and nuzzled affection and pfffbrts of hair out of his mouth and beard even as he growls, "Gimme those eyes. I'ma eat them right up," followed by chompy-eaty noises and even more smooches spattered over chubby cheeks and small foreheads and, "Okay, that's definitely frosting in my eye alright time out baby monsters we're going for a good handwashing in the magical pool of mysteries and then we'll…" And even as he rises, not-quite graceful but definitely managing to lift both girls in one roll to his feet, he fixes his eyes on first one weyrmate, then the other whilst whispering dastardly terrible things they are definitely going to do as soon as they're back just you wait into teeny little ears as he bounces them both down the hall towards the bathroom sink. Or tub. Or both. Probably both. Don't worry, they'll be back, and with a vengeance! Just perhaps a less… pink-eye inspiring vengeance. MOOHAHAHA YOURSELF.


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