Intruder - worst of luck

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Fallen Tree Field

Not far from the weyr and the feeding grounds is this swath of land that was once clearly part of the jungle. It's been completely leveled and any evidence of its once tall and proud residents have been removed, save for two. An enormous felled tree lays in its relative entirety right smack dab in the middle of this reclaimed area, otherwise the field is either tilled in preparation for the next planting season, or is in some stage of crop growth. The reason as to why this lone tree was allowed to remain is not immediately clear, but it has been there for quite some time considering the graffiti that has been carved into its aged and weathered trunk, along with dozens of little cuts that makes it seem as if someone had been aggressively attacking it with a hatchet. Most of its branches have been removed completely, or have been chopped away in segments. Perhaps whoever is in charge of this project has decided to take their time. The stump of another tree lingers nearby, this one with clear purpose, as a pile of firewood for the kitchens has started to pile up beside it. An axe sits, embedded in the center, as a stack of unsplit logs rests within reach. The grass around both sad remains of what was once dense and green, is browned and crunches beneath any who tread here, growing more and more sparse towards the fallen tree until it gives way to dull gray barren ground. The soil there is found to be more clay than fertile farmland, which may explain the lack of a rush to clear it out.

It was always warm in Half Moon Bay to some degree or another, how much depended really on the season and weather, but today with Rukbat at it's peak it was espeically so given the cloudless sky. Tucked away behind the weyr itself is this feild, in the middle of which was a fallen tree, and before it a stump for the chopping of wood needed to burn for the cook fires. A figure can be seen, even at a distance, swinging an axe high above and bringing it down sharply to render the roundless of a log into two halves. J'en, as it couldn't possibly be anyone else, has removed both jacket and tanktop which were both hung off a shortened branch of the old rotting tree. This reveals more tattoos as well as the muscularture that was typical of the fittest of dragonriders. Bending over, he plucks up one of the halves, setting it back into place and gives it the exact same treatment as the whole had with a savage snarl. The two peices that result from this, tossed into a rapidly growing pile of quarters nearby.

Sevran is out walking, deliberately away from the common, populated places in the Weyr. It seems the recently Searched candidate is in need of solitary reflection, of which he will find none. The sound of chopping distracts him, and against his better judgement, he heads in the general direction. The area is all foreign territory to the butcher-boy, but he seems not at all concerned about getting lost; he'll sort that out later. Right now, he's looking for distraction from his thought and the chopping offers that. Until, that is, he gets close enough to see exactly *who* is out there chopping. He halts, frozen, indecisive. To go? To leave? It's not as though J'en owns the field, right? Sevran has just as much right to be here. He will, however, try to stay as quiet as humanly possible to avoid detection.

Oddly enough, away from people and common areas is exactly where J'en preferred to be as well, but all the time if humanly possible. That fancy knot of his though, probably makes that impossible at least half of the time. Completely unaware that his self-imposed solitude has been breached, the bronzerider continues chopping wood nearly robotically, his only saving grace from this being entirely the case being that release of pent up emotion. Jae may be drenched in sweat, but the closer that the butcher-candidate braves, the more obvious it becomes that emotion was exactly what the nineteen turn old was displaying. Each snarl in lew of grunt escapes past clenched teeth, hot angry tears freely flowing, each completed firewood section heaved with far too much effort into the completed pile.

Unfortunately, neither candidate nor bronzerider are going to get the solitude they desire. At least said Bronzerider isn't aware yet? At least, Sevran seems to think this is a good thing. He'd rather not be chopped in half for interrupting. So he'll stay where he's at, out of direct line of sight and silent as a mouse, and just watch. His lips press into a thin line, and there's a contemplative, somber expression as he studies the dragonrider at his task. Whatever he's thinking, it doesn't show on his face. A minute or two more, and Sevran apparently starts to feel guilty about spying. With deliberate steps, he moves forwards again, making absolutely no attempt to silence his footfalls. If anything, maybe he's trying to be extra noisy to announce his presence. Not to be rude, but maybe to try and avoid J'en feeling like he's being stalked?

It's the first intentionally noisy step that halts all motion, the dragonrider's frame seizing up and straightening as he half turns towards the origin of the sound. Golden eyes widen as they find the source, the slender brows above them lifting, lips left slightly parted for the quick exchange of breath. For this single moment the mask of cold indifferance is down, giving the candidate a genuine glimpse of what dwells beneath. Self-loathing, pain, and the sort of unfathomable lonliness and despair that threatens to suck all light and hope into it. In the next second, its all burned away by the inferno of his uncontained rage, then nothing as the mask is slipped effortlessly into place and his features smooth out to absolute neutrality. J'en tsks, turning himself enough away to jam the heel of his palm over his face in privacy, embedding the axe into the tree stump he was using as a chopping block. "Fuck off," he tosses Sevran's way with a growl, snagging a towel out of the shade somewhere and using it to soak up some of all that sweat.

Sevran grew up around sisters, which means he has a much higher awareness of expressions and emotions that others might. Consequently, those little slips to the inner core of J'en are recognized. Noted. Filed away into the recesses of Sevran's mind for contemplation at a later time. Right now, he has an angry Bronzerider to deal with. There are no words thought, and he doesn't stop. He was headed for a stump and he will continue toward it at the same, noisy pace as he has been. He won't lie, but he won't offer up that he was there this whole time, either. "Fuck off, yourself," he offers, though there's no malice or growl to him. Destination reached, he drops down to sit on the stump, conveniently located in shady patch so that he's out of the direct sunlight. He'll just stay here, and look over that-a-way, and pretend to ignore J'en.

The heat of his glare might threaten to burrow a hole into the side of the candidate's head when he continues to approach and makes himself comfortable right there beside the axe he'd been using, but its the returned offer to fuck off that launching one of his furrowed brows upwards towards the line of his hair. This triggers a polar shift in his mood from irritation to artic-like conditions better suited for Fort Weyr than Half Moon bay, "Yeah? Well, ya enjoy that sevenday of latrine duty candidate, 'ope it was worth it." he hisses, snagging his clothing items as well as a jar of cool water from behind the stump, but while he's leaned over he rumbles a murmur against Sevran's ear. "Ya tell anyone about whatcha saw…" Whatever that means right? Couldn't possibly mean anything bad, no. He doesn't go into detail, nor does he look at the younger teen, of a mind to do exactly what he was told from the looks of it. He's fucking off, as in leaving, heavily booted feet taking him back along some sort of invisable path that leads to more civilized locations. The hand clutched against jacket and shirt so tight the entire arm trembles and the knuckles blanched white.

Worth it? Was it? Sevran's mildly confused about what he did other than sit. He snorts. "You don't own the field," he states, but it's not meant to be a confrontation. "And who would I tell?" Not that he would, even if there was someone to tell in the first place. Sevran breathes out a long breath, turning bodily away from the icy, threatening Wingleader. This was definitely not what he had in mind, but he'll be damned if he lets J'en rob him of his solitude, or at least attempt at solitude. "Not the only one who needs to get away," he mutters to the trees. The listens for the retreating feet, until he's certain they're moving away, and then his own head drops into his hands and he stares at the ground. "Fuck my life."

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