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Western Weyr - Guard Cells


There's a difinitive noise as the cell door swings shut, locking the emotionally unstable former weyrleader up until the current leadership can decide how to deal with his latest escapades. D'nyl, though, he doesn't leave right away. Instead, he pulls up a chair, twisting it around so he can lean forward against the chair back and see Ila'den, "What the shard's goin' on with you, Ila? Like me, yer hardly what most'd call normal, but this is… frankly, more unhinged than rennegade-chic."

If the alarmingly final sound of the cell door closing Ila'den into his temporary prison has any effect what-so-ever on the former weyrleader, it doesn't show; as a matter of fact, the only hint there may be something amiss is the horrible screech that follows the sound of creaky hinges when Teimyrth vocalizes his own displeasure. Ila'den's already finding a spot to settle and sit, seemingly at peace with the fact that he's going to get some time to himself - except that he doesn't, does he? Because there's D'nyl, who is pulling up a chair, and sitting outside of his cell expectantly. Grey eyes shift to the former renegade as calloused fingers rub at the stubble on his own chin, and then he gives the younger man a cheeky smile. "Not sure what you mean," he says, tone cheerful and decadently innocent. He settles back more into his spot, bringing his arms up behind his head, and then tacks on, "Can you let my children know where I'm at? They're going to worry." It's no secret that he's not the most willing to share his secrets - or even willing to let people try to pry. Goodluck, D'nyl! This is more than likely going to be like pulling some horribly abscessed teeth!

D'nyl's eyes glaze for a moment, then he ndos, "Czaiath will let them know." D'nyl pats the pocket of his vest, then pulls out a paper package. From it, he offers Ila a small, paper-wrapped bundle of herbs that he, at least, grew up smoking in the western isles camp, "Smoke?" He waits until Ila makes his own decision on the matter, then lights one for himself. He takes a long pull, then sighs it out, "I mean physically harrassing a candidate and telling him to stay away from your baby after nearly crushing his skull. I mean scaring the shards out of an entire barracks of candidates. And I mean getting it through your thick skull that I'm pretty much the only person here who even comes close to understanding what you've been through and if you don't get yourself together you'll end up getting transferred out."

"I appreciate it," comes Ila'den soft, yet gruff reply. His accent is thickening by the minute, and when D'nyl offers him a smoke, the bronzerider declines it with a, "No, but thank you." The bronzerider watches the other bronzer take his drag, and then is actually silent while D'nyl speaks. When he finishes, Ila'den says nothing - not initially, anyway. Finally, there's a rasp of laughter, self-depreciating in its very tone, followed by Ila'den's hands coming up with fingers splayed in a manner that says he /doesn't/. /care/. "So transfer me then," comes that husky burr, the words curling on his tongue without any of his usual attempt to mask just how thick his accent really is. "What am I leaving behind? Nothing. And, added bonus: you get my child /away/ from that shit. Which, for the record, there was no /trying/ to crush a candidate's skull. It would have been crushed if there had been any attempts." And then Ila is shifting again, restless, straightening his spine and then leaning forward as his arms come across his lap and his fingers entwine as though he's in thought. "Why are you here?" he asks then, suddenly. "Is it Sundari? The fact that we /both/ have shitty pasts never made us chummy before - so why do you care /now/?"

D'nyl lets out a sigh full of smoke and uncertainty. He stands stoic in the face of Ila'den's self-depricating mirth, just shaking his head slowly, "First off, You know I don' have that power. Naw, you keep this up 'n' you'll be dealin' with Valigath." DUN DUN DUNNNN. "Where would you even go? You've always been here." He takes another pull off the bundle, "Let's try this a diff'ren' way." He manages to push his hair back just with his thumb, "It's not about bein' chummy. We're both of us pretty solitary sorts, doesn' mean I don't see yer pain. What'd ya mean when ya told the kid to stay away from your baby?"

In regards to dealing with his dragon's offspring, D'nyl gets a /look/. Have you /met/ Teimyrth? All hulking bronze with protruding teeth and a desire to gut anything that moves? LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER. "I'm scared," he offers, tone dry with blatant sarcasm as an undertone. It's D'nyl's question about where he would go and always being here that has Ila'den cutting him off with a sharp, "No. I have not /always/ been here. And just like then, I would be fine. /What/ is it that you think I have tying me to this weyr? A weyrmate?" A pause. "Friends?" The last earns the bronzerider a biting laugh, that ends only when D'nyl tries again and those shoulders rise and fall. "What it sounded like." At first, it seems Ila'den will not elaborate, but then he continues with: "He was getting cozy with my little girl, and I /know/ his type, D'nyl. He's /our type/. Do you understand? I'm not letting a renegade fucking /offspring/ make off with my child - not after what I went through and /not/ after what Kiltara went through." Remorseful? Apologetic? Not in the least. "So if you and leadership decide that I need to be caged, or sent away for my own good: good. Maybe he'll get it through his head that I can be a pretty fuckin' scary guy and back off."

D'nyl takes a few moments to mull that over. He takes long enough that it's clear that he's truly thinking about it. "I'll be honest. If someone I wasn' sure was actually out of the life came sniffin' aroun' my kids, especially Raylin," And yeah, he's created several since he graduated, though the fact that there's another on the way is still more of a secret, "he an' I'd be havin' a very long, very private conversation that woul' probably involve at least one of my knives and coul' very well involve tyin' him to a crossbow target and proving how good a shot I am." He flicks a bit of ash off the end, then takes another draw, leting the smoke continue to curl above his head, "An' we may not be frien's, Ila. Not really. But Sunny cares aboutcha 'n', le's be hones', like you, I don' precisely have frien's. 'Ve got my twin 'n' my lover 'n' my kids. If'n I los' Ez 'n' Sunny, I'd be in the same place you are. Ya think I wanna see ya disappear back down tha' hole?"

There's some kind of fleeting emotion that harbors immeasurable darkness when D'nyl speaks, relates, and details for his fellow bronzerider what he would do given Ila'den's lot in life - though Ila'den is closing off before whatever he's emoting can be deciphered. Those lips come tightly closed, those large, calloused hands raise, threading through his own hair, moments before rubbing at the scruff on his chin. D'nyl exhales, ending his admittances with words that seem like a proverbial olive branch, and instead of pouring out his heart and soul, Ila'den exhales. "The man that Sundari cares for is gone, D'nyl." Ila'den's voice is low, gruff, brogue damn near tangibly-thick; it's almost as if the man is speaking another language. "The man that was in those camps is dead too. So is the child that brought a baby here, and impressed a dragon, and spirited away a beautiful woman. I've already disappeared down that hole, D'nyl." Those broad shoulders roll in a shrug, muscles in his arms going taut as he shifts and then pulls at his riding leathers to expose the long-sleeved shirt underneath. The fabric of his sleeves is rolled to the shoulders, and then grey eyes close. "I don't know what you want from me, or what you want me to say. I'm sorry? I'm not. I won't do it again? I probably will. I am not a /bad/ man, D'nyl, but I'm certainly not a good one." And then those eyes open, grey fixating on the former renegade before him with muted regard. "You are, though."

D'nyl considers the other bronzer closely. Even having essentially grown up in the camps, it does take some effort to really understand Ila when he gets this way, but he's still at an advantage to some. "Hard ta say." There's a soft rasp as he runs his thumb over the stubble on his jaw, making a quick mental note that he needs to shave soon. "You may be the firs' person other'n Sunny ta say I'm a good man. There're days 'm not sure m'self." His accent has lessened over his time in the Weyr, but it's still there. "Yer good side isn' gone, yanno." He says something so complicated so quickly, as if it's easy, "He's buried, bu' he's not gone." He takes a deep breath and lets it out, "I guess all I wan' is fer you ta know tha' yer no' alone. 'N' fer ya ta unnerstan' tha' I can' have ya terrorizin' my candidates. I'll keep an eye on him, but I can' have ya beatin' on him."

Ila'den makes a soft noise in his throat that ends on another exhale. "Some of us have just been touched by darker things than most people can imagine - it doesn't make you bad to be unable to leave the behavior that helped you survived completely behind." Grey eyes move away only then, breaking the line of contact as the bronzerider shifts, again, this time onto his back. His jacket is rolled and then tucked underneath his head as Ila offers a rather nonchalant, "If it isn't gone, then I've never seen it." But the words are somehow /final/, despite the dismissive tone. When D'nyl continues, and ends, Ila'den's responding with husky laughter that, while not mean, is certainly not /kind/. "I have my children," he concedes, though there's something behind the statement that is just /off/. "And, aside from putting him on my shoulders, I never touched him. I never would. I served as Weyrleader and Weyrsecond before that, D'nyl. I may be /many/ unkind, unwarranted, and undesirable things - but I am not an idiot." And then he's shifting, onto his side with his back to the younger bronzerider. It might be a physical display of him ending the conversation or it could just be him getting more comfortable. Who knows with Ila'den?

D'nyl lets out a soft breath and there's a scrape of wood on stone when he stands, then a definitive kind of clunk, "Well, if you can stil make that determination, the good man in you isn't entirely gone." Instead of leaving, he moves to lean against the bars, "If he was entirely gone, you would have taken your violent dragon and run off with your kids to somewhere else. Another Weyr or somewhere jus' yours away from all th' memories here. But'cher still here, aye?" D'nyl's expression is somewhat far away, though. He lets out a soft sigh, "Dunno why I feel th' need ta convice ya of this, but I do." Brown eyes close and he takes a long, deep breath and, intentionally or other wise, his hand comes to rest atop the hilt of his knife, "Why are you still here?"

"Is that so?" comes Ila'den's rhetorical question, colored with tones of dry sarcasm. It isn't scathing, but it does make it clear that this bronzerider isn't buying D'nyl's determined compliments of character in the slightest. But he doesn't elaborate on /why/. This guy is a cagey beast full of secrets, remember? He doesn't like when people pry, and it shows in the way he continues to shut down. "Aye, I /am/ still here." And D'nyl's proximity to the bars is followed by Ila'den shifting again, onto his back, then onto his side facing D'nyl. Grey eyes shift until they're resting on the hand D'nyl's resting on his dagger, and Ila'den raises his brows without his usual touch of amusement to soften the agitation on his face. "I am a /dragonrider/," the bronzerider reminds the former renegade only then. "Teimyrth might be violent in thought, but he also collects a fuck ton of cats and protects those he deems weak. His bark is a /lot/ worse than his bite; which is to say: I can /assure/ you, like every dragon that's ever hatched, he wouldn't let me be /evil/." One hand comes up at the last, a physical manifestation at the exasperation he's feeling towards the perceived threat, and then he rolls right onto his back, flinging that arm over his eyes. "Leave me," comes suddenly muffled words, with finality.

D'nyl finds his fingers flexing over that squared off handle and relocates it. Finally. "Even with tha', you could've requested a transfer if'n ya wanted. Riders do it all th' time ta get away from bad mem'ries. Prob'ly at leas' a dozen have jus' in the las' turn." Ila's not getting rid of him that easy, though D'nyl does turn, resting crossed arms on one of the cross-pieces on the bars and leaning forward a bit, "So, yer not evil, but'cher not good. 'Sfine. Ya obviously love yer kids, 'n' tha's fine, too. Wha I can' understan' is wha' broke ya." And that's the real crux, for all D'nyl doesn't understand it himself. He needs to know how to not end up where Ila is and if he saves Ila in the process, he'll feel good about that, too. "You were never wha' most people would understand, but what you've become in the las' few months is… somethin' else."

Ila'den's arm never comes away from his eyes, and despite the reaction verbally, Ila'den's body seems to wind tighter and tighter with each word that D'nyl speaks. Those muscles are taut, position still deceptively relaxed despite the fact that he is liable to pounce at any second - though the bars between himself and the other bronzerider would make that /difficult/. "You're right, I could have," Ila'den says then, and for the first time, his voice is soft. Ila'den's only tell, when his temper is clawing at the surface, is the sudden lull in the storm; the void of amusement; the hush he emits as if nothing around him can bother him at all. Still, D'nyl speaks, Ila'den listens, and when the man finishes, Ila'den's offer of words is: "And, Faranth willing, you never will." It's the last part that has Ila'den pulling his arm from his eyes, staring at the former renegade with a total lack of warmth, and then icily: "You can sit there and talk to yourself all night, D'nyl. I'm /done/." And Ila'den's rolling again, onto his side, back to D'nyl, who really /will/ get nothing more out of this bronzerider - for now.

D'nyl utters a soft curse, slamming his hand into the bars in notable frustration. Point to Ila'den. He turns, stalking towards the door, then pauses, turning back, one hand raised as if he's going to say something else, but nothing comes. Eventually, he curses again, finally letting himself storm out of the cells.


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