Renegade Reminicense

Weyrlingmaster's Office


The Weylingmaster's office is a bit chaotic and D'nyl is not the kind of man to do much to fix that particular problem. Right now, he's leaned back in the desk chair, one foot proped up on the edge of the wooden furniture while he carefully hones the edge of his knife. He sent for Pritkin not too long ago and he fully expects the young candidate to arrive soon. The Weyrling barracks itself is nearly empty, most of the preceding class having graduated last restday, but a few of the cots are still occupied but the stragglers, all of whom are sullenly raking the training field.

And Pritkin got word, which is why the teenager (unsure, but unhurriedly) is making his appearance in the doorway of D'nyl's office. There's an easy smile on the teenager's face as green eyes take in his surroundings with open curiosity that falls flat when they land on knife-wielding D'nyl. Pritkin's forward momentum comes to a sudden halt, leaving him halfway across the floor of the bronzerider's chaotic home-away-from home, and looking, momentarily, like a deer in headlights. Suddenly, Pritkin's lips come close together in a tight line, his jaw ticks at those alarmingly alert green hues study the Weyrlingmaster, and then the guard-turned-candidate takes one, two steps back. He doesn't look /meek/ for what it's worth; if anything, D'nyl's greeting has put the teenager on guard. "I was told that you were looking for me," comes the careful line of words, said with careful slow as he waits.

D'nyl offers the candidate what he hopes is a reassuring smile before gesturing to the chair across from the desk with the tip of his knife, "Go ahead and shut the door and have a seat, Pritkin." He tests the edge of the blade with the pad of his thumb, then sheathes the blade with the ease of habitual action. In the not unlikely event that Pritkin hesitates, he nods towards the chair again, "You're going to want to sit for this. Please." The please, at least, is in a less threatening voice, "I have done some talking with Ila'den." That's all Pritkin will get until the candidate sits.

If reassuring leaves the impression of a wolf smiling at sheep, then /sure/, D'nyl's /definitely/ coming off as reassuring. As it stands, while Pritkin obediently closes the door to D'nyl's office, he stays put in his new place by the frame while the former renegade wields his muted threats and tests them on his thumb. Those green eyes never once leave the weapon in hand, hesitation slow to dissipate even after it's been sheathed and D'nyl is telling him to sit. Again. Pritkin's eyes jump from the chair, to the Weyrlingmaster, and then the candidate moves. He /does/ deplete some of the gap dividing them from each other, but when he speaks again, it's a very carefully toned, "I would rather stand." And stand he does, with a chair and a desk the only thing sitting between him and one intimidating bronzerider. Calloused hands come down on the back of the chair, and those brows furrow when D'nyl mentions speaking with Ila'den. "He had it all wrong, you know," comes the soft reply, as if Pritkin knows /exactly/ what they talked about - he doesn't. "I didn't actually touch his daughter. She was running, and she tripped. I tried to catch her, and she ended up /on/ me. I didn't even have time to ask her if she was okay and Ila'den was there, and so was his /dragon/." His dragon, who was kind enough to touch his mind with /extremely/ violent images of his own gored body. "I didn't even know who she was. Honestly."

D'nyl's eyes follow Pritkin through his hemming and hawing and finally nods, accepting the lad's request to stand, "As you wish." His boot lands on the floor with a sudden thud before he leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. He's dressed down a bit and while his knot is clearly visible, he's not wearing his full leathers, just the vest he favors and a short sleeved tunic, meaning that despite his attempts to put the candidate at ease, his own tension is clearly obvious in the benching of biceps and triceps and the tension along his shoulders, "I didn't think you hurt his daughter or anything of the sort, honestly. He's been… less than the best him he can be lately, but I have to ask…" His jaw tightens, then he forces himself to relax, "I knew your father. And I know how I ended up here." Hell, what happened to D'nyl might well be a cautionary tale now in the western island camps, "What brought you here." This, more than anything, he needs to know. He needs to know what he's dealing with.

When boots slam on the floor, anybody with sense might flinch; Pritkin does not. If anything, those green eyes narrow as if the attempt to intimidate is simply making him /more/ determined to /not/ be intimidated. He doesn't even back up when the weyrlingmaster leans forward - and then there it is. The question has Pritkin's jaw tightening up with a look of sudden disgust crossing his face. At least it's /evident/ that Pritkin isn't a fan of his father. "You're a renegade," the tone is edged with accusation, and Pritkin straightens his spine as his hands flex imperceptibly on the back of the chair. Almost as if an afterthought, Pritkin amends with a much more gentle, "Were. /Were/ a renegade." And then there's air filling his lungs, abandoning him on a slow exhale as the teenager, finally aware of what this is about, takes a seat. Green eyes shift away from D'nyl for only a moment, while the teenager gathers his thoughts, and then his gaze is meeting D'nyl's head on. It's obvious that, despite likely (and easily made) misconceptions, Pritkin is no coward. "I am here probably for the same reason that you are: to not be /there/." There's a sneer said on the last word, as Pritkin slips on his own accent and then runs his fingers through his extremely unfortunate hair. It simply mocks gravity in return. "My mother died and my father came to get me when I was older. At first I was fascinated by the fact that he didn't live by any rules, but then I came to realize that he didn't just /not/ live by the rules: he was violent, and cruel, and an /idiot/. He wanted to strengthen /his/ connections by studding me out." A tick in Pritkin's jaw, and he rolls his shoulders, shifting backwards without breaking eye contact. "I am /not/ one of them." It's driven home with evident conviction.

D'nyl stays quiet while Pritkin speaks, giving the lad time to get his foot in and out of his mouth and tell what he will of his story without interruption. And he stays quiet for several moments afterwards, allowing himself to process the events as they're explained to him and he does relax, at the end. He relaxes when he's sure that Pritkin is telling him the truth. "Would you like a drink?" D'nyl has a thermos from which he pours himself what looks to be a fragrant tea before nodding the offer to Pritkin, "To be perfectly fair. I originally came here to help the camp. I had no idea what life outside of it was like until I came here. I learned better." It's not the whole truth. There was also what would have eventually happened to Ez if they'd stayed, but the boy doesn't need his whole story. "And that you're not one of them is all I needed to know." It's not the words so much as the insistence, the sould-deep need Pritkin has for someone to understand that about him, that convinced D'nyl. "Is there anything you need to talk to me about, since we have a touch of privacy?"

When Pritkin is offered the tea, the candidate gives the drink a twice-over before shaking his head. "I'm more of a klah person myself," he admits, seeming to relax only when D'nyl finally does. The scruff on his chin his gently scratched at before he tacks on a soft, "Thank you." Pritkin affords D'nyl the same courtesy that was extended to him at this point: silent audience as the former renegade gives vague peeks into a life that came before a weyr and a dragon. When the man is done, Pritkin nods his head once, and finally drops his gaze so as to be polite. "I didn't really have anybody, but I survived. And then he found me." There's a ghost of a smile on Pritkin's lips, but it's a far cry from amused. "Needless to say, the interaction with another human who didn't treat me with disgust was probably what I craved the most." He doesn't elaborate from here, but there's a soft nod, as if to say he understands what D'nyl was after, and then: "Ila'den too, right? He was also a renegade?" Those green eyes are back on D'nyl's, bone-weary, but impressively insightful and intelligent for somebody so young. "I don't think I was imagining it. You both set off every warning in my head the first time I laid eyes on you."

D'nyl nods, screwing the top on the thermos and tucking it back away behind his desk. He sips the tea, listening intently to the boy's story. "They are good at that. Convincing you they care." The scraching at his chest through his shirt is an absent action that Pritkin doesn't know the meaning of, but D'nyl does when he notices himself doing it, "Good on you to realize that they were lying before they took it out of your flesh." When it comes to discussing Ila'den, though, he pauses thoughtfully, then nods again, "Aye. I don't know much of his story, but he's been here longer'n I have 'n' he helped me figure out where I fit here. Right now he's… well, he was never a great man, but he's not being much of one right now. M' twin Ez, er, Aerza, an' his sister Kiltara, as well, though Ez was never really one of 'em."

Pritkin looks thoughtful as he digests the information given to him, green eyes lingering on the hand at D'nyl's chest when he mentions Pritkin not having any lessons taken out of his flesh. There's a rueful smile for that, but Prit doesn't open his mouth to speak /if/ he did actually participate in such a grueling lesson. And then he's listening again, nodding his head before once more fingers splay through his hair and cause already spastic strands to find even more awkward angles to settle at. "He seems sad," Pritkin admits, brows furrowed. "And lost." The teenager sounds like maybe he knows that feeling well, but again: he doesn't elaborate. And then he's shifting, scooting his chair back far enough to give himself room to stand. His height is far from impressive, but it's clear in the way that the candidate holds himself that he isn't lacking any confidence. His body, despite the baggy (and sadly, horrifyingly frayed layers), is clearly corded with hard-earned muscle as well. He might not be as big as /some/ of the men stalking about Half Moon, but he's certainly not a runt by any definition. "I'm glad you all found sanctuary," he finally murmurs, and then he's shifting his attention towards the door. "No disrespect, weyrlingmaster, but did you need me for something else?" He very clearly wants to leave.

D'nyl inclines a nod for Pritkin's assessment of Ila'den, "I would agree with that assessment." He watches Prit for a long moment, then stands when the lad does, "My concerns have been addressed, thank you for your time. Do please see the headwoman for some fresh clothing. You do represent the Weyr, after all." He lifts his cup for a sip, then frowns slightly, "And while I have the bedside manner of a coal miner, there are a few of us here that can help you out. Including protecting you from your father if it's needed. You should know that we've seen some indicators of activity within a day's ride of the Weyr." Ila didn't get that tidbit.

At the mention of his clothing (which has clearly been mended, and patched, and /re-patched/), Pritkin blinks down at his attire. There's a soft laugh following only then, and green eyes are boyishly amused when they meet D'nyl's gaze. "I get that a lot," he admits, "but honestly, these are my training clothes. They're shabby because they get ruined all of the time. I think it would be a lot more expensive to replace them, and I'm trying not to let my reflexes dull just because I'm a candidate." A dragon isn't a promised thing, after all, and he has no illusions as to whether or not he may impress. He takes a step back then, brows furrowing, and then shakes his head. "He isn't going to come after me," Pritkin says, but he doesn't elaborate on why - at least not in the way D'nyl might expect. "Not for now, anyway." And then there's another nod at the information delivered, a flicker of heated concern, before he's smiling again, adding a salute to the end of their meeting. "A pleasure, Weyrlingmaster." And then he's taking his leave.

D'nyl nods, watching the lad leave, then sits, taking another sip off the drink, the chuckles softly to himself. If Pritkin impresses, things could be very interesting for Half Moon Bay.


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