Respectful Rebellion

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Infirmary
This long, rectangular cavern smells faintly of antiseptic and strongly of pleasant medicinal herbs. The general atmosphere is one of bustling but orderly quiet and strict cleanliness. The back of the room is dominated by a small hearth for heat and medicinal preparations and by swinging double doors that lead to a small DragonHealing bay, an emergency surgery for human patients, the main storage, and the staff area where Healers can eat, shower, change, and the like during their longer shifts. The front of the room is a waiting and reception area where patients and staff can check in to receive treatment and begin work, respectively. The east wall of the room features examination, birthing, recovery and outpatient treatment rooms while the opposite wall is curtained off to provide privacy and bed-space for patients requiring overnight care.
Western can certainly handle most of the routine and sometimes urgent treatment needs of its residents here. It lacks some of the equipment available at the main Healer Hall. Once they are stabilized, patients requiring specialized or ongoing care are surely transferred there.

CUE LIGHTNING. Although the rain's not quite begun, the wind has been gusting all night, bringing in dawn with a bank of clouds miles high. The wind tames down the sticky heat of the island Weyr — but that lightning is ferocious. The whole place shakes with thunder, down to the rocky ground. Really, it's early, but it's not like the Weyr doesn't normally wake early for the day. Plenty of residents and riders scurry across the bowl, trying to avoid the deluge that's making its approach so well-known. In the Infirmary, Cita glances up at the noise, but goes back to her task: something small and fiddly with sterile-sealed packets. There aren't too many people around, a few curtains pulled around beds and higher-ranking healers nursing coffee at the main records station. The few patients that are around are likely sleeping: not that they will be for long, given the din of the approaching storm. From the records station, a slightly older, wiry healer with a Journeyman's knot squints in Cita's general direction. "When's the first physical coming in?" He calls, quietly as he can. Cita shrugs, finishing her organizing and storing the box in its' cubby. "Don't know. Supposed to be now." She grumps, picking over an ominous-looking tray already set up with narrowed eyes. Maybe there's enough on it. She has to be thorough, after all.

CUE EVEN /MORE/ LIGHTNING. It might be a bad omen, the way a violent streak of lightning splinters skyward, simultaneously letting out an ear-deafening crack of thunder just as Ila'den opens the door to the infirmary. He's all lightning-silhouetted monstrosity, looking as ominous as Cita's tray of fear-inspiring healer-y instruments with a scowl dark enough to rival Half Moon's sky. Grey eyes flicker to the nearest healer at the helm (likely the wiry journeyman) in just enough time to get pointed in the direction of Cita's Little Infirmary Bed of Horrors. All six feet of riding leather-clad Ila comes stalking the candidate's way, looking a little more than just /slightly/ irate at the fact that he's having to go through one of these. /Again/. But when Cita comes into view, Ila'den's narrowed gaze softens, agitation seeming to leave his body in the wake of a sigh that's given for the healer assigned his torture. "Ah - it's the brave little bird," he murmurs, burr thick with amusement as onto a bed he goes! Ila pulls himself to sit with an agile grace usually reserved for cats before continuing with: "You know, I /just/ did one of these not too long ago." Without instruction, the bronzerider's already pulling off his jacket to reveal a long-sleeved tunic underneath. He rolls the sleeves up to the crease of his elbows, but makes no move to remove the fabric in its entirety.

Cita flinches slightly at that deafening crack of thunder — but her expression goes just shy of blank when Ila'den comes scowling into the Infirmary. She's not smirky, or even scowly herself, but perfectly professional for several beats as she shuffles over to the scrubbing-station to wash her hands. Pulling on a pair of gloves, the healer apprentice pastes on a smile for the rider as he approaches — raising her eyebrows when she catches the switch from thunderous to something not quite so ominous. The pasty smile falters, and Cita can't help the lopsided smirky grin this time, trying with a horrible attempt at subtlety to school it back down. It fails. "Ila'den, sir. Good morning." At least this time she knows his name. Pulling the tray closer, the healer watches with a critical gaze for the ease of the movements — and, apparently not finding anything amiss, she blinks like this is NEWS TO HER. Golly, gosh! "Well, sir," With plucky enthusiasm, she taps her own chest, smiling beatifically. "We can never be too cautious, right? Dragonriding is hard on a body. It's better to be safe now than sorry later." Her nodding is probably just a touch over-done, but the Journeyman supervising hasn't called foul, so she continues brightly. "Thank you for coming in. Usually riders make a big fuss." You know. Especially when you drag them in way too early for their next exam. SHH. "Do you mind if we get started?"

LUCKY CITA, Ila'den was in the middle of removing his jacket when the healer's face decided to go rogue, and so he's blissfully unaware of the fact that he's just merrily walked into his own doom. Grey eyes blink up at Cita's use of 'Sir', and the bronzerider looks momentarily incredulous before laughing. "Just Ila'den - or Ila, if you want. You can even call me Kil or Kilarden if it makes you happy, but no 'sir.'" Ila'den pauses, and then adds on gently, as if an afterthought, "Please." He didn't like it when he was Weyrleader, he didn't like it when he was Weyrsecond, and he certainly doesn't like it now, without any of the prestige the previous titles afforded him. Finally, he returns her greeting with another amused and sleep-laden-husky, "Good morning to /you/, little bird." And then he's eyeballing the tray that's being pulled his way most warily. There's definitely a lurking desire to bolt buried somewhere in those stormy hues, but Ila'den clears his throat and tries to deflect by saying, "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours - unless you /like/ being the brave little bird?" The hint of amusement in his tone is tinged with teasing, and then he's emitting a long-suffering sigh as to just /why/ he's here again. "Aye, aye. Alright, lass. Do your worst." Ila'den's finally threading fingers along the bottom of his tunic to pull it up and over his head. It's not often that Ila'den allows himself to be anything shy of fully clothed - even in Half Moon's devilish heat - and it's very evident /why/. His body is marred with a spattering of scars, some raised and angry looking, as if they were never tended properly, others fading away into a silvery white on his skin. There's even a couple of places where the skin has been gouged and doesn't seem to have had enough cells to rebuild the deficit. Still, despite an almost immediate discomfort with the reveal, he seems unperturbed. "A fuss? If you usually call them in /this/ early, I understand why. What /exactly/ are you planning on doing with those?" A pointed look at her tray. SOMEHOW THIS SEEMS WRONG. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

Poor, poor Ila. DOOM. Cute, shiny doom. Well, the needlethorn and arm-squisher isn't so cute, but Cita beams like the sun is shining right out of her ears. "Sorry, s — Ila." Cita nods, once, the issue settled. She might want to torment the poor guy a little, but she's GONNA DO IT RESPECTFULLY. And probably nicely, Faranth help her. He won't be getting the Heryn-irritating-her treatment, most likely. The wary eyeballing is noted, but the apprentice doesn't let up, smiling in a bland way now that's not at all comforting. "Shells, you're right. Abducting my —" Beat. She doesn't actually own or even get to be possessively mother-hen, shhhh Cita. "Other candidates doesn't leave much room for introductions, does it?" Cita tuts gently, but her tone is teasing. She's totally gotten over the initial rage of it all. "Cita. You can call me whatever you like, though. There are worse names" An amused kind of huff, and the healer manages to bite back a smirk for the longsuffering sigh. The amusement fades at the sheer number of scars, but she's at least been trained into maintaining a decent poker face — except for some minor irritation at the wounds obviously not well-healed. Cita's not exactly the least sheltered individual out there; her annoyance is probably for a theoretical other-healer, who didn't treat them properly. "I'm going to make sure you've not got fluid build-up anywhere, and that nothing's sore. Then I'm going to draw some blood, and take your blood-pressure. Check your lungs, heart. A physical." Cita rattles off, and pauses, hands hovering; waiting for some sort of permission to go ahead, likely. "And, it's best to get it done with before you've had much food, or klah. Skews the readings." Beam! A LIKELY EXPLANATION. DON'T TRUST HER JUST BECAUSE SHE'S SMILING, BRO.

RESPECTFUL REBELLION. Awesome. Despite her teasing tone, Ila'den's eyes narrow when she makes mention of him abducting candidates - though he doesn't look like he's being unpleasant in his thoughts. "No," he says softly, more cautiously. "It doesn't. It also doesn't leave room for explanation, does it?" And now Ila'den's smile is rivaling Cita's, bland, and sunny, and underlying the HINT OF DOOM that is neatly buried beneath a hint of tease-tinged amusement. When she gives her name, Ila'den's eyes go skyward as if he's trying to think whether or not he's heard it before, and then he's repeating it. "Citaa," the way he says it is almost sing-song in its cadence, his burr curling around the words and lingering on the 'a' as that thoughtful glance is leveled back on her - and her /remarkable/ poker face. Just in time for her to give him the run down of what she is going to do to him, and he looks stricken for a moment. There's a low groan in his throat, eyes closing as one hand comes up to the bridge of his nose where calloused fingers pinch. After a moment, he breathes out a partially growled and gruff, "/Faranth/. Alright, Citaa, get on with it." As for the last, the bronzerider is suddenly sitting up straight, alerted to /something/, perhaps in her words, because suddenly he's leaning in /much/ too close. He doesn't touch the slight of a thing, but he's not bothering to tone down the menace when he towers - not that he's trying to be /mean/. "Are you serious? Is this a joke?" He leans back then, hand hovering over his shirt. "I already had some Klah." He's looking at her pointedly, as if to say DO YOU KNOW WHAT UNGODLY HOUR OF THE MORNING IT IS, WOMAN? "So can I go then?" Now /he/ is smiling oh-so-pleasantly, looking much like a cat who's just caught a canary.

"No, Ila. It doesn't." Cita can admit when she's in the vicinity of wrong — although she looks a little like she's bitten down on a lemon. Maybe grapefruit, rind and all. It's not exactly annoyed, but maybe on the sour side — being wrong is so not her style. All right, all the time, man. The singsong delivery of her name gets a slightly softer look from the candidate, head inclining in a quick nod. For the stricken look, the healer doesn't have a well of sympathy; she smiles a little, but it's tight, almost wary. Is he a runner? You never know when you're going to have to full-on tackle somebody. SHE WOULD DO IT, TOO. She's in the middle of a "Thank you, Ila, I appreciate your coopera —" when he springs up, and Cita's eyes narrow lopsidedly. One twitches a little. Being towered over might frighten her a little, but her response to fear isn't exactly fleeing for the hills. Cita scowls thunderously, eyes sparking as she squares her shoulders and glares. "I'm not joking." The healer manages a tone that isn't actually a growl, but is a little sharp for professionalism, jaw setting. One breath. Two. And he leans back, and Cita relaxes marginally and loses some o the scowl, not quite managing to stop the flick of her eyes ceiling-wards. Faranth. "You don't need to worry about that. I'll account for the klah, but if you don't settle down, it will. We'd have to do it again." Also they have RESULTS FROM NOT THAT LONG AGO SO IT TOTALLY DOESN'T MATTER, not that she's going to admit that. She ain't dumb. Cita sighs, pointing to the pillow, raising her eyebrows. "Please?" A beat, and the candidate adds, tone calmer: "The sooner we get it done with, the sooner I can bring you klah from over ther," Vague gesture at a hearth. "Ours is the best in the Weyr." Bribery. Nice.

"No, it doesn't," Ila'den repeats, tone soft as though he is conceding a point to her. HE'S NOT. HE'S JUST RUBBING IT IN THAT HE'S RIGHT because he's a jerk. NOT CUTE. And so here they are, Cita with her Lemon-Face, Ila with his shit-eating grin, and then he's interrupting her polite admissions when his cooperation goes ALL TO HELL. When Ila'den is looming, the note he's taken of her scowl is rewarded with an even bigger smile. "You're fierce," he observes, amused, praising, and enjoying every little nuance in behavior that she exhibits in the span of so many few seconds. There's laughter that bubbles up, low and husky, and then she's /scolding/ him with her Healer-voice and Ila'den's looking far from chastised. Suddenly, he's leaning close again, this time non-threatening, so that he's practically nose-to-nose with the woman. Grey eyes jump between Cita's, as if trying to read something there, and seeming to /not/ like what he finds. Suddenly Ila'den is sitting back, pulling on his tunic as he tells her, "Nope." YEP. HE'S JUST GONNA NOPE THE HELL OUTTA THERE. But he doesn't just stop there, no. Instead, the man gains his full height, studies Cita for just a moment, and then halls the wee lass up and over his shoulders in a fireman carry. He's leaving his riding jacket because WE HAVE TO HAVE A REASON FOR HIM TO GO BACK LATER, AMIRITE? (or you can BURN IT) and smiling gregariously at the slack-jawed journeyman he's just passed. "Borrowing this!" he chimes in, and then he's shouldering the door to the infirmary open, carting his (probably furious and thrashing) prey with him. Don't worry, Cita. NOBODY CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM. Except for everybody.

Half Moon Bay Weyr - Candidates' Barracks
Carved from a natural bubble in the volcanic stone, this small dorm room has room enough to hold around two dozen occupants comfortably. Along the walls are stationed sets of cots and clothes presses, each made up to the standards of the weyrwoman. Above, the soft white light from electric lamps cast down during waking hours.

GUESS WHAT GUYS! It's /STORMING/, and the piss poor weather has brought in the one thing nobody wants to see in the barracks: a stray Ila. There's some kind of a commotion outside (PROBABLY THE USELESS GUARDS; GET THEM FIRED, HEYRN), followed shortly thereafter by the emergence of SOME KIND OF CREATURE in the doorway. WAH-BAM. LIGHTNING FIZZLE. THE THUNDER ROOOOOLLLLS, AND THE ILA STRIKES! But contrary to his usual /arrival/, there is no candidate running away, cowering in fear, or looking perplexed by being singled out by this oh-so-cheerfully-rude bronzerider: no, today the candidate is /already over his shoulders/. SAY HELLO TO HIS LITTLE CITA. Yep, Ila's carting a (probably not too happy) healer on his shoulders, without ceremony, and the both of them are thoroughly soaked from the deluge that decided to open up on their way over from the infirmary. Ila'den's shirt is clinging to muscle, and his hair is ALL UP IN CITA'S FACE, doing gravity-defying things that would make Pritkin's hair envious. And then there, like that: he deposits the little lady (gently) onto her feet. All smiles. "/Now/ I don't have to get poked." IS HE WRONG? HE IS SO NOT WRONG. And /evil/.

"- AND FURTHER, I HAVE LEGS. WORKING ONES." LIGHTNING FLASHES. CITAYZLEAT SCOWLS. She's given up on squirming — a long fall into the mud or stone floor would just be undignified — but that doesn't mean she's happy. She's got Ila's hair in her face, she's soaked to her bones, and ILA'DEN THINKS HE'S A FUNNY FUNNY MAN. Cita ain't helping, either; he's going to have to keep her from dropping or she'll take him with her. She's in the middle of trying to remove the hair from her face when she's finally lowered to the ground, and the healer at least has the good sense not to flail too much as she's set back on her feet. Maybe she'll find this hilarious later (probably), but right now that eye is twitching like mad. The vein in her temple might actually bust. Cita drips for several seconds, apparently completely lost for words, jaw working soundlessly. "You — don't —" She stammers, swaying a little and scowling, flinging water off of her arms and shifting so she's got her balance again. "You —" THE RAGE STAMMERS oh noes. "THERE WASN'T AN EASIER WAY TO SAY THAT YOU REFUSE MEDICAL ADVICE?" It's maybe not yelled so much as. Well. Bats and dogs have a better chance of grasping the register Cita's voice has climbed into.

There are ENOUGH STRAYS IN THE BARRACKS ALREADY, thank you, Ila'den. One in particular perks up for the bronzerider's dramatic entrance, green eyes slotting open with a bright 'prr!' of recognition. A little grey kitten, who has been fitted with a slim leather collar and a nametag in the time since she appeared on his bunk, all but leaps from Heryn's chest when the man enters, meowing tiny little meows when he stops long enough that she can wind between his legs, wet or no wet. HELLO, IS IT TIME TO GO HOME?! THIS HAS BEEN A FUN VACATION BUT SHE'D LIKE TO GO NOW. OH HELLO CITA. MEW! Heryn at least doesn't look like he's about to sock it to Ila'den for having another candidate - especially Citayzleat - flung over his shoulder. Maybe it's because he heard Ila's parting words last they'd met. Maybe because Cita's already mad enough for the entire weyr and maybe a few cotholds, too, and her rage is far scarier than anything he could ever hope to inflict. Maybe he's just that impressed by the man's ability to make a striking entrance because DAMN GURL GARTH BROOKS TAKE ME NOW. Regardless, both eyebrows go up, blue-grey gaze switching from bronzer to Healer and back before inserting himself into the situation with a drawled, "And what kind of hour do you call this?" in his best chiding-wife voice.

"Do you now?" Ila'den responds to Cita, calm and cheery as if this were an everyday occurrence: Cita being kidnapped from her duties by Ila'den, carted screaming through the weyr in pouring rain. AND YOU KNOW ILA'DEN WOULDN'T LET HER FALL. Or at least, he wouldn't let her fall and feel /good/ about it, so he keeps a very tight hold on her, even though she's forfeited THE GOOD FIGHT in favor of submission on one front and verbal war on the other. "Oi, oi, oi, little bird. That's my /ear/," comes that huskily amused burr, as if DESTROYING CITA'S DIGNITY (let's be honest: that will never happen) wasn't good enough reason to earn a ruptured eardrum or two. When Cita shoves at his hair, Ila rolls his neck on his shoulders, and then HE IS RID OF HER. BYE FELICIA. Well, rid of her /proximity-wise/, anyway. Ila'den watches the healer's /fascinating/ range of facial expression (from 'I'm about to have a rage-stroke' angry to 'DIE' angry - in his mind, of course), having the good grace to /attempt/ looking properly chastised as she rounds back on him. Those arms come up on either side of his head, palms forward, as if to show he is a HELPLESS MAN CREATURE and he MEANS NO HARM. When she sways, Ila'den's already reaching out a hand to steady her should she go over (though he doesn't touch her), and then he's giving her another smile (one that actually reaches his eyes), baring all teeth as he rasps out a husky, "No." in response to her question. He couldn't? NO. NO HE COULD NOT. "I suppose I'm as good at getting my point across as you are." There's a pointed look for Pritkin's cot, though the candidate is /gone/. And then there is a kitten, and Ila'den is blinking down at the tiny-cute before hunkering into a squat to gently thumb kitten ears and scratch along the side of chins. "Alright, little one?" he croons, the big bear all mushy-man-fluff when furballs are there. AND THEN THERE'S HERYN. Heryn, Heryn, Heryn, who gets fixed with grey eyes that are smiling and full of boyish /mischief/. "Ila-hour. /Or/, you-keep-that-sharding-needle-away-from-me hour. It could /also/ be I'm-about-to-get-thrown-in-jail-again hour, but I'll let you choose what hour it is." CHOOSE INDEED. And then Ila'den's furrowing his brows, adopting a tone and look of innocence (AND RAW HOPE) as he tags on a lilting, "Please-don't-hit-me-again hour?" as an afterthought.

Lips curl off to one corner in a crooked smile when Ila'den goes all man-mush over the kitten, blue-grey gaze lingering as the little grey pushes her whiskers forward and purrs out a little chirp for the chin scratches. The very tip of the fluffball's tail undulates, radiating cat-happiness before she rears up on her hind legs to butt her head against Ila's hand. "Guess that confirms that," Heryn says as though he ever actually doubted the feline's origins. And then… "Ila-hour," he repeats sardonically, one brow lowering again order to fix him with a dubious look. "I don't even want to know what kind of hour that is." There's a glance to Cita for that needle-hour bit - she didn't really pull him for an exam right?!, that look reads - though he does snort and snort hard for the idea of the older man being thrown back in jail. "It'll be your own damn fault if you are." Still, it won't be Heryn that puts him there, though he does slot a contemplative look Ila's way for that only-too-innocent question. Instead of answering right away, the bartender gets to his feet and pads in their direction, grabbing a folded towel from his trunk and dropping it onto one of Cita's shoulders. He leans his own elbow on the same shoulder, and if Ila'den is boyish, that leaves Heryn to take on the mantle of being the devilish one; he wears it well, smirk going decidedly sharp around the edges as he speaks to the Healer, though his gaze never quite leaves Ila'den. "What do you think? Should I punch him?"

DON'T JUDGE HER, HERYN. Cita shoots a one-eye-narrow, one-wide glare at her fellow candidate, who obviously underestimates Cita's propensity for being TERRIBLY RUDE and torturous. SHUSH, YOU. "Exam hour." HUFF. Bereft of her ill-advised revenge, the healer squints at Ila, lips pursing out in a thoughtful glare. The helpless man-creature act gets one of those eyes narrowed basically all the way closed, twitching dangerously. "You — aren't." Oh look. She still can't formulate sentences without falling into a screechy rage. Coughing the high-octave squeak out of her voice, Cita crosses her arms over her chest and taps a foot. "That wasn't good? I got the point, actually." Clearly caught between not actually completely disrespecting some sort of vague authority (snrk cackle) figure and THROTTLING HIM AND DRAGGING HIM BACK ACROSS THE BOWL BY HIS EAR, the healer settles on twitching. Again. Glancing down at that blasted kitten ruins it, though. Cita tries very hard not to melt even a little, but scowling more grumpily doesn't help, especially since the little cat is awfully adorable. Help. "Ila'den! You could be anemic, or — wormy! Or. I'm not that bad at drawing blood!" The squeaking is back, because OFFENSE. DISHONOR. IT CANNOT STAND. Except she really IS that bad with a needlethorn, and fleeing like a bat out of hell was a great plan. Heryn dropping a towel and an elbow onto Cita's shoulder seems to calm her, actually, from a working-back-up cranky-pants and into a vague kind of disgruntlement. "You'll hurt your hand and him and we'd get in trouble for dragging him across the bowl to treat the both of you." Grumble grumble SIGH.

"Confirms what?" Ila'den inquires, still feigning innocence like HE WAS BORN TO DO IT. "I just have a way with cats. Isn't that right, pretty girl? Yes I do. YezIdo." The last is said in the least-manly tones one can possibly imagine, crooning AS IF HE IS NOT standing (read: squatting) there, dripping rain in quarters he's /not supposed to be in/, after cave-manning Cita from the infirmary and returning her 'safely' (NOT sanely) home. "And what name did you get?" he inquires, speaking directly to the kitten as calloused fingers gently catch at the little grey's collar to look. When she bunts his hand, Ila'den gives her another ear rub with his thumbs and then sinks his head down to her height, catching her little kitty face between both palms so that he can plant a kiss right on her little kitty nose. "Sibila is a good name. Congratulations, little one." But then Heryn is invading with TOWELS AND ABS (maybe not abs, but YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN) and THREATENING TO PUNCH HIM (getting a vote, anyway, from the ANTI-ILA COALLITION). Ila'den opens his mouth, closes it, and then gives Heryn his most /winning/ smile. How will he deflect? "Ila-hour is the /best/ hour you know. It involves a lot of —" Shrieking healers, who come back to their senses and threaten EXAMS. Ila puts his hands out as if to ward her off, and she just /keeps/ going, with her cute, dripping fury. Ila'den straightens back up to his full height, moments before he blinks. "W-/Wormy/, Cita? I'm not a cat." He is trying his best not to laugh, but the effort is pulling at the corner of his lips anyway and he fails, and only once he's caught his breath does he breathe: "I'm sure you're very good at your craft, little bird. And she's right, Heryn. What would the people think?" He is being DEVIOUS, AND TEASING, AND PLAYFUL, but at least he's not being ILA'DEN STORMRAGE (see wut i did thar) and adding to the pile of reasons people want to maim him. Well… Unless you're Cita, anyway.

Heryn's brow hits peak raise for Ila'den's continued attempt at innocence, humor running a hard undercurrent in his tone. "You have a way with something," he agrees. A WAY WITH BULLSHIT. Still, ain't nobody can deny the cats bit either, not when Sibila love-nibbles at Ila's fingers before her little body goes all OH NOES for kisses. This, more than anything else, gets her to back off loving on the bronzerider, one little paw batting after his retreating face before she scarpers over to hide behind one of her new human's legs. Ila'den's smile earns a grin in return, but whereas Ila'den's is winning, Heryn's is dark and full of all kinds of promises. Punchy ones? Enjoyable ones? It's hard to tell. As for Cita, Heryn lives under no such disillusions; he saw what she did to those tongue depressers that one time! He knows that her revenge can be swift and stabby! It just… doesn't stop him from being an ass, alas. He sighs loudly at her for her insistence on Exam Hour in a very 'we TALKED ABOUT THIS' manner, but he really just CAN'T keep it together when the Healer calls Ila'den wormy, of all things. The man honest-to-Faranth cackles, dropping away from the woman's shoulder to turn and cough his way through a wave of laughter. "Wormy," he parrots because he can't quite manage anything else, eventually recovering with an amused wheeze. "Oh, Cita. However did I live before you." There is, perhaps, a small pout for her final decision on the Ila'den-punching front, but it's wry and short-lived, held only long enough to glance the bronzerider over before sighing in a put-upon fashion. "Oh, alright. I suppose we can go more than one interaction without my trying to rearrange some part of your person." He's SO MAGNANIMOUS YOU GUYS. So magnanimous.

Okay, the kitten-cuddling version of Ila'den is a lot more adorable than hauling-her-across-the-bowl Ila. Cita doesn't give in to the temptation to go all melty, but she does grumble something about sharding dragonriders into the towel, or possibly Heryn, whichever is closer to wipe her face on. She's not real picky, and is also TERRIBLE, he was being NICE, CITA. The rider's hand-up don't-get-me look doesn't deter the healer any, still, and neither does that trying-not-to-laugh look. "Have you ever seen blood worms?" Are they even a thing? MAYBE. Cita is arch, not quite sticking her nose up in the air and harrumphing like some sort of old grumpy dude, but it's close. "I suppose you won't know, now." HUFF. Like he needs to know if he's going to star growing worms. And AS FOR HERYN, the healer scowls, narrowing her eyes. SHE DOES WHAT SHE WANTS. And what she wants is to AVENGE HER BOYS. Or possibly just screw with poor Ila, because it totally works. She might not avenge this one any more if he keeps cackling, though. "WORMY." Cita doesn't actually stomp her foot, but it's a close thing, shuffling grumpily to squint up at both men. She's not smiling. Definitely not. Lips aren't even twitching a little. At least it's better than the eye-twitch. "I suppose. Maybe next time, then." EYE. ROLL. Cita drops into a crouch, winding the towel around her neck and making kissy-noises at teeny Sibila. "C'mere, kitty. You're smarter than both of them, aren't you? Who's a smart girl. Hi kitty."

Ila'den is not at all put off by kitty rejection, seeming to momentarily lose focus as his bronze invades to ensure the WELL-BEING OF HIS PEACE OFFERING. THAT HE WILL TAKE BACK, OK. DON'T MAKE HIM KITTEN-NAP SIBILA. HE WILL SEND IN HIS HENCHFLITS AND THEN WHERE WILL WE BE. "Oh do I?" comes Ila'den's sudden croon, sounding more seductive and less hehe-haha; don't worry, Heryn - Ila'den is just teasing (and continuing the game of no take-backsies). "I have a way with a lot of things," he intones, grey eyes sinking back to fixate on Cita, who is on about blood worms and stomping her feet, and doing all manner of things that only seem to further amuse the bronzerider. When she crouches, he crouches with her, reaching out to gently tap her nose with the pad of his thumb. "You're cute," in informs her, around husky laughter. It's more the way a father would say it to his own /daughter/, BUT TAKE HIS COMPLIMENTS OKAY. AND THEN SECOND WAH-BAM OF THE EVENING. There, looming (not so looming) in the doorway is /tiny/ thing, looking as if she has enough fury to rival Cita. The aforementioned tiny-thing is stomp-stomp-stomping her way into the candidate barracks and pausing next to Ila with her hand on her hips, leaning forward so that when Ila looks up, he's being greeted by a FACE FULL OF SISTER. Kiltara is another Ila-clone (and /obviously/ Kiorel's mama), with long, thick, curling black hair and grey eyes fringed by thick lashes. "Are you done?" she inquires, tone falsely sweet. Ila'den /actually/ has the good sense to look apologetic. Suddenly, Kit straightens and smiles for both candidates, no trace of irritation for her brother evident. "I'm /really/, /really/ sorry. Please don't hit him," a pointed look for Heryn, "or get him thrown in jail again. He's an idiot, but he means well." And then she's glowering at her brother again, and grabbing him by the ear so that she can TUG and force him to stand. It's impressive, considering he's a good foot taller than she is. "Kio and Kat are waiting for you, Ila." And then she's giving the bronzerider a MIGHTY PUSH. Ila'den laughs, batting away Kit's hands before leaning down to press a kiss onto her cheek. "Alright, alright, little sister. I'm going. Don't get yourself in a tizzy, baby." And despite the firm look on her face, it's obvious she's melting inside. OKAY. ILA IS LEAVING, Kit is turning one last look on the candidates to mouth 'thank you', and then she's off after him, all five feet of her.

Sibila is TOTALLY WELL, THANK YOU TEIMYRTH. Though she might have taken up residence behind Heryn's foot for a moment, all-too-soon a tiny kitten butt appears on the far side of his ankle. It wiggles. It drops. She pounces! Poor Cita. Doomed to be the kitten's plaything for all time. That's what she gets for wiping her face off on Heryn's arm! Meanwhile, Heryn flashes Ila'den a wolfish grin for that crooned question, shoulders rolling in an only-too-casual shrug. "You could." He sounds less teasing there, but only for a second, jocularity returning with a bright, "I have heard that." From the source, even. He doesn't expound upon that though, if only for Cita's sanity, instead snorting for the bronzer's nose touch and just waiting for that to go ten kinds of poorly before — SISTERRUPTION. There is no mistaking Kiorel's mother, to the point where Heryn almost stares, gaze switching between crouching Ila (HIDDEN DRAGON) and Kiltara with a soft, "Huh." Heryn recovers when Kit straightens and focuses on them, smiling pleasantly at first before blue-grey eyes go rolling — good-naturedly, but rolling just the same. "That was one time," the man mumbles, because EVERYBODY LIKES TO BRING THAT UP, but NOBODY mentions the time Ila kissed Heryn, or tripped him, or sprayed him down with glitter, or backed him around threateningly. WHY DOES NOBODY RUB THAT IN ILA'S FACE HMM? Harrumph. "No worries," he adds at any rate, if only to make that sound less assholish, which clearly Kiltara doesn't deserve because she's pulling Ila'den around by his ears and if that isn't an image he'll treasure for some time, I'm not sure what is. Heryn actually brightens for mention of Kio, calling a cheerful "Tell her I said hi!" after the retreating bronzer. There is a blink for Kiltara's word-mouthing, and though he waves them off, it takes Heryn a long beat of silence to speak again. "Did she just thank us?" Bemused, he shakes his head before making his way back to his bed, kitten following at his feet after giving Cita one last bat. Onto the cot he flops, graceless to the end, taking up the journal he was reading before he was so RUDELY INTERRUPTED. "Such a strange man."

Ila'den is not a kitten. Ila'den is significantly more vexing than…a…actually, Ila might be a kitten. Or anyways as cute-slash-insane-making as one. Distracted as she is by 'noooooo' dramatic-flailing her fingers at the attacking baby-cat, the healer still eyes Ila. Curiosly, and not warily, at least? She's pretty sure he's not going to haul her off anywhere else. Cita squints at the rider, and when he taps her nose, she looks for a moment like she's considering chomping down on that finger. The declaration of her adorableness, all paternal and laugh-y, though, throws the poor healer again. "I'm —" Blink. And no, she's NOT LISTENING, HERYN. THANK FARANTH FOR DISTRACTIONS from cranky siblings. "We didn't get him thrown in jail." Mumbles Heryn's shadow, mimicking his tone and shooting the other candidate a look that might be amusement. You're just not going to live it down, buddy. Cita stands after a beat, eyeballing Ila'den with amusement now. Bossed around by tiny ladies. It's a good look. "Nice to meet you!" A beat. "DON'T FORGET YOUR EXAM, ILA'DEN. TOMORROW." She did that. Right in front of his sister who seems to hold sway over him, too. RUDE. Clearing her throat delicately, like she hadn't just been bellowing loudly enough to wake the whole barracks up, Cita stalks over to her cot and grabs for dry clothes. "Strange is one word. He doesn't think I'll vaccinate him for blood worms." Mutter mutter. "Like a sack of tubers. In the rain." MUTTER MUTTER.

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