Mark My Words

Writers: Halyonix, Iluva
Date Posted: 2nd April 2025

Characters: Th'reyos, S'yen
Description: Syerin plays a game of cards with Th'reyos
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 3, day 16 of Turn 12
Notes: Mentioned: Halia, Nosarre, Ashela, M'kayre, I'serin, T'lonas

Th'reyos

S'yen

Syerin was about to make Th'reyos's night. Possibly in more than one way if the cards fell right. And there would be cards. With saucy smirk, Syerin tossed the the worn pack on the table, following it with a small bottle of rum, as he sat down across from Th'reyos and said, "Deal me in, handsome."

"I usually only let L'val talk to me that way," Th'reyos arched a brow defiantly at the Candidate, though the cards were already in his nimble hands. Most of his wingmates had dispersed at this hour; Zarkarth was in his customary post-Threadfall dead sleep, satisfied with having flamed everything that fell in front of him to dust, whereas his rider rarely turned in early afterwards (or sometimes at all) and was prepared to make Syerin eat his dust.

"That your bet? Or your courage, my man?" The bottle of rum looked to be of decent quality, though winning was always the better thrill. Having dealt them each a hand, Th'reyos leaned back indolently in his seat.

"Something to share," Syerin replied. He waved his hand at the bottle, inviting Th'reyos to partake. "My bet is a full mark." He pulled out a full mark from his pocket, twirled it in his fingers, then slid it to the middle of the table between them. "We Candidates don't get a lot of money-making chances so don't drain me dry, okay?"

"I don't make promises I can't keep," Th'reyos said with a sly smile, nodding his genuine thanks as he took a shot, "but I'll do my best." Candidates _didn't_ get many opportunities for marks or rum, but he wasn't about to insult Syerin by refusing either. His own bet got tossed between them and then he considered his cards with an impassive face that belied the manic energy of his bouncing knee.

His hand was decent enough to start off with, but too early to tell where it would lead. He looked over them at Syerin, curious. "So how long you been a Candidate?"

"Long enough to hate answering that question now," Syerin replied sourly, but it was partly because the cards in his hand were definitely the losing kind. Now he wished he hadn't started with the whole mark bet. He still had a few marks in his pocket but if this was going to be his streak, he was going to be empty-handed soon.

At least he wouldn't be sober.

He set his cards down for a moment to pour two drinks of the rum. "How long have you been a rider?"

"Ah, you're one of those." Th'reyos remarked knowingly, eyeing him with casual curiosity. Eventually laying down a card and picking up a drink, he drawled, "Probably as long as you've been alive, but that makes me feel kinda old. He's prickly too." And thankfully asleep, otherwise it'd be two of them against one -- and he didn't like those odds quite as much.

"Huh. Prickly? Well, I guess it takes all types to make Pern go 'round," Syerin said. He revealed his card -- and his loss -- to Th'reyos, running his tongue idly along his lips as he drew his next card. "I've seen you at Cyan parties before. You go home with that greenrider the other night?"

"That it does." Th'reyos agreed, thoroughly enjoying the irony of still being in prickly company long after his dragon had drifted into the depths of a dream. "Yeah, I don't mind it. Even if he _is_ the type to yell at bad weather when he wants to fly. Or me. He sure likes a _fight_." There was no small amount of endearment to his words, and no small amount of sympathy in his whistle at Syerin's reveal. "Yikes." He chuckled. Tough luck.

The brownrider took his time selecting his next card, totally unhurried. "He's the best though. I know all riders say that. They're all right, o'course. But he chose my dumb teenage ass out of everyone. First person to actually choose _me_ or want me. Ever." The tense vibrato in his knee granted focus, like a valve releasing quick bursts of post-combat adrenaline. Above the table, it was only the suddenness of his eyes finding the right card that contrasted to his languid posture. "He's the best thing there is."

"Aside from greenriders." He smirked, covering Syerin's card with his own. "Got one sneaking you in to Cyan parties?"

"A greenrider?" Syerin repeated. He made a snorting sound. "Shells no. He rides blue. He's the flavor of the sevenday honestly." They all were usually. And Syerin was fine with that. He didn't want committment, he just wanted sex. His tongue continued to trace his lips idly as he looked over his hand. It was promising but he didn't want to give Th'reyos the pleasure of thinking he had an easy win. Syerin wagered only a quarter mark this time. He tossed back another shot of rum. "You like a good fight with your lover?" he asked. Some people were like that. Started fights with their partners so that the sex was better after.

"A bluerider," Th'reyos echoed, though that translated into almost no meaning to him: any of his blue mates were the type, or flavor to bring a candidate. He shook his head and took a shot. Then he feigned a yawn, tossing his next bet between them lazily, trying to goad him just a little, before seriously starting to consult his hand. It was not terrible. It could work.

Syerin's next question had his eyes sliding up to the candidate's with a subtle arch in his brow. "Sure," he answered. Hold candidates were rarely this direct. "what's not to like?" Nevermind that something in Th'reyos' smirk said he liked a bad or unfair fight just as much as a good one. He laid his next card down and gestured for Syerin to lay his. "It depends though. Not all the time, and not with every lover. I'm not usually into straight up pain for pleasure unless it's a special occasion or the like."

"I don't mind it a little rough," Syerin said as he laid down his card and took the win. They shuffled, redrew, reset. Syerin tossed down another quarter mark bet. "If the moment is right. A good bite in the right place is almost as good as an orgasm." This hand didn't look as good. Syerin did a shot. "You got a wager on who's gonna Impress that gold egg?" he asked.

"_Exactly_, my man. You get it. In the right place and at the right time," Th'reyos winked. He gave a husky laugh, which he chased with a shot. The liquid was quickly losing its bite, which helped ameliorate the gutting revelation that his next hand was irredeemably _dreadful_.

"Oh yeah, me and the rest of the Weyr." He answered, tossing his next bet in all the same. "I dunno her, but this girl Halia was the longshot, so she got my mark. If our little underdog gets the gold, the next ten bottles are on me." After a moment of deliberation, the brownrider tossed the least shittiest of his cards down for Syerin's enjoyment. "Got a color you're hoping for?"

Syerin deftly collected his winnings as he said, "Any. If a boy could ride a gold, I'd take that too. I just want a sharding dragon so I can get started with my life." He dealt out the next round of cards, took another drink, seethed as he settled back to review his hand. "My wager for the gold is Nosarre. She's pompous enough."

"A boy on a gold - see I knew I'd see somethin' good when I transferred here." Th'reyos snorted amusent, absently rubbing the stubble on his chin as their newest fans of cards took shape.

And they was... Terrible. He didn't know Nosarre, but he knew for one thing his hand was terrible. Now Th'reyos snorted for a different reason, thinking of a certain former Weyrwoman's Second with fond amusement. Frankly since Ashela's departure, dinner talk had been remarkably blasé if it wasn't about Threadfall, and the promise of a new gold had injected plenty of anticipation, and competition, among the ranks.

Slamming a shot, Th'reyos raised another to Syerin. "Good luck to you, Nosarre or Halia. It's mostly raw meat and dragon shit for a while," nothing about his smile said that was a detraction, "but at least you'll have good company."

Syerin would gladly take that if it meant he had a dragon. It would be well worth it. "If Nosarre gets the gold though, we'll never hear the end of it. Isn't her father M'kayre? Wouldn't that be just a fitting nepotism there." His hand, however, looked better than the topic at hand. He increased his wager a little.

"_M'kayre_? Shit." Th'reyos' scoff was more akin to a disgusted chuckle. "Didn't know he had a kid. On a gold..." he mimed a shudder. Then in one fluidly lazy motion that squared up his bet, plucked a random card to lay, and slapped the rest of his hand faces up for all to see, the brownrider extended his long arms over his head with several pleasing pops. "That stick up his ass gets any bigger, he won't to worry about sitting at I'serin's desk, anyway."

It was rapidly reaching that point in the night when alcohol paired with the sharpness of adrenaline couldn't be contained by cards much longer; his veins were humming, singing almost. And with Zarkarth still sleeping, his grin was far more feral than it ought given there was only one, maybe two cards that Syerin could play worse worse than his.

Gesturing to the spoils in front of them, Th'reyos drawled, "Alright, my man, winner take all. Show me what ya got."

Syerin had won the last few hands but his lucky streak was ended with this one. As Th'reyos slapped down his cards, Syerin ran his tongue over his teeth as his lips twisted into a wry smile. He laid out his losing hand with a dismissive flourish. "Well played," he congratulated dryly.

Th'reyos' pupils dilated until there wasn't any hazel left to dilate, the feline-like smile taking most of his thin face. "Oooooh," he exclaimed softly as a sudden thrill went through him -- the reveal was almost as good as betweening in and out of heavy Threadfall, the dance of chasing life and dodging death; sometimes, depending on the conditions, it was a surprise to find he'd won.

"That's some shit luck there. You play like you've got the whole Weyr to bet." It wasn't said like a detraction. His spindly fingers lazily collecting and pocketing the marks, it did feel a little like thievery taking it all from a Candidate, regardless if it was willingly bet and fairly won. But no matter. Th'reyos could tell Syerin was the type to get scrappy just by looking at him, and he wasn't about to goad the guy now.

"All right young Candidate," --well, a little goading. "You're probably late for curfew. If T'lonas asks if I've been taking advantage of you, I ain't gonna lie." The brownrider gave a mock salute. "Good luck at the Hatching."

"Don't get too attached to those marks," Syerin said smartly. "I'll be back for them soon enough."

"I'll be here."

Last updated on the April 15th 2025

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Mark My Words