Late night snack (Nyche)

For a minute, he just stops and stares. Part of him wants to rail at her for taking the leftovers, leftovers that hungry drudges might want the next morning before they start work, but wasn't that exactly what he was going to do? Then again, he's been hard at work. Kharouth's not a small beast, cleaning him takes energy, and this woman rides... What is it, again? He can't remember, but certainly nothing like his bronze. For that matter, women barely pull their weight in training or in the fighting wings, so it's no wonder he doesn't remember her name.

The name she's given him? Well. THAT needs to be handled.

"That's an interesting way to address a rider who outranks you," he says, and he sidles right over her, reaching to take the sweetroll from her hand. He won't eat something once it's gotten her spit all over it, but if he has his way she won't have it, either. Maybe he can give it to Lys. "Did you ever stop to think that some of the drudges might get hungry tomorrow, when they have to get up before dawn to start cooking? There's such a thing as /moderation/."

Whether he manages to take the roll or not, he steps back now, putting a little space between them.

He arches an eyebrow, and crosses his arms. "That's no way to speak to anyone. There's a certain level of decorum riders are expected to display." And he won't hesitate to register a complaint, either. Eyes narrowed, he stares her down, refusing to lower his gaze as courtesy would dictate.

And then he turns away. None of her speech registers. He's interested in getting something to eat, and in getting an apology for that mouth of hers. Her self-importance can be brushed aside without a second thought. Instead, he walks past her, reaching up onto the shelves to see what else comes to hand. Hard rolls of bread are the first thing he finds, and while they're not nearly as appetizing, they'll do. He scoops up two of them, grasping them with one hand, and continues his search. His back is turned to her as she talks.

::Remind me to have a word with someone tomorrow about this,:: he says to Kharouth, and he can almost hear the rumble of the dragon's laughter off in the distance.

~I've never liked felines. They take my food, too.~ the dragon doesn't so much as allow fire lizards to nibble at his kills, not until he's through with them, but some felines are bold enough to try it. ~You could have taken that from her, if you were quicker. The little one would have liked that.~

How she can think being a Lordholder’s son is a sign of weakness, he isn’t sure. But he certainly doesn’t see it as such. “Some of us were just made for greatness,” and though the words come out as a sarcastic sneer, they’re not far from the truth, in his mind. He can’t help but bark a laugh, though, at her next suggestion. “I’ve only been out of weyrlinghood five years, one of those spent on the sidelines from injury. You can’t possibly expect someone with so little experience to be elevated to that sort of position.”

He glances over his shoulder at her next accusation, and the look he throws her is like that of a frustrated crecheworker to a bratty child. “The concern you show for the men who keep the weyr running is overwhelming.”

“You don’t understand a thing about hold life,” and he casually tears off a piece of the hardroll in his teeth .It’s not satisfying, but he chews and swallows it down anyway. “There’s a lot of work to be done, keeping everyone supplied and happy. You can’t just swoop in and claim things you haven’t worked for,” though riders do work hard. They simply don’t produce the way others do. “I wouldn’t expect you to know much about that, though. Riding might be work, but growing up in a weyr is a cakewalk.” He takes another bite of the roll, and turns back to face her.

“I’m an excellent flyer, and odds are I will be wingsecond someday, if not wingleader. Regardless of any of that, you addressed me rudely for no reason, and that sort of petty behavior between riders is frowned on. I could care less about your personal bias. Kharouth and I fly as well as any weyrbred bratling, and you will treat me with respect.”

There’s an ease in his tone, even though she’s shown him nothing but disrespect, thrown nothing at him but insults. It’s as though he simply expects her to eventually break down and give in, which truth be told, he does. He’s little faith in her ability to recognize or properly treat her betters, but for once, he actually does have the codes of the weyr on his side. Flagrant disrespect to a fellow rider isn’t exactly encouraged. He would know, he's been flagged for it often enough. At least he's got enough sense not to try to cause her physical harm, though she's certainly pressing on his last nerve.

There’s no indication Kharouth has even heard Raxth, he doesn’t respond. However, the dragon does pass on her apology to R’lar. The man’s not one to be so easily satisfied, however. He’ll keep this in mind, he’ll commit to memory. And for that matter, if he remembers, maybe he will make that complaint. He’s finished the first roll and half of the second, but his stomach’s reminding him what he passed up thanks to Nyche’s greedy paws.

That purr hits lower than he intended, but no, he can’t really enjoy this exchange. Not unless he comes out on top, but they seem firmly locked into a stalemate. He manages to find a small bin of redfruit, and after helping himself to one, he’s in at least somewhat of a better mood. Casting a disdainful glance in Nyche’s direction, he simply says, “You do dishonor to our station.” Then he swaggers out of the kitchens.