Excuse Me, Witch

Characters Molochai, Sigrid
Synopsis It's hot. But not that kind of hot.
Out-of-Character Date March 31, 2019

Igen Weyr - Inner Caverns
Igen's inner cavern is smaller than the main living cavern, but isn't small by any stretch of the imagination. Tables and comfortable chairs are placed about the room, clustered together, and often-occupied spinning wheels and a large loom sit in one corner. A small corner-table holds klah and various crudites and appetizers, refreshed constantly by the kitchen's staff. The walls and much of the floor are covered with a mosaic of colorful rugs, many handcrafted by Igen residents, dampening noises and giving the cavern a more intimate feel than its size immediately would suggest.

The scene: midday, sunshine forever persistent, the caverns bustling with activity: aunties and crafters upon the spinning wheels, kitchen staff keeping drinks in supply, and, suddenly, a rather flustered looking Sigrid stumbling down the steep stairs as though making haste away from something. Trip. Book slip. A near crash into someone else, followed by a hasty apology as she rights herself and smoothes flyaway blonde hair with a stroke of her hand. Cool. Calm. Collected. Didn't happen. She's got this. Totally. Nobody saw it (except that guy, but like, who's he going to tell anyways). She's definitely not paying too much attention to her state of being to the point where she's about to crash into someone else. No. That's preposterous.

THE SECOND SCENE: the-sun-is-trying-to-kill-us, forever persistent heat doing its best to melt everyone and everything, the caverns bustling with those poor, unfortunate souls who think that shade makes desert heat somehow more tolerable. And Sigrid. Sigrid, the hellcat that Molochai had the misfortune of finding himself hiding in a broom closet against; the woman who kissed like she talked: frigid, and cold, and full of fists. The woman who, in her haste to not be wherever she was, slams into one person, and is on a collision path with another — this other. Luckily (or, perhaps, unluckily) for both of them, one of them is paying attention (kind of), and as Sigrid closes in, Molochai doesn't miss a beat of sticking out a hand to waylay her body meeting quite so rudely with his. "Careful," comes easily enough, distracted, and then the predecessor to a sudden, tangible silence. See, Molochai wasn't looking at first, and now that his hand is what he thought was a stranger's lower back (to helpfully guide them around), he's caught. And he's staring. And perhaps if he didn't have on that desert gear that hides everything except for his eyes, he'd be gaping. But for now… for now he at least looks as if he's simply, momentarily, caught by surprise. And forgot how to use words. Because what the hell is she doing here is just as dominate as Of course she's here, idiot, why shouldn't she be?

"Oh!" The exclamation is pitched high as Sigrid springs up on toe-tips, surprised by the sudden presence of so much stranger inside her personal space. Nevermind that it was her that inadvertently placed herself there in her absentminded efforts to get from flustering point A to destination point B - it's still startling to feel a sudden hand at her back, a voice so close to her person, and it's enough to make her bounce like a cat away from a cucumber. "Faranth," comes out on a laugh, light and breathy with embarassment. "Sorry, I-" Blue eyes finally tune in, sweeping down Molochai's desert-ready form with the interest of a foreigner who still hasn't quite adjusted to such customs and finds them rather enjoyable, cheeks quirking with the barest of amusement before teeth bare in a smile. "My apologies. I should have watched where I was going." There's a beat filled with that sudden, tangible silence, one which allows doubt to filter into her gaze, her grin to dim. "Uh, sir." Because maybe he's staring because she's wearing a candidate knot and hasn't observed some peculiar formality. No? Okay then. "Right. Well. I- I should be going. People to do, places to see. No, wait, scratch that, reverse it." Insert a mental facepalm in the form of her eyes pressing shut. "You know what, I'm just gonna. Yeah. Excuse me." And there she goes, clearly to sidle around Molochai's person before she can screw something else up.

Now those eyes are squinting, as if Molochai isn't exactly sure what he's looking at, not when Sigrid calls him sir, and trips over her words, and does some kind of mental gymnastics (or perhaps that's just him) that still doesn't completely cure him of that ever-present amusement. It's in every line of his body, in the set of his shoulders, in the way that corner-crinkled eyes shine a little brighter as he watches her, and keeps watching her until she's excused herself (knot in tow), to continue down the path she was making haste through only moments before. "Fare well," comes soft, a lilt of amusement, a hint of something that might have been the very beginnings of laughter as he adds on, "Witch." And maybe that drag of his fingers is on purpose — or just a sheer reminder that he never quite removed his hand from her lower back, even when she Cat With A Cucumber leaped backward and away from him. And just like that, Molochai is turning back to what he was doing. Staring at a chart, it would seem, and perhaps even trying to decipher what it says (he is, he can't read, RIP).

Things have smacked into walls with less abruptness than the full stop Sig draws herself to, a sharp jerk than ends in stiffening shoulders and a sudden intake of breath. Gone is the loose, flustered, apologetic Harper just trying to make her way through the weyr without executing another faux-pas - here is the girl who earned herself the nickname that has her growling, "Excuse me?" Calculation is in a gaze gone frosty as she turns to face Molochai again, head tilted at an angle that invites him to correct her if she heard him wrong though her expression says oh no, she heard him so very right. Yes, now that she's looking for it, some things here are familiar, despite the brevity of their former encounter. "What did you just call me? Because I know… I know," she says, voice as tight as the steps back into the oversized brute's personal space with far less fear than one of her size should reasonably show, "that if you were that scoundrel of a man you wouldn't dare touch me again, nevertheless address me by so slanderous a term in public." And there she is, five feet of defiance, rocked forwards on the balls of her feet, books tucked under one arm that the other might give him one sharp poke on whatever bit of him is closest. "Would you?"

Was Molochai expecting that reaction? … Probably, if we're being realistic, because he doesn't even look up when Sigrid rounds back with that, 'Excuse me.' "You already said that," comes husky smooth, amusement in every syllable, lingering in his eyes, even, when — HERE SHE COMES — the little hellcat doesn't practice Newton's First Law, no. No, very suddenly she's there, in his space, assaulting him with books and challenging verbiage that only manage to draw his attention away from that piece of parchment once she's finished her tirade. One hand goes out to curb the persistent digging of those books by putting a palm between edges and his body, and Molochai has the audacity to lean towards her (as if to highlight the advantage of his height) in order to respond with, "Would you rather that I call you 'witch' in private?" Did he just step a little closer, sink a little lower? He did, his tone dropping with suggestion as he tips his chin toward her, "Because as… charming as your company was the first time, I don't think it's anything worth surrendering my knot for."

Every inch Molochai leans is an inch Sigrid replaces by way of leaning backwards, a slow sneer peeling the corners of her lips away from her teeth even as a flush creeps up her neck to take up residence across her ears and cheeks. "Absolutely not. I don't want you to call me anything in private. Or to be private with you in the first place." The intimation her company was charming has her hissing on an intake of breath, body arching forwards to regain some of those inches lost by her lean. "Your knot," she says, voice uttering the syllables as though her tongue has to physically push them from between her lips, force them into existence, so thick is her disdain. "What knot could you possibly have that would even elicit such a disgusting comme-" Oh. Oh no. The angry flush in her cheeks fades as fast as though a bucket of cold water dumped over her head, eyes going wide as her lips part into a disbelieving 'o'. Blue eyes flick to his shoulders, back up to his exposed eyes, realization dawning even as she gives him a look that labels him a traitor in her eyes, a ruiner of beautiful dreams. "Tell me you aren't. Tell me it's- it's your craft, or…" Or something, anything, other than the horrible realization she's about to be stuck in close personal quarters with him for the next who knows how long, because her mind can't seem to even try to grasp the concept, giving the way she's gaping like a fish out of water.

Molochai's eyes lose none of their humor, fixated on Sigrid as the woman just keeps talking, rising to the bait, delivering a verbal lashing that — falls short, and probably has Molochai baring teeth beneath all of that fabric that keeps him safe from the onslaught of Igen's relentless sun. At least, hazel looks a little more alive, and that hitched sound of breath being caught in his throat sounded suspiciously like laughter (despite the ephemeral nature of it), and the corners of those eyes creasing as lids come closer together. "I'm not," he concedes with humor. "It's -" Molochai waits, the very likeness of patience as Sigrid gives her command and, "- my craft," he continues, on tones that are somber despite the very evident lie. And then he continues with: "At least that bluerider, S'las, assured me it would be until I was either left standing on the sands or wearing a different knot to denote me as a dragonrider." Rude, horrible, no good man. And maybe he would say something more, maybe there would be another comment, another provocation, another something except that an interruption comes in the form of somebody who has authority. "You, candidate!" It's aimed for Molochai, and he rights himself as those hazel eyes turn towards the speaker, slightly deadened for having looked away from Sigrid. "Come this way, you look just right for this task. Come on!" There's a heartbeat of awkwardness where Molochai just watches that man, and then he tips sideways, towards Sigrid, without ever moving his eyes from his herald. "Did you hear that, witch? He thinks I'm just right." Brows raise, now his eyes shift to her, laughter evident, and just like that he's on his way, moving away from Sigrid towards whatever unannounced chore he's about to subject himself to in the pursuit of dragons. Or, well… whatever it is that made Molochai agree to such indulgence.

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