Fluffy the Murder Cat

Who: Isolwyn and C’aol
When: Month 8, 205 AT
Where: Council Room/Weyrwoman’s Weyr, Fort Weyr
What: Things turn ugly.

It’s midday at Fort and the Weyr’s leaders are gathered within the council chambers. The Headwoman, Steward, Weyrsecond, and Wingleaders are all interspersed with each other at the table. Each has a ledger and notes that are to be read while others are jotted down when another speaks. “Fort Hold has asked for additional dragonriders to sweep their area and make themselves available for travel,” the Weyrsecond states as he glances towards C’aol and Isolwyn. “The request has been made numerous times orally to our riders and now,” he lifts a letter, which he slides in the Weyrleader’s direction. “Now they’re sending letters. We have the available people to answer the request,” he glances towards their wingleaders who nod, “but I felt it appropriate to allow you to decide whether or not we will.” C’aol takes the letter and reads it before setting it aside, “They will not receive it,” he declares, not looking at Isolwyn. “They make no offer on how such an arrangement will help us.”

Isolwyn briefly arches a brow, yet allows no other outward response to not being consulted show for the few seconds until she lifts her gaze to the Weyr’s Headwoman and tells her, “I want a more thorough inventory our stores for the year ahead on my desk no later than seventy-two hours from now.” She plucks the letter from the table and gives it a cursory glance that cannot be long enough for her to have actually read it before she sets it back down and rises to her feet. “If what we need turns out to be what the Hold can provide, there’s the potential for negotiation in the future. Provided, of course, that its Lord remembers his place. Should another Blooded scion appear here without invitation…” Her shrug is anything but dismissive. “Matters being concluded, if you’ll excuse me, I have Flu– A feline to feed.”

C’aol’s brows lift straight up as Isolwyn moves to leave the meeting to feed //the cat//. “The creature will certainly not starve, Weyrwoman,” he drawls, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the group ahems and coughs, gathering their belongings up and making a quick exit for the door. It’s the Headwoman who lingers, glancing between the Weyrleader and the Weyrwoman with her papers clasped towards her chest. “It’s likely we’ll lose some of our lower caverns staff this season,” she lets them know, watching as the Steward lingers in the doorway. “There are rumors of better-paying jobs at Fort Hold amongst others and they are leaving.” She glances towards the Steward and then back to the two. “If you would consider matching some salaries, I imagine we can entice them to stay.” C’aol nods his head and says nothing on the subject as he watches the two leave. He looks to Isolwyn, “I imagine that is your Uncle’s doing?” he queries and then stops himself as a smirk catches onto his features. “Forgive me, we can talk about //that// later. You have your feline to feed.”

“Undermine me again and I’ll be detailing exactly where the feline sleeps at night,” Isolwyn says flatly, gathering up her things from the table. “And in whose lap he spends the most time purring.” She doesn’t look back as she sweeps the length of the table and heads on through to her weyr, assuming C’aol will follow, wondering, “What will you do when it’s a child that needs my attention? For they’re surely to be even more needy than a feline, though you //have// practically adopted him, so there may be very little difference overall…” Lucky for the feline in question, there’s no immediate sign of him as Isolwyn moves to the small kitchen area. “However we feel about each other, I am //not// your little wife or weyrmate to be talked over and put in her place. And the fact that I’m not //your// wife, nor married to any of those he sent to aggravate me, is likely why my uncle is now finding another way to irritate us.”

C’aol does not immediately follow Isolwyn, choosing to render his frustrations out on the furniture in the council chambers rather than against his Weyrwoman or the small creature she leverages against him. The staff of Fort has gotten used to tidying up the wrecked chambers since C’aol and Daeserath have taken up residence. Since the bronze has not imposed his own foul mood on the Weyr, those who go in to clean up after the meeting make no comment to the mess their Weyrleader leaves for them. C’aol makes his way into Isolwyn’s weyr when he is good and ready. He does not look for the cat, for despite her barbs, he does indeed respect the tiny creature’s tenacity to choose the most disagreeable person to seek company with and his temper is too foul for it to survive. It. Not he. Not named. //It//. C’aol finds Isolwyn in the kitchen and swoops upon her, moving to block her with his body as he glares down at her. “You do realize, dearest Isolwyn,” he snarls down at her, eyes and face blazing, “that I am not a man cowed by temper tantrums from a woman. //I// have murdered people for far less slights than you choose to give //me//. Not including you,” he scoffs, “why would you be included in such matters as your Uncle? You are too involved to be clear-headed. And if you need to be married to be calm, then fine. Marry me,” he all-but-snarls as he leverages his weight closer to her.

Slender threads of spinner web begin to snake out over Fort before they are savagely cut and its queen contained by its Weyrwoman, leaving nothing but a distant, howling fury in their wake. “//I// think it’s interesting that when a woman is remotely disagreeable, it’s a temper tantrum and hysterics, when you are the one of us unable to contain their temper,” Isolwyn steadily points out, though her features are certainly paler than they were a moment before. “It’s always ‘I am not this’ and ‘I am not that’. I //know//. Maybe better than anyone else. And //I’m// the one still here.” It’s as C’aol inches closer that some flicker of remembered fear rises and is forced back down, her gaze distant for a handful of seconds before it returns to him. “Wanting to kill the man hardly makes you clear-headed about it,” she states calmly. When she lifts her hands, it’s not to push him away, but to place them on his chest as she asks him, “How can I agree to marry you when you hold the threat of murdering me over my head in the same breath?”

Daeserath feels that slender thread and snarls as he uncurls himself from his ledge. He launches himself into the sky, sending the playful fire lizards diving for safety below. He takes himself to the feeding grounds and begins to systematically kill one, two and three beasts. All are eviscerated and none of the meat is touched as he snarls over his combined kills and dares any to tell him to stop. C’aol does nothing to cool his bronze’s temper, taking the shared experience of ripping out frustration to flesh without having to do it himself. “It would make sense to kill the man,” he tells Isolwyn with that same low, infuriated tone, “if only to get his games out of my Weyr. I have no time for his bullshit.” He doesn’t flinch from her hands on his chest but something stills in his gaze as her words wash over him. “I didn’t threaten to murder you,” his tone shifts, “I simply am reminding you that I am not going to tolerate your trying to belittle me in front of our people.” He pauses. “And doing it because //you// felt slighted. Speak up in the meeting, Isolwyn, if that’s what you need to do. Tell me in front of them you want to weigh in on it. I can handle that. But the feeding the feline? That is Holder lunacy.”

Eosyth enjoys no such luxury, leashed and seething while Isolwyn continues to maintain absolute command over her, keeping her still and quiet out on her ledge. “I did nothing to belittle you,” Isolwyn claims, keeping her hands right where they are. “Why should I expect to have to tolerate being spoken over and dismissed? I am not going to give Fort a Weyrwoman who answers to and feels second to her Weyrleader. I don’t //need// your permission to speak up or inform you that I want to weigh in. Not unless you have every intention of doing the same for me.” Her hands slip down and press to the edge of the counter behind her. “Here, now, behind closed doors, I’ll be almost anything you want from me. But I didn’t choose you to answer to anywhere else, nor would I another. Keeping Rori on or Emily and Hanath are your better bets if you expect your Weyrwoman to tailor herself to what you will and will not tolerate.” She lifts her chin the tiniest bit more as she says, “What you have or haven’t done matters little to me. I might have done the same, in the right situation. But you cannot stop me from caring about the feline, nor prevent me from liking that you tolerate him.” Swallowing hard, she adds more quietly, “And I won’t marry you simply to keep Fort’s Lord from his ideas. If //you// want to marry me… that’s another matter. But I won’t do it for convenience or as a sham.”

C’aol listens to Isolwyn with that cool indifference he likes to hold across his face when dealing with those who annoy him or disappoint him. “Rori would never suit as Senior and you know it. Don’t throw her name at me, like she’s some gift to be given.” He raises a brow at her, “And already throwing Emily at me? The girl isn’t a child but she’s far too flighty for a Senior. Unless you train her well and we send her to another Weyr, she’ll never lead Fort.” He doesn’t say anything to the rest of her statement. “I’ve things to do,” he tells her as he steps around her and leaves the room. He doesn’t return to continue the conversation. He calls Daeserath out of the feeding pens, leaving others to clean up the mess, and takes to the skies. He and Daeserath blink Between and do not return until it is too late to call upon Isowlyn. Daeserath sleeps in his own wallow, forced for once by his rider to maintain distance from his mate. C’aol will be back to business, as usual, the following day, though some may comment on his restless energy and the look of exhaustion on his face. At least Daeserath does not rampage the feeding pens again.

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