Log: Sibling Moments
May. 8th, 2012 11:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
citlaliIt's currently early summer on the northern continent.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 7th month, and 17th day of the 10th Pass.
Somehow, one of the riders figured out that Citlali was actually pretty good at organizing things; maybe it was from watching her polish saddles and sort out tack, or maybe it was based on the arrangement of her area in the barracks. Either way, she's been given inventory tasks in the dry goods room instead of someone more predictable like Barrett, in this instance: at least her reading and writing is neat and precise. She's speaking to herself as she makes marks down on a list she's got in front of her.
Thunk. That's never a good sound to announce an entrance, though, is it? Neither is the strange crunching sound that follows hard on its tail, coming from the area immediately near the exit.
"Please tell me you didn't step on something," Citlali mutters, under her breath, while climbing over a bag to head over to another shelf. She's not too concerned about the life of whomever it was, though she really won't be a happy camper if the person coming down is someone who /really/ outranks her. Technically, everyone outranks her, but your run of the mill weyrfolk won't be as likely to snap at her complete ignorance than, say, the Weyrlingmaster. "I've probably already counted it, whatever it was."
"I didn't step on it!" The outraged-teenaged-male tone to /that/ voice is just /obvious/, really. It's also, quite obviously, her /brother's/. Crunch crunch munch.
In which case: "Didn't step on what?" Now Citlali's actually rolling her eyes, having turned to look at him -- and narrowly missing hitting her head on a low shelf. "What's making that sound?" She's so obviously annoyed that it's radiating off her in metaphysical waves. What does he want?
"Hi, sis!" Caledan is, in fact, visible, and has some sort of root -- a finger-root, maybe? -- rapidly disappearing by means of mastication. All gone now, see? "I didn't step on anything but the floor, anyway," he adds, sulky.
Faintly, Citlali smiles. All comments about what he might possibly be eating are, at least in the meantime, kept to herself. "Thanks. Um, did you need something?" She's half paying attention to him and half paying attention to the inventorying, moving back to looking at the shelves and making notes -- not counting out loud anymore, though. She's got someone who might actually try to speak to her, now.
At least he's not trying to sit on the ladder she's got half-unfolded, leaning against a shelving unit. That'd be a disaster. Citlali shakes her head, saying only, "That's an extremely big number. Do you think that's actually true? Or maybe a little bit hyperbolic? Or have you been counting them in the past few months, and making note of the ones you've seen twice?" Kind of like how she's counting what looks like peppercorns individually.
"Well, there was some rounding," Caledan answers breezily. Does it /matter/ if it's exactly right? "What're you doing? Someone said you'd be down here but I don't know why. Can I help? Can I get in the way? Can you stop and have lunch?"
Citlali listens as Caledan talks, and then stops with her inventorying in order to count the requests on her fingertips as she answers. "One: Taking inventory of the stores. Two: I don't know, can you read labels and make notes? Three: I'd rather you didn't. And four: probably not a good idea." She's perfectly physically capable of stopping to have lunch, but maybe it's not the wisest move.
"Oh, yes, why, why?" Caledan does not, so much, bother to count the points off on his fingers. On the other hand, his questions are a lot more boring. He starts poking the bag next to him, too, to see what it does.
It doesn't really do anything at all except squish in a little. It's a bag of unprocessed grain. "I've got a sort of schedule, the whole candidacy thing?" Citlali explains, shrugging a little. "It's not perfectly right-on-time hop to it, but there's a time for when it's lunch and a time for when it's meant to be chores-doing, and I'm still supposed to be doing chores right now, okay?" All the corn is present and accounted for. "Also, it's obvious you're really /good/ at getting in the way, Cale, but if you'd rather /help/ --"
Caledan blinks up at his sister innocently. He can't /possibly/ be doing something /un/helpful, CAN he be?! And then he heaves a sigh, and pulls himself up to his feet, and -- salutes. (It's actually a pretty good salute, all told.) "So tell me what to do," he overdramatic-teens.
"Oh, don't salute me," shoots off Citlali with another eyeroll, "I'm supposed to be the bottom of the rank structure, remember? Not you." She's not about to tell him that technically /he/ outranks her too, if they're following the rule to the, well, rule; he doesn't need to know that any more than his subconscious already might. "Just because you're idolizing me for actually getting Searched doesn't mean anything. You can offer to help wash dragons too, you know -- dragons are /big/. The riders will probably appreciate it. So." Because he did actually ask for a job, she gestures to a low shelf across the room. "Because you're shorter than me, I'm giving you that. Count everything on it and tell me what it all is and how much of each item is present."
Caledan rolls his eyes, of course, but he also obediently flops down on the ground and starts counting things. Out loud. Well, that's not likely to throw Citlali's count off any, is it? His count gains a few interjections here and there, as well -- "My salute needs practice!" -- twenty-three -- "Do you really think so?" -- sixteen -- "I might get the next one, maybe, someone said!" Potatoes.
"The next what?" Amongst all the counting, it's possible Citlali didn't entirely follow. She had to keep up with her own counting, tune out his, and also try to follow the conversation; not being an expert multi-tasker, she doesn't seem to have done too well. "Clutch? Maybe. And did a guard tell you your salute needs work, because it looks fine to me." His actual question? She's forgotten he asked one. Might need to try again.
"Well, that was a while ago," Caledan points out, from the middle of inside-the-shelf. "I /have/ worked on it /since/ then, obviously! And what about my question?!"
"Uh," says Citlali, and then disappears behind a couple of bags for a few minutes. When she pulls her head back out, she's a mite dustier than before, but at least she was wearing a head scarf. "What was it?"
Tap tap tap tap goes Caledan's foot; he is no longer inside the shelf, but instead standing above her (for once), arms crossed, looking miffed. "You didn't have to keep me /waiting/ while you didn't answer, you know," he scowls at her.
Citlali actually groans, at that. Kids. Kid brothers. /Her/ kid brother. "Your disapproval burns," she says, shaking her head and righting the bag she'd just shoved to the side, then standing up. (She's taller than he is, even now; it's just because he has one growth spurt to go, though.) "Tell me again what I'm answering?"
"If you think I really can help with washing dragons!" Caledan's tone of voice makes it REALLY OBVIOUS -- at least to him -- that she is being a /complete failure/ at Older Sister for forgetting this /very/ important question.
Putting on an /extremely/ guilty look that may or may not be genuine, Citlali bows her head. "I'm sorry! And -- yeah, I don't see why not, just, if you see a rider washing his or her dragon just offer to help. Like I said, dragons are big. And firestone is disgusting. I helped a brownrider clean some off a bit ago and it smells awful, so I'm sure nobody would volunteer to take /longer/ washing it off."
"Huh." Caledan looks very thoughtful at this, as if -- somehow -- he's never stopped to think about the aftereffects of dragons blowing chunks of flame and stone. (To be fair, he's fifteen; he very likely /hasn't/, what with having an underdeveloped brain.) "I get to help you with yours when you have one, right?"
It's a longer hesitation, this time, before Citlali answers; she finishes going through a good third of another shelf before she says anything. "If I do," she replies, not putting too much emphasis on the 'if,' but just enough that he registers a difference between 'if' and 'when,' "then when she's old enough, of course."
"What are you talking about, /if/," he answers, with a hero-worshipping little brother's tone of complete indifference to the realities of chance. "Of /course/ you will! Think you'll get gold?"
Citlali makes a slightly sickened face. "Ugh. /No/. I mean -- I like Iona, I've got great respect for the late Weyrwoman," even if she stiffens a little, saying that; she didn't know her well, but Eleni's death has had an effect on her friends (and Siyavri, who, while not her friend, is someone she has great respect for), "and while I haven't met Weyrwoman Imogen I don't have a problem with her, I just -- no. I would hate that. I want to fight Thread, Cale, do you think I want to sit around and do paperwork all day?"
"So... green. Okay." Caledan can, in fact, roll with the punches well enough to adapt, and he's smart enough not to think that she means some mystical /other/ type of dragon was likely to be female. "And no, not really, if you wanted to do paperwork we'd still be at the Hold." Duh, his tone adds, as he takes a seat on yet another trunk.
"Very good, cadet," Citlali teases, reaching over to fluff his hair before starting to unfold one of the ladders. "No, if I wanted to be getting treated like a commodity we'd still be at the Hold; if I couldn't pay attention to when situations get bad, we'd still be at the Hold. If I wanted to do paperwork I would've tried to get work under the Headwoman and not at the stables again." Ladder up and open, she climbs up a few steps, calling down, "I'd be so bored riding a gold that even if one had interest in me she'd probably head the other way at my reticence. They don't want people who don't want them."
"Just so long as you aren't carefully ignoring your subconscious desires," Caledan responds, huffing another sigh as he heaves himself up to make sure her ladder stays balanced. (Those words in particular have the sound of recitation without full recognition.)
Those words have the effect of getting Citlali to stare seriously at -- well, actually, she's staring at the shelf in front of her, because staring down at him would just be excess moving. But it's as if she were staring down at him with a funny look on her face. "Been taking classes in, like, Impression psychology or something?" she quips.
"Do you think that Guard recruits should be offered those?" If only she /would/ look down! Then she'd see the smirk on her brother's face, in contradiction to the unctuously sincere tone he's taken.
Citlali's a little busy; looking down is out of the question. "No, but apparently you're picking up on it anyway," she says, amused.
"I gotta do /something/ with my time!" Caledan whines, sulky. "You're all /busy/ all the time, now! You're never around, either." Grump. Oh, the mercurial moods of a fifteen-turn-old.
"Actually," Citlali corrects, practically climbing /on/ to the shelf to properly right something, "I'm always around. Because I don't have much of a way to /leave/, and I'm easy to find basically constantly doing grunt work for someone else. So all you have to do if you want to spend time with me is follow me around while I do grunt work -- or you could spend your time with your actual job. Not that I don't always value your presence and love you dearly," because really, she actually does.
"But that's not as much fun," Caledan says in a much smaller voice.
Now, Citlali /is/ actually looking down at Caledan, or at least at the top of his head. "Hey," she says, more gently. "I thought you loved this guarding stuff -- you're not second-guessing it now, are you?" He seemed happy to her, and so her face is lined with concern.
Caledan does, at least, look back up at her, and does not look /entirely/ happy, no. "It's not that," he mutters. "It's just -- it's all /different/, you know? And you're never free enough to just sit around and /talk/, you've always /got/ chores. Even if I can follow /you/ around, it's not the same!"
"Hey, kid." Citlali slips down the ladder, taking a moment to throw an arm around his shoulders. "Listen. I am always here for you, okay. You're the only family I've got that really -- matters, and I know I'm the same to you, so just -- if you need me come and get me. And I do have some breaks. They have a tendency to overlap with your training, but just, I'll, we'll make it work. And I'm sorry." She pulls him a little closer, looking down into his hair. "I'm sorry it was me and not you. You're the one who wanted what I've got. I know."
If Caledan is sniffling a little bit as he clings to his sister, well, they're in the storeroom, and No One Will Ever Know. So it's okay. "It's not like I could let you come here by yourself," he mumbles into her shoulder. "I just miss you. And get confused and overwhelmed and everyone looks at me like I'm strange if I don't understand!"
It's a pretty isolated hard-to-get-to storeroom, even. Not a big, bustling storeroom. So no one will have any way of having a clue except Citlali, and she's just holding him close, rubbing his back. "You don't need to worry about /me/, silly, I would've been all right." She's twenty, after all; the five years between them, at these current ages, feel more like a lifetime, at least to her. "And you're new, you'll catch up and they'll be okay with you. You're great, and I /know/ you're making some friends, so -- hang in there."
Sooner or later, those sniffles resolve, and he pulls back just a /little/ -- not enough to not be holding her, but enough so that Caledan is, at least, no longer /clinging/ to his sister. "Well, yeah," is even almost intelligible. "Not /there/ you wouldn't, though."
"No. I wouldn't." Citlali certainly enraged the family enough, insulting Latham's competence; their father wasn't going to make life easy for her any more than he would have for her younger brother. "But here I would've been, even on my own -- I'm glad you didn't stay, though. You don't need any of that crap; you're better than they are, no matter the money they've got, and it's not like the Hold's the safest place right now anyway." Not so much. "It's okay now, though. Don't you worry anymore, okay? The past is, well. It's passed."
"History," he snuffles, and pulls himself together. Fifteen Turns, and so /manly/, is Caledan. "Also, there aren't /nearly/ enough dragons there." Because that, after all, is the relevant part of the argument to a teenaged boy. "So." He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "Let's finish up so we can get lunch."
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 7th month, and 17th day of the 10th Pass.
Dry Storage Room
Racks of long wooden shelves, twice the height of a tall man, form high thin, cramped corridoors that recede off into the blackness. Each shelf is laden with containers - bags, pots, jars, bottles - carefully made to keep out any damp, and hopefully deter tunnelsnakes. Beneath the lowest shelves are row upon row of stout wooden barrels and boxes. Corn, flour, herbs, spices, medicines, hides, rivergrains, dried fruits, dried vegetables, dried everything else... the smells of these and a hundred other things waft through the cavern, a sample of the things needed to run a Weyr all in one room. Everything is carefully stacked, in its own particular place, but by what system, you can't tell.
Each shelf has hooks, at the uprights and in between, to hang hand-held glowbaskets, kept on a rack near the door; they, and the light that makes it through the thin hessian curtain over the exit, are all that penetrate the stygian dark. Folding ladders are also stacked neatly near the entrance, to allow access to the higher shelves.
Somehow, one of the riders figured out that Citlali was actually pretty good at organizing things; maybe it was from watching her polish saddles and sort out tack, or maybe it was based on the arrangement of her area in the barracks. Either way, she's been given inventory tasks in the dry goods room instead of someone more predictable like Barrett, in this instance: at least her reading and writing is neat and precise. She's speaking to herself as she makes marks down on a list she's got in front of her.
Thunk. That's never a good sound to announce an entrance, though, is it? Neither is the strange crunching sound that follows hard on its tail, coming from the area immediately near the exit.
"Please tell me you didn't step on something," Citlali mutters, under her breath, while climbing over a bag to head over to another shelf. She's not too concerned about the life of whomever it was, though she really won't be a happy camper if the person coming down is someone who /really/ outranks her. Technically, everyone outranks her, but your run of the mill weyrfolk won't be as likely to snap at her complete ignorance than, say, the Weyrlingmaster. "I've probably already counted it, whatever it was."
"I didn't step on it!" The outraged-teenaged-male tone to /that/ voice is just /obvious/, really. It's also, quite obviously, her /brother's/. Crunch crunch munch.
In which case: "Didn't step on what?" Now Citlali's actually rolling her eyes, having turned to look at him -- and narrowly missing hitting her head on a low shelf. "What's making that sound?" She's so obviously annoyed that it's radiating off her in metaphysical waves. What does he want?
"Hi, sis!" Caledan is, in fact, visible, and has some sort of root -- a finger-root, maybe? -- rapidly disappearing by means of mastication. All gone now, see? "I didn't step on anything but the floor, anyway," he adds, sulky.
Faintly, Citlali smiles. All comments about what he might possibly be eating are, at least in the meantime, kept to herself. "Thanks. Um, did you need something?" She's half paying attention to him and half paying attention to the inventorying, moving back to looking at the shelves and making notes -- not counting out loud anymore, though. She's got someone who might actually try to speak to her, now.
At least he's not trying to sit on the ladder she's got half-unfolded, leaning against a shelving unit. That'd be a disaster. Citlali shakes her head, saying only, "That's an extremely big number. Do you think that's actually true? Or maybe a little bit hyperbolic? Or have you been counting them in the past few months, and making note of the ones you've seen twice?" Kind of like how she's counting what looks like peppercorns individually.
"Well, there was some rounding," Caledan answers breezily. Does it /matter/ if it's exactly right? "What're you doing? Someone said you'd be down here but I don't know why. Can I help? Can I get in the way? Can you stop and have lunch?"
Citlali listens as Caledan talks, and then stops with her inventorying in order to count the requests on her fingertips as she answers. "One: Taking inventory of the stores. Two: I don't know, can you read labels and make notes? Three: I'd rather you didn't. And four: probably not a good idea." She's perfectly physically capable of stopping to have lunch, but maybe it's not the wisest move.
"Oh, yes, why, why?" Caledan does not, so much, bother to count the points off on his fingers. On the other hand, his questions are a lot more boring. He starts poking the bag next to him, too, to see what it does.
It doesn't really do anything at all except squish in a little. It's a bag of unprocessed grain. "I've got a sort of schedule, the whole candidacy thing?" Citlali explains, shrugging a little. "It's not perfectly right-on-time hop to it, but there's a time for when it's lunch and a time for when it's meant to be chores-doing, and I'm still supposed to be doing chores right now, okay?" All the corn is present and accounted for. "Also, it's obvious you're really /good/ at getting in the way, Cale, but if you'd rather /help/ --"
Caledan blinks up at his sister innocently. He can't /possibly/ be doing something /un/helpful, CAN he be?! And then he heaves a sigh, and pulls himself up to his feet, and -- salutes. (It's actually a pretty good salute, all told.) "So tell me what to do," he overdramatic-teens.
"Oh, don't salute me," shoots off Citlali with another eyeroll, "I'm supposed to be the bottom of the rank structure, remember? Not you." She's not about to tell him that technically /he/ outranks her too, if they're following the rule to the, well, rule; he doesn't need to know that any more than his subconscious already might. "Just because you're idolizing me for actually getting Searched doesn't mean anything. You can offer to help wash dragons too, you know -- dragons are /big/. The riders will probably appreciate it. So." Because he did actually ask for a job, she gestures to a low shelf across the room. "Because you're shorter than me, I'm giving you that. Count everything on it and tell me what it all is and how much of each item is present."
Caledan rolls his eyes, of course, but he also obediently flops down on the ground and starts counting things. Out loud. Well, that's not likely to throw Citlali's count off any, is it? His count gains a few interjections here and there, as well -- "My salute needs practice!" -- twenty-three -- "Do you really think so?" -- sixteen -- "I might get the next one, maybe, someone said!" Potatoes.
"The next what?" Amongst all the counting, it's possible Citlali didn't entirely follow. She had to keep up with her own counting, tune out his, and also try to follow the conversation; not being an expert multi-tasker, she doesn't seem to have done too well. "Clutch? Maybe. And did a guard tell you your salute needs work, because it looks fine to me." His actual question? She's forgotten he asked one. Might need to try again.
"Well, that was a while ago," Caledan points out, from the middle of inside-the-shelf. "I /have/ worked on it /since/ then, obviously! And what about my question?!"
"Uh," says Citlali, and then disappears behind a couple of bags for a few minutes. When she pulls her head back out, she's a mite dustier than before, but at least she was wearing a head scarf. "What was it?"
Tap tap tap tap goes Caledan's foot; he is no longer inside the shelf, but instead standing above her (for once), arms crossed, looking miffed. "You didn't have to keep me /waiting/ while you didn't answer, you know," he scowls at her.
Citlali actually groans, at that. Kids. Kid brothers. /Her/ kid brother. "Your disapproval burns," she says, shaking her head and righting the bag she'd just shoved to the side, then standing up. (She's taller than he is, even now; it's just because he has one growth spurt to go, though.) "Tell me again what I'm answering?"
"If you think I really can help with washing dragons!" Caledan's tone of voice makes it REALLY OBVIOUS -- at least to him -- that she is being a /complete failure/ at Older Sister for forgetting this /very/ important question.
Putting on an /extremely/ guilty look that may or may not be genuine, Citlali bows her head. "I'm sorry! And -- yeah, I don't see why not, just, if you see a rider washing his or her dragon just offer to help. Like I said, dragons are big. And firestone is disgusting. I helped a brownrider clean some off a bit ago and it smells awful, so I'm sure nobody would volunteer to take /longer/ washing it off."
"Huh." Caledan looks very thoughtful at this, as if -- somehow -- he's never stopped to think about the aftereffects of dragons blowing chunks of flame and stone. (To be fair, he's fifteen; he very likely /hasn't/, what with having an underdeveloped brain.) "I get to help you with yours when you have one, right?"
It's a longer hesitation, this time, before Citlali answers; she finishes going through a good third of another shelf before she says anything. "If I do," she replies, not putting too much emphasis on the 'if,' but just enough that he registers a difference between 'if' and 'when,' "then when she's old enough, of course."
"What are you talking about, /if/," he answers, with a hero-worshipping little brother's tone of complete indifference to the realities of chance. "Of /course/ you will! Think you'll get gold?"
Citlali makes a slightly sickened face. "Ugh. /No/. I mean -- I like Iona, I've got great respect for the late Weyrwoman," even if she stiffens a little, saying that; she didn't know her well, but Eleni's death has had an effect on her friends (and Siyavri, who, while not her friend, is someone she has great respect for), "and while I haven't met Weyrwoman Imogen I don't have a problem with her, I just -- no. I would hate that. I want to fight Thread, Cale, do you think I want to sit around and do paperwork all day?"
"So... green. Okay." Caledan can, in fact, roll with the punches well enough to adapt, and he's smart enough not to think that she means some mystical /other/ type of dragon was likely to be female. "And no, not really, if you wanted to do paperwork we'd still be at the Hold." Duh, his tone adds, as he takes a seat on yet another trunk.
"Very good, cadet," Citlali teases, reaching over to fluff his hair before starting to unfold one of the ladders. "No, if I wanted to be getting treated like a commodity we'd still be at the Hold; if I couldn't pay attention to when situations get bad, we'd still be at the Hold. If I wanted to do paperwork I would've tried to get work under the Headwoman and not at the stables again." Ladder up and open, she climbs up a few steps, calling down, "I'd be so bored riding a gold that even if one had interest in me she'd probably head the other way at my reticence. They don't want people who don't want them."
"Just so long as you aren't carefully ignoring your subconscious desires," Caledan responds, huffing another sigh as he heaves himself up to make sure her ladder stays balanced. (Those words in particular have the sound of recitation without full recognition.)
Those words have the effect of getting Citlali to stare seriously at -- well, actually, she's staring at the shelf in front of her, because staring down at him would just be excess moving. But it's as if she were staring down at him with a funny look on her face. "Been taking classes in, like, Impression psychology or something?" she quips.
"Do you think that Guard recruits should be offered those?" If only she /would/ look down! Then she'd see the smirk on her brother's face, in contradiction to the unctuously sincere tone he's taken.
Citlali's a little busy; looking down is out of the question. "No, but apparently you're picking up on it anyway," she says, amused.
"I gotta do /something/ with my time!" Caledan whines, sulky. "You're all /busy/ all the time, now! You're never around, either." Grump. Oh, the mercurial moods of a fifteen-turn-old.
"Actually," Citlali corrects, practically climbing /on/ to the shelf to properly right something, "I'm always around. Because I don't have much of a way to /leave/, and I'm easy to find basically constantly doing grunt work for someone else. So all you have to do if you want to spend time with me is follow me around while I do grunt work -- or you could spend your time with your actual job. Not that I don't always value your presence and love you dearly," because really, she actually does.
"But that's not as much fun," Caledan says in a much smaller voice.
Now, Citlali /is/ actually looking down at Caledan, or at least at the top of his head. "Hey," she says, more gently. "I thought you loved this guarding stuff -- you're not second-guessing it now, are you?" He seemed happy to her, and so her face is lined with concern.
Caledan does, at least, look back up at her, and does not look /entirely/ happy, no. "It's not that," he mutters. "It's just -- it's all /different/, you know? And you're never free enough to just sit around and /talk/, you've always /got/ chores. Even if I can follow /you/ around, it's not the same!"
"Hey, kid." Citlali slips down the ladder, taking a moment to throw an arm around his shoulders. "Listen. I am always here for you, okay. You're the only family I've got that really -- matters, and I know I'm the same to you, so just -- if you need me come and get me. And I do have some breaks. They have a tendency to overlap with your training, but just, I'll, we'll make it work. And I'm sorry." She pulls him a little closer, looking down into his hair. "I'm sorry it was me and not you. You're the one who wanted what I've got. I know."
If Caledan is sniffling a little bit as he clings to his sister, well, they're in the storeroom, and No One Will Ever Know. So it's okay. "It's not like I could let you come here by yourself," he mumbles into her shoulder. "I just miss you. And get confused and overwhelmed and everyone looks at me like I'm strange if I don't understand!"
It's a pretty isolated hard-to-get-to storeroom, even. Not a big, bustling storeroom. So no one will have any way of having a clue except Citlali, and she's just holding him close, rubbing his back. "You don't need to worry about /me/, silly, I would've been all right." She's twenty, after all; the five years between them, at these current ages, feel more like a lifetime, at least to her. "And you're new, you'll catch up and they'll be okay with you. You're great, and I /know/ you're making some friends, so -- hang in there."
Sooner or later, those sniffles resolve, and he pulls back just a /little/ -- not enough to not be holding her, but enough so that Caledan is, at least, no longer /clinging/ to his sister. "Well, yeah," is even almost intelligible. "Not /there/ you wouldn't, though."
"No. I wouldn't." Citlali certainly enraged the family enough, insulting Latham's competence; their father wasn't going to make life easy for her any more than he would have for her younger brother. "But here I would've been, even on my own -- I'm glad you didn't stay, though. You don't need any of that crap; you're better than they are, no matter the money they've got, and it's not like the Hold's the safest place right now anyway." Not so much. "It's okay now, though. Don't you worry anymore, okay? The past is, well. It's passed."
"History," he snuffles, and pulls himself together. Fifteen Turns, and so /manly/, is Caledan. "Also, there aren't /nearly/ enough dragons there." Because that, after all, is the relevant part of the argument to a teenaged boy. "So." He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. "Let's finish up so we can get lunch."
