Monaco Bay Weyr - Beach Path
A rather roughly formed path that leads on down to the beach. Not the safest to travel at night either, with the many twists and turns and small places to turn a foot that it has.

It's. Hot. It's hot, and there are Candidates, and are any of them having fun? …Okay, probably the lucky ones who have the day off, but Ityrziel? Ityrziel did not have the day off. He was in the resort's kitchens all day, which is probably why he's given up somewhere in murdertown, Monaco Bay Weyr. The sun beats down mercilessly on the rocks, teetering towards sunset but not quite there yet; the Weyr doesn't even have the decency to send a few of the normal afternoon sprinkles his way. Not a breeze to be found, either, and the air's heavy here by the beach. Worse still, the poor idiot is on a lesser-used portion of the path, so none of the constant stream of visitors actually see him, to…rescue him? From himself, probably? Tyr has at least managed to backwards crab-crawl himself into some shade, but he's still sprawled on his back, staring up at the craggy rocks above with an expression that suggests imminent death or past dismemberment. Have the renegades got him? Too much…other fun? Probably neither. Surely the loud trio of firelizards perched on the rocks above his head would at least be eating his eyeballs, if he was dead.

"I FOUND ONE!" Cassie declares, because what other reason does anybody have to be in Murdertown, Monaco Bay except to look for dead bodies. And see? Cassie has found one, this one in the shade that would definitely be Firelizard fodder if only for the fact that he weren't so inconveniently alive. "Nevermind," comes just put upon enough to sound slightly disappointed. "I think he's alive." But just to make sure that he is, Cassie is sinking into a crouch, and grabbing a stick, and poking Ityrziel with it from not nearly far enough away to escape if he is a flesh-eating corpse. Poke. Pokepokepokepoke.

Brohdan doesn't know that; his entire experience of Monaco life, from it swallowing his brother alive to this very moment, has been one rife with trauma. It was the dead of winter at High Reaches, and here he is, clutching his chest, staggering, trying to inhale air that is more water than oxygen. "Who invented this place?," Brohdan interrogates absolutely noone, not even noticing how positively skeezy this back path is because it's not just shady but SHADY and he's a desperate, desperate man. "Surely whoever thought to claim this terrible climate as being livable was an idiot, and a moron, just like my — BROTHER!" This issued boomingly, Cassie spied and stumbled towards with renewed energy, clothing that was decidedly not meant for this climate sticks to masculine curves as he aims for his twin and promptly stumbles over what is probably-almost-certainly a dead body. He treats it as such. "AGH HELP, IT'S DEAD!" Rationale, what? Good sense, who? Not in this woodworker. Wait. Wait we might have found one braincell that can work in this damnable muggy heat. "HE. HE IS DEAD." Oh. Good. That's definitely the correction we were looking for. "CASSIE. GET HELP." Him? He'll just be attempting to climb this tree backwards. Perfectly normal.

While the proverbial buzzards circle over Ityrziel's dramatic-ass head, the harper stares blankly above him; Cassie has every reason to think him a doornail, really. Perfectly reasonable, except the way he makes a pitiful little noise in the back of his throat. "Don't do that." Tyr orders (whines. he whines.), voice thready. His chin does a little wobble, even, expression Tragic. "Ow. No. M'not dead." Poor Brohdan probably gets him, to some degree; except it seems to be the climb that's gotten to Tyr. He doesn't even have the energy to flinch at the booming voice and second person to spectate his misery, more of a head-rolling kind of motion to contemplate Brodie, now, listless. "Thank you so much, yes, he." The effort to be waspish and grumpy apparently takes it out of the half-dead candidate, since he groans, eyes closing, chin going back to twitching pitifully. "Help, yes. What a good plan." It probably doesn't help excessively that Ityrziel can't seem to raise his voice above a whisper, when one of the party of brothers is screeching (reasonably). Look. We can't all be helpful.

It is entirely fair to say that Cassie looks unimpressed (and doesn't stop poking, why would he do that?) once Brodie is on the scene and tripping over everything and bring SHAME and DISHONOR to their FAMILY. "Yes, I believe that has been — silence, dead man, we are having a conversation — I believe the fact that he is dead has been established stop yelling." BUT THEN THERE'S 'CASSIE, GET HELP', and Cassie is gaining his feet, casting away his stick and taking a step back and away from He Who Has Given Up. "No. You're not throwing me down this…" a beat, as eyes look around, and then his hand gestures to MURDERTOWN. "This." Which might be why, after a long second of staring at his twin, Cassie moves to settle back down — to lie, so that his shoulder is pressed in against Ityrziel's while he also stares up towards the sky. "Actually, I'm dead now too." A beat, and a tilt of his head towards Tyr as brows rise. "You sure do talk a lot for a dead person, you know." That's because he isn't dead. He said he wasn't dead. A beat, and then, "I've never met that man in my life." Which is clearly about Brodie, because Cassie cannot be related to the muscled, shrieking wonder over there. THEY ARE TWINS AND SOMEHOW MANAGED TO NOT EVEN LOOK ALIKE.

IT'S CALLED FRATERNAL TWINS, CASSANDRA, LOOK IT UP. "He's talking! How can he be talking if he's dead?" You know, on the other hand Brodie, maybe we shouldn't be casting any stones… "Cassie-you-get-up-right-now, don't-lay-with-dead-men, what-would-our-mother-say?!" Listen, he wanted to put a lot more '?!?'s on there but it's bad grammar enough to do one of each, so just embrace that this very big, very bearded man's voice just went up an octave or five and continue doing whatever it is you do when you aren't confronted by this while his sanity catches up to his histrionics in three… two… one… "Oh. You aren't dead." Foreheadslap. Jeeesus. "Well. That's… That's a runner of a different color, isn't it. I take it back, Cassie. Of course you might lie with this man," he blunders on, totally unaware of his whole entire self. "I will even join you." Because it definitely makes it less weird that he lays down on Tyr's other side, staring up at the same patch of leaves with bemused contemplation, as though not at all sure what they're supposed to be looking at, but too worried about coming off as an idiot to ask. As if it's not too late for that. "This is actually better," said because he's bad at letting silence be silence with all that dead-body adrenaline still pumping through his veins, "I want to tear my skin straight off significantly less." Gross? Gross. Definitely gross.

IF HE HAD THE ENERGY, YOUNG MAN. Ityrziel looks like he'd like to snatch Cassie's stick and beat him with it, he just can't find the energy. He sure can make a bitchy face, though, squinting up at his fellow candidate mournfully. "I believe you will find," The harper says, with as much dignity as a man sprawled flat on his back enough to be mistaken for dead, "That I was here first, not you." SNIFF. And not just because he's two seconds from bawling like a baby, okay. OKAY. Then — "What." Tyr blinks, head flopping sideways to eye the foreign-born fellow with furrowed 'brows and a frown. It's a long beat before the harper can find his tongue, but his tone is still this side of 'wounded pride snippy' when he replies. "So do you." Eyes cut over to Brodie, having his (frankly, adorable) lil fit, and previously-furrowed brows rise steadily in his head. Real (dramatic) recognizes real, though, so Ityrziel lets him have his space to freak. It pays off, too, since Brohdan settles down relatively quickly, and the candidate can favor him with a mostly-blank, partially-amused kind of look. "I did say." He points out, in spite of the fact that he's definitely still whispering, voice a faint little thing above the din of three hungry firelizards. He doesn't move a muscle to make room for either of them, they're gonna have to find their own patch of rock, but neither does Tyr run screaming into the rocks. This is how you get murdered, Tyr. He doesn't seem to care, though, making sad faces at the rocks above again. "…your skin?" Faintly, Tyr asks, head listing to eye the big, loud fella. "I'd rather you didn't. It's just, this is the most comfortable I've been since three days ago. The blood, you know."

Listen, your words are probably super interesting there Ityrziel, whine and all, but Cassie is closing his eyes (probably in an attempt to block out his brother's STUPID and then PERMISSION). "Yes, but I'm only pretending to be dead, you see," Cassie tells Tyr, as if Tyr is not ACTUALLY ALIVE and is, INDEED, a dead man talking to him. "So I can talk. It's natural for people that are alive to talk." Not so much the reverse order of things. AND LISTEN, Cassie MAKES IT WORK. He makes it work, he takes up a patch of ROCK and he MAKES IT WORK and then as they two talk, he just lapses into silence. Or maybe sleep. Did he just… didCassiejustfallasleep? It would appear that he has, because aside from, "I have a knife if you need assistance removing it," that sounds a lot less excited at the prospect of murdering his brother than what he might usually, he's quiet.

"Did you?" Say, that is. Brohdan tilts his head to consider Ityrziel. "You talk too softly, friend. If you said anything, I heard none of it." Mostly because he was being loud enough for all three of them, but listen. "You should endeavor to be louder. I am sure you have many great things to say. I tell my brother that constantly. He mumbles, you see. Mutters words under his breath — yes, just like that! Thank you, Cassie, such demonstration!" Is… is Brodie even aware Cass just offered to help him skin himself alive? Unclear. He is beatific, no less energetic despite supinity, willing to ignore Caydan's sudden somnolence as if this were a common thing. He booms a laugh instead, one hand waving aloft, but even that small movement is too much. "Fret not, as I said, this is an improvement. It's just so hot here. And sunny. Even on midsummer days when the sky stayed lit and the hours went long, I've never experienced such a thing as this. Have you?" A beat, and then, abruptly, as if normal flow of conversation were a concept as foreign as he, "Also your companions look rather hungry. Did you know?" One flannel-clad arm lifts, willing to ignore the waft of swamp air it drags through to goochie-goo a finger at Tyr's miniature faire.

"Ah," Ityrziel says, as if Cass's words clear anything at all up. "Of course." He continues, sounding Deeply skeptical, but apparently unwilling to argue, except - that's a lie, since he does, immediately. "It would follow that my speaking would be evidence of such a conclusion." The harper mutters, sounding maybe a little miffed, for a dude being blamed of being a dead guy talking. Like it's an accusation he's taking seriously, Faranth bless him. He doesn't even seem to notice immediately that Cassie's asleep at first, busy being huffy and also cutting eyes sideways at Brodie, squinty. "Did you know, kitchens are loud? I've worn my voice out. It won't ever be the same. Another thing that sharding dragon took from me…" The first, presumably, being his dignity. "Brother?" Tyr breaks from his wallowing for long enough to squint at the two of them; then shrug, apparently unconcerned. "I suppose that explains offering to skin you." Ityrziel mutters, like that's a thing that's actually true. It is, sure, but you know. The facts of their pitiful existence, under the merciless sun, get a mournful kind of groan from the harper, who nods, serious. "Was born here. I've been at Harper Hall for turns now, though, it's…rather a shock, you could say. You're not from here?" What was it that gave it away, Tyr? "Oh. Them? They're fine." The brown one SCREAMS, and the blue makes a noise like grating metal that says he begs to differ, but they are roundly ignored, like the glorious swamp. It's not like this idiot hasn't been working in his least-nice vest and shirt all day. HE'S GOT THREE LAYERS ON, the idiot. "Unlike me." Just in case you were wondering how he's doing, y'know.

"Are they? I should like to see these kitchens - they sound like my kind of place! Ours was always noisy, if only because there are four of us, and only one of our mother, and it is a splendid game to see who can filch a roll before dinner is meant to be served," Brohdan says with a grin, eyes lit up with good-natured mischief. It doesn't last. Tyr murmurs something about dragons, and caution hits broad features, blue eyes narrowing as he glances about them, nervously, and then asks, "What dragon is that?" Inquiries about Cassie being his brother are met with a grunt, trees and leaves and rocks met with utmost suspicion before something Ityrziel says draws him back in again. "No, indeed. This is the first time I've been much of anywhere. Cassie came before me and I, being the good brother that I am, couldn't allow him to do this alone." Uh huh. "It all seemed so adventurous, at the time. But now…" Well… "There are bugs," he says, rolling to his side to really impress this upon Ityrziel as though he has not experienced them for himself, voice pitching into a really-still-rather-loud whisper. "They're enormous. If they told tales of them dragging men off in the night, I would not be surprised!" The horror. He makes another noise in response to flits being fine, not at all convinced, dubious gaze moving from them to Tyr and back before settling on the harper. "I have heard of your Harper Hall. I thought it was far from here. Is that why you are dressed so strangely?" Because he's one to talk! Pot and kettle, the both of them.

Despair, thy name is Ityrziel — who manages to throw an arm over his face (the side closest to Cassie, you're welcome Cassie) in a dramatic flail. "You're a candidate, right?" He's not glancing out from under his arm, but Tyr is an archivist, even in a fit of self-pity, so he knows things. Or is guessing. One. "You'll see soon enough. Hotter in there than it is out here by far, I'm afraid." Mutter mutter mutter. It looks like Tyr would like to be pouty, but when he peeks out from under his arm, his expression tilts a little towards wistful. "That sounds nice." Beat, and Tyr's expression doesn't quite darken, but it does go kind of rueful around the edges. "Sindrieth. He's a bastard." Look. Before the bronze made him run laps, he was ready to be his buddy. Betrayed. The harper seems to contemplate for a long moment Brohdan's words, quiet, face still behind the arm shading it again. "Well, welcome to Monaco. Lovely beaches." Sure sounds enthusiastic, there. As for bugs, Ityrziel blinks, lowers his arm to level Brodie with a look that suggests that he's mystified that the other man's even noticed the bugs. "There are." He admits, apparently catches on that this is A Thing, and has the mental faculties to not immediately dismiss the rightful concern. Point for Tyr! "…well, they're certainly bigger than Fort's." The harper says, slowly, almost tactfully. "They are rather annoying when you find them in your bed." Well. That's sure a helpful thing to say, dumbdumb. Faranth. "It's quite far. I'm an archivist. Strange? What do you mean, strange!" The arm goes all the way down, now, and Tyr goes so far as to prop himself up, examining his outfit. "Certainly, they're not my nicest clothes, but I was working in the kitchens…" Hoo boy.

"I would imagine so," Brohdan says, somehow not nearly as put out by this intended revelation than he should be, considering all the previous complaining. "But fires are at least a dry heat." Oh, murder him, will you? "And there's food." This from the man who looks like he doesn't need any more of it, to grow taller nor wider both. "It is rather wonderful, though. I… I shall miss it." Wilt. Things you didn't think of when you charged out here with sibling revenge on your mind, EH BROHDAN? He doesn't dwell. If anything, he relaxes, as though the dragon name Ityrziel speaks was not the one he was worried of hearing. "Oh, good. Not the 'him being a bastard' part, but the 'him being a him' part. I am not yet again ready to meet the rider of a certain dragon." C R Y P T I C. Or maybe just a space cadet, for it takes him longer than it should to ask, "What did he do to you, this Sindrieth?" Brodie is just as excited for the idea of beaches as Tyr, which is to say not at all, really, or maybe he's just increasingly alarmed by the harper's validation of his fear. Really if there was a time to dismiss a thought, it was this exact time in this exact moment, but you know… here we are, Ityrziel being helpful and Brohdan being horrified and like he might not sleep at all tonight, to protect his cot from invaders of the six-legged kind. That's gonna go great. "Hmm? Oh. Just that you are dressed for a gather, but you say you were doing chores. It is very perplexing. Do you not own clothes for working?" He gestures at himself, as though his outfit weren't a recipe for fainting from a heat stroke.

If Tyr is feeling any sort of way about Brodie's rhapsodizing about the kitchen, it's not murderous, but maybe — exasperated? At least he seems to have stepped away from pissy, more or less. Sure, the harper's leaning hard into WOUNDED, but aren't we all. Aren't we all. "I tried to sample some of the food for tonight, and a chef shouted at me. Like I'm a child! I was hungry." Ityrziel tells the rock, mournful, while the blue firelizard makes a loudly exasperated noise. HUNGRY, YOU SAY. "I don't imagine they'll give you much time to miss it, if it's any consolation." Dry, the harper points out, eyes flicking wrathfully towards the Weyr proper. DOOM. "Oh? No, now, you can't just leave it at that." Tyr grumbles, scooching up against the rock until his shoulders are kind of generally less slouched. He's going to manage to get upright, eventually, you'll see. "Sindrieth didn't inform me before he extracted my cooperation for Search that there was running involved. Running! Like I'm a…a runner, or canine, on the beach. Imagine! I'm quite fit enough, thank you." Says the guy who literally collapsed halfway up the cliffs? Riiiight, Tyr. Right. You tell yourself that. At least he's not quite too wrapped up in his own misery to not notice his lack of helpfulness, but he can hardly leave it, right? Right? "No, I — I only meant, the barracks aren't quite sealed as well as some areas." ITYRZIEL. How is that supposed to make it better?! He might have even continued, if not for a return to pouting, eyeing his sweat-soaked shirt sadly. "It's cotton, man. It breathes. It's hardly fine cloth. Look, see, the weave —" Look, the weave is actually pretty loose and non-formal, Tyr, but he's wearing flannel. On a beach. Wait. "…Faranth, man, do you need to see the steward? Have you not acquisitioned any clothing? You're going to kill yourself! Is that flannel?" Ah. He's noticed.

Brohdan brightens in response to exasperation, entire body taking on a thrilled, vaguely anticipatory edge as he says, "That is because you sampled. If you did the work, you earned your share! You mustn't taste, you must take." The hand not propping him up balls into a fist of JUSTICE, one that matches the manic gleam in blue eyes. "That creature knows!" A point, right at Tyr's little blue. "Why, I bet even now, you could send him forth to claim your share. If my brother were not asleep beside you, I would take you myself!" He might still, judging by the way he pushes himself to a sit, wild energy infusing every sweaty inch. It makes it all the more amusing when he shrinks back into himself, shoulders hunching, eyes going furtive as he considers, and then, "I had a most… strange meeting with a one Reya. She is both tiny and terrifying, and if I never do see her again in my life, I shall count myself lucky. She knows things," said with a flare of thick lashes as though these things were so much more mystic than they truly are. "Running?" It would seem Fuerioth was just as behind on the times. "Weyr life is so very odd. Why should they care if you can run. Is expedient locomotion not what their dragons are for?" Cluck. At least his backwater judgmentalism is suspended, arms wrapped about knees, making himself hotter still as he rocks, slightly, and checks about them for the creepies and crawlies he is likely exaggerating in his imagination, as though they're coming for him right now. "Oh. Good. I shall, uh… I shall keep this structural deficiency in mind. Perhaps they need a better door. Yes. Mayhaps I will see the uh… the… who does one see about offering to build a better door, exactly?" Hopefully Tyr knows, because Brohdan clearly doesn't, looking utterly perplexed as he says, "That's an option?" Bless. BLESS. "What's your excuse?" BLESS.

Things maybe nobody knew about Ityrziel: he's an easy mark, this one. The harper contemplates the wisdom of Brohdan's words on another difficult heave-ho more upright. He makes it to the curve of his shoulders being propped up on the rocks. Progress! "I did earn it. You're right." The candidate mumbles, looking put-out. "Next time, I will. I'll get a plate, and I'll eat it." Tyr looks vaguely jealous of Brodie's energy, his ability to sit upright without immediately expiring, on the spot, but he doesn't pout. Much. Instead, he kind of squints, watching the weird reaction with distant curiosity. "Oh! Reya. Terrifying…are we talking about the same woman? About yea tall?" The way he gestures roughly an inch above his still-reclined head is probably insulting. "She's delightful! Oh yes, she knows a lot, I'd say. Brilliant woman." The harper beams, fond in spite of the poor fellow's obvious Reya-Related Trauma. He doesn't quite stop smiling at the point about running, but he does gasp, like it hadn't occurred to him, pointing dramatically. "Exactly!" The scandalized man grumbles, looking very put upon as he eyes the giant, hunching fellow. The oncoming lecture about Proper Beachwear (entirely hypocritical) has to be put on hold, though, for a curious tilt of his head. "A door. Sure. You know where one can be, ah, acquired? I imagine this one's very old, though. Sentimental." He points out, then: "The steward? Possibly." WAIT. HOLD ON. "I don't need an excuse! I am quite comfortable, thank you, and not in any danger of heat exhaustion. Unlike yourself."

He makes it to the curve of his shoulders being propped up on the rocks and possibly no further as Brohdan gives him a heavy clap-clap on the shoulder nearest him in classic atta-boy fashion. "That's the spirit! Why should they deny you, what is the difference between supping then and supping later, after all? Ha!" It is a scoffing sort of noise, that 'ha,' a very you-show-them sort of noise made by those that just don't know better. Alas, poor impressionable Tyr. We knew ye well. "Yes. That is her. Delightful, however… Did she… scuttle, at all, in your presence? You know. A sort of…" He cocks his arms outwards around the level of his chest, lizardlike, and mimes the desert denizen's distinct scuttlescuttlescuttle with wiggles of his upper body. "And make a sort of…" He makes a horrible moaning sound, and then fixes Tyr with an expectant, concerned, extremely dubious stare. It likewise does not abate with the change of topic, but instead transforms, an additional layer of thoughtfulness overcoming some of the latent terror. "Hmm. Sentimental. Yes. I hadn't thought of that. Perhaps if I offered to carve a new one meaningfully. Give it a border, around the outside. They could inlay it with stones or shells or whatever they like. White against… a dark red stain, maybe. Yes…" There he goes, spacing out picturing it, not even listening to Tyr's actual suggestion of who to go see. He'd probably keep on art braining if it weren't for the harper's indignance, the mild ferocity (compared to the rest of him) of it causing Brodie to blink and glance his way, eyes wide before they scrooch tight, cheeks lifting, mouth twisting into a mocking grimace as he says, "Are you?" Lean. "Are you though?" #DOUBT. "I'll dress right when you do," said stubbornly as he huffs and falls onto his back again, arms crossed as though trapping heat against his body wasn't the worst idea ever. It's fine.

WHOOMPH. Physical fortitute, thy name is not Ityrziel, perhaps, as Ityrziel goes right back down like a bug smacked off of a window screen. He even makes kind of the same noise, a vague, squeaking kind of yelp; then, resigned, settles. He'll just stay here. It's cool. "Don't ask me. I thouht it was very rude, myself." The harper grumbles, rubbing at a shoulder vaguely. As for Reya, though, Tyr can only stare, eyes slowly widening until he looks pretty ridiculous. It's a long beat before he can form any sort of response, but respond he does, with the slow unsureness of somebody who's not quite sure that the person lounging on the rocks beside them is altogether sane. "…no. She, ah. Walked with her legs? And she has a lovely voice, yes, it's quite nice. Very friendly." Tyr says, slowly, trying his words out before he puts them into the world, for once. "Are you certain that the person you met was Reya? The Weyrwoman?" He adds, like that really would keep her from also being, y'know, a little Off. Suuure. Poor Ityrziel's going through the ringer, though, and the idea that somebody might carve a door — like, with their hands seems to throw him for a loop. He blinks, even more mystified, at the giant, shakes his head in a slow kind of amazement. "Where would you find the time to carve a door? How do you carve a door." The harper shakes his head, and probably would have been happy to continue on that vein, but for his own hubris catching up to him. Tyr, impressionable but not one to back down from a fight, eyes Brodie with narrowed eyes from his slouch, chin tilted up. "I certainly am. Cotton breathes. You're dressed for snow, and I'm not certain you've noticed," Oh no, the Snippy Voice is back. "But there's no snow here, and never will there be, probably. You should absolutely see the Steward. Reya'd be very upset if you got hurt." Is that a threat? MAYBE.

"Hmm. Perhaps there are two goldriding Reyas. For that sounds like she, but that was not exactly my experience." No kidding, Brohdan. His bemusement persists, equally as confused about how Ityrziel doesn't know how to carve a door as Ityrziel is about how one does. "Ah… well… the same as you would carve anything else, I suppose. Unless… do you not have carved things, in weyrs? It was my understanding you had… had woodcrafters and the like, but perhaps they simply… Put the wood together and do not embellish it?" BAFFLED. HE IS BAFFLED. But not so much that he can't enjoy this. "How would you know, child-of-here-and-Fort. Stranger things have happened." But it breathes, he's reminded for the umpteenth time. "Oh, aye. I'm sure it breathes when you don't have it one layer on the next," said with jovial, poke-the-bear humor, nose staying scrunched up over a shit-eating grin. As for him seeing the steward: "Over my dead body!" … Yes, dear, that's the point. It might well be. He is unmoved, instead leaning over to shoulder-clap him again with a bright, "You worry too much. If I get too warm, I will simply make like these natives and take it off." He says it like that's something frisky and scandalous, laughter booming around their small space even as he finds his way to booted feet. "But for now, enjoy your 'breathing,' and your mollycoddling ways. I have need of this food you have mentioned. If he wakes," a point at his brother, "make sure to let him know we have a reckoning, he and I." Ominous? Maybe, if he weren't grinning so damn wide. "I take my leave of you— Ah…" A helpless look, and a gesture for Ityrziel to supply his name. HELP A BROTHER OUT.

Ityrziel doesn't exactly look convinced that Brohdan's not completely off his tits, but he does suggest, feebly: "Everybody has bad days, I suppose?" Like that would really account for it. RIGHT. CLEARLY. You know how sometimes you just need to crawl around on the ground and groan. Right? The harper looks like he'd like to be miffed about not understanding the theoreticals behind carving, except, well. He just doesn't understand. "But it's a door." He says, quiet again, looking terribly baffled. Adorably. Adorably baffled. "It's, well. What tree would be large enough for that?" Like he hasn't noticed that they're made from boards? In fairness, Tyr hasn't noticed that Hel's been piling pebbles on top of his head for the last minute, either, so that's entirely likely. The candidate eyes the other with something approaching vexation, after a beat, lips pulling down into a mulish kind of frown. "Oh, certainly, stranger things." Grumble, pause, huff. "And why wouldn't it? What would you have me do, wear less?" He suggests that like it's the craziest of crazy talk, but y'know what, they both deserve this conversation. Dumb-dumbs. Tyr's at least quick enough to take the low-hanging fruit, a sharp "Well, maybe!" for dead bodies, and well. He can't really sink down any further, now can he? But Tyr can twitch, a little, like he's been grievously wounded by the friendly whack. "Oh, sure. Mind the sun, now, you look like you'll burn like shellfish on coals." Oooooh, buuuuuurn. Literally. Rude little brat. "Mollycoddling!" The harper actually squawks, shooting up to sit straight and glare, furiously. Or well. He would, if the action didn't irritate whatever malady had laid him low in the first place, setting Tyr groaning "It's Tyr." into his hands, despairing. WOE. WOE!!

"Perhaps." It's arch. Disbelieving. It isn't like Brohdan wasn't given ample evidence that Reya is in all honestly a perfectly normal individual to which a strange thing happened, but it's also quite possible he'll be afraid of her til the end of time. It be like that sometimes. He seems less unnerved by it now, at least, all too willing to surrender sincere paranoia to fix Ityrziel with a confused squint and a slow, "Trees do come that big… But also they're made of…" Boards. Mimes boards with long, narrow gestures of his hands and the smushing of them together. Of course, it might be less a slow explanation because oh my god have you never seen a door before, and more slow because he's watching said firelizard make a cairn out of Ityrziel's hair but… listen. It's fine. This is all fine. They'll both either learn a whole, whole lot in the coming weeks and months or they'll die stupid and moronic and either way, they deserve what's coming for both of these conversations. Brodie, for one, seems unwilling to further engage, having already made up his mind and waiting only so he can parrot, "Tyr! A fine name." CLAP. Did he do it specifically because Ityrziel is already hurting? He has two little brothers. Of course he did. "Mine is Brohdan. I'm glad to have met you. Until next we meet!" And with a squeeze of that shoulder, he's off! In many, many more ways than one.

"Your brother is the worst, stranger." That's Tyr, watching the bigger idiot bounce off up the cliff, listing away from the arm that hurts. "Well met, Brohdan!" His traitorous Polite Harper vocal chords offer, louder, after the woodcrafter. "Talk to the Steward, for Faranth's sake!" Does he have to have the last word on that? APPARENTLY. Apparently he does. Beyond that, though, Ityrziel is apparently content to be completely oblivious of Hel's machinations as he…recovers enough to move on? Naps? Dies, not alone here on the rocks? One of those, probably.

SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I bet you thought Cassie was dead, but NO. He slowly sits up, inundated with SNACKS and DRINKS that he was indulging in the entire time with the kind of expression that says he thinks the universe has a pretty sick sense of humor for making him endure ALL OF THIS. Even though he could have left at any time. And was definitely not sleep-eating. Not a chance. Give him a moment, to watch Brodie retreat, to watch Ity-Bity do… whatever that is, and then he sighs. It's a very Put Upon sigh, the kind that says he can't believe he has to say this but oh all right, he'll come out with it then: "I hate both of you." And there he goes, leaving behind crumbs and suspicious bits of what might be chocolate with the kind of gait that says he should probably be rolling down the hill. Because. You know. There was too-many-much.

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