Fights to Pick (Vig)

Xanadu Weyr — Candidate Barracks
A long, low ceilinged room opens off the entrance hall to the arena. One wall is slightly curved, set against the outer wall of the arena itself. Cots are set in two rows along the length of the room, each with its own small press at the foot for personal belongings. Wide windows are spaced along the outside wall, letting sunlight in, while other lights are available for the night time hours. It's always warm here when there are eggs on the sands, and candidates seldom need more than a light blanket.

He was never a fighter.

Physically or verbally, Keruthien never showed the aptitude for it. It wasn't in the basis, and core, of his fun-loving nature, even with the ample situations in which he had at his disposal to try — and, every time, it ended poorly.

So he did everything in his power to avoid it.

Growing up, his life was average and unremarkable on the surface, but he knew the truth: that normalcy was something he'd never known, among so many layers of varying dysfunctional relationships. He'd seen for himself what the result was of conflict. Seen it between his mother and father, the complex weave between his own half-sisters, the utter discord between a full blooded uncle, and cousins that are more like strangers, than familiar.

It hurt in ways that his younger self had no basis on which to understand, and so to cope, he did what felt right. He would be a happy one, the joker and the fool, in hopes of staving off yet another verbal quarrel. He'd pretend that he didn't see what was going on, play the oblivious card, so that attention turns to him — and he'd play (and prey) upon that too, that attention seeking nature. He took qualities of his personality and exaggerated them, to make the pieces of him that didn't fit and chose not to acknowledge, smaller and more easily managed.

Small enough to be ignored, overlooked and denied.

What started as survival tactics in choosing not to react by reacting the opposite, has worked so well over the Turns that it's woven itself so thoroughly into his mannerisms. Now it is like a second skin. He's not so sure he could stop or changeā€¦ or that he even desires to, anymore.

Those thoughts where the kind he was content enough to turn a blind eye to. Live life as it should be, to its fullest and seemingly carefree. He wouldn't be like everyone else, caught up in the negatives and lashing out against those they supposedly cared for. He'd be the good guy, the distraction, the wild card, memorable and forgettable.

And it worked, too!

Until he touched those eggs.

Whatever consciousness lurked within those shells saw right through his ruse. Dredging up things he was determined to avoid, pulling them all painfully to the surface and leaving him wanting to scream back at them that it wasn't true; even as his mind skitters away from the idea that the actions he thought best and good natured were, in fact, making him anything but a good and decent person.

He didn't want to relive the experience, but he will, because in not doing so, it will hint that something is wrong and not-right and he refuses to allow that side of him to show. A serious side of him, one capable of feeling guilt and regret and remorse.

No, it was better to play the role of chaos and good intentions.

Some chose to fight physically and others, to lash out verbally.


Is locked in a fight with himself.

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