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Harper's Tale 4 - Saturday, September 28, 2002, 11:45 PM

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Morallen is whistling to himself as he sharpens a tray of scalpels, the words to the bawdy drinking song remaining unsaid for the delicacy of whatever patients might be in the Infirmary at this time. The rasp of metal on whetstone accompanies sudden lilts to the tune, and he's perched casually on a countertop, lanky legs swinging and his toes wriggling idly every now and again.

For anyone who knows him, seeing N'sync walking without his usual confident swagger would be akin to seeing more comets shooting toward Pern. As it is, he probably appears more normal than usual to those who don't. He pauses in the door of the infirmary, lanky form sliding around the doorframe, and knocks sharply on the frame. "Hello?"

Morallen's honing of sharp pointy objects ceases not, although he treats the entering brownrider to a friendly wave with his free hand, even deigning to slide off the counter and lean on it instead. "Hullo there. Need a Healer for anything, brownrider?" Hazel eyes take in the pretty boy in front of him, and he notes the High Reaches identification. Finishing one blade, he tests it by whittling a long slice off a piece of wood near to hand. "Ah, perfect."

Morallen's sharp objects don't phase N'sync in the least. It's been sometime since anyone's actually hurt him - unless they happened to be a jilted female - and he's got a large brown prescence backing him up. "A specific Healer, yes," the brownrider replies as he slides the rest of his lanky form into the infirmary. "I'm looking for Morallen?" The question is stated with an expectant lift of his brows.

Morallen's eyebrows quirk with mild interest at this, and he lowers the scalpel he's working on to lean with both elbows against the counter, a casual sprawl he's no doubt chew out if he caught anyone else doing it. "Well then you've found him," he drawls, accent just as Benden as his sister's, but warm and casual. "Senior Apprentice Morallen at your service, specialist in wrenched backs, atrophied muscles, and partial paralysis."

N'sync actually looks slightly nervous at this. The brownrider shoves his hands into trou pockets and steps forward slightly. His throat clears. His eyes lift. And he speaks. Kinda. "You're.. you're Wyn's brother, right?" he finally questions with some effort.

Morallen meant specialist as in /treating/ them, but doesn't seem inclined to correct N'sync's misconception. Apparently the siblings share a sense of humour, as well as birth names starting with 'M'. He continues to sprawl casually, picking up one scalpel, tossing it in the air and catching it again before nodding laconically. "Wyn is my younger sister, that's right," he agrees. "And you're a High Reaches brownrider, by your knot."

Misconception? Tsk. Perhaps N'sync is simply nervous about why he's come? Surely that couldn't be. "Ah.. I am, yes." The brownrider steps forward, remembering himself, and extends a hand. "N'sync, Backstreeth's rider." He steps back, introduction concluded, and eyes Morallen for a moment before asking. "Are you.. close to Wyn?"

Morallen takes the hand for a moment, and applies a firm, dry clasp before returning to his stance, a casual stance so common and unchanging to him it might qualify as 'at ease' were this the military. An amused smirk plays over the young man's lips, and he drawls out that "She's my younger sister. I'm her only full brother. Of course I'm close to her, brownrider. I broke a fellow's nose once, on her account," This little bit of information is dropped as the ever-suspicious Rallen theorizes on what might a) bring N'sync in search of him, and b) make him nervous.

If Morallen's at ease, N'sync is exactly the opposite. Still, to his credit, there's no flinching or extreme changes in expression at the healer's revelation, and N'sync helps himself to one of the stools of the infirmary. He frowns slightly and his eyes narrow - evidently he's picking up on Morallen's hostility. "So.. if a.. fellow," he begins, intentionally echoing, "Were to ask your advice on how to get to know her a bit better, you'd be able to help?"

Hostility? Rallen's looking just as affable as ever, really. But honestly, someone has to do the Protective Older Brother Thing. It's nothing personal. Never mind how he takes the tray of scalpels along with him as he settles to a seat on an empty cot. "Well now," me muses, eyeing N'sync closely. "That depends on what the fellow's intentions were."

N'sync snorts, features wrinkling into an expression that's most certainly not one of Boyish Charm. "Intentions? Shards! I'd be happy if I could walk into a room without her feeling the urge to throw spiteful comments in my direction or duck under the nearest table," he explains somewhat bitterly. Wow. Open and sharing tonight, isn't he?

Morallen examines his fingernails with a somewhat bored air. And really, his fingernails /are/ rather boring, cut short, neat and scrupulously clean. "Hummm... I'm not unfamiliar with Wyn's reactions. Why don't you tell me just what you did to her, eh?" And give him credit, he does not reach for a scalpel as he says this.

N'sync glances up sharply. "I haven't done anything to her," he states quite emphatically. Other than... y'know... sleep with her. But that doesn't count. "Wyn has, it seems, just decided that I'm beneath her elite level of existence." Something he's obviously desparate to remedy - for whatever reason.

Morallen cocks his head to one side, fixing N'sync with the bored air he'd just been turning on his fingernails. "You're a rotten liar, you know," he comments casually, picking up a scalpel and twirling the haft caressingly through his fingers. "You squirmed when I asked that, and you're way too sure-sounding in your answer. Want to tell me the truth, before I decide you're just some lecher out to nail my kid sister?" Yeah, he knows N'sync has a brown dragon. But he highly doubts Backstreeth can fit in here.

It's been tried before. Have a chat with Vespurath some time. "Done that already," N'sync dismisses with a wave of his hand. It's obvious from his tone that he doesn't truly consider that a lapse in moral judgement, however - his tone is bitter as he continues swiftly. "And if I wanted a lay, I wouldn't have a hard time getting one."

"Oh really..." Beware the Jabberwock, my son. Or in this case, Beware the Morallen who's suddenly sounding altogether too calm and friendly. Because normally affable hazel eyes are developing a faint and alarming glint under his careless tousle of sandy hair as nearly two decades of over-protectiveness war with the fact that Wyn's a mature woman. For the moment, the two competing ideals remain at an impasse, and he settles for playing with the scalpel again as he asks mildly "So. How did you manage that, then? I must say you're not really my sister's type, from what I've seen of her..."

N'sync ignores the question in favor of putting forth one of his own, eyes bright and bitter at the same time. "So you're telling me that there is no chance of ever moving beyond that sharding icy shell of hers? Because.. what? Why exactly am I not good enough for her?" Ooo. That's just asking for it.

"You didn't answer my question, brownrider," Morallen's voice is suddenly calm and hard, eyes fixed sternly on N'sync. "If you want answers out of me, you'd better tell me the whole story. And no errors or omissions either. You're beginning to remind me very strongly of the last fellow who upset my little sister..."

"So that's it, is it?" N'sync continues bitterly, question still ignored. "I'm being punished for the deeds of some other bloke?" His head shakes swiftly, and his palms rub briskly against her thighs. "If you're intent on knowing, she invited me up to her weyr after.. the disaster." His eyes lift to fix on Morallen. "Though to hear her tell it, it happened quite differently."

"My sister," replies Morallen, looking as though the statement is hurting him to admit. "Invites men up to her weyr on a regular basis." And younger sisters should /not/ be doing such things. Even if they're weyrbred. Nope. Or at least he shouldn't have to hear about it. He perks up a little as he continues, though. "You, however, seem to be getting treated very differently from her other conquests." he notes, quirking an eyebrow. "I'm interested... what exactly caused this... situation? My sister has her faults, but she tends not to just decide to despise someone for no reason."

"When you figure it out, be sure to let me know, will you?" N'sync responds. "You've heard my side of the story. You'll have to ask her why she seems to enjoy treating me like a particularly vile strain of pond scum." Bitter? No. Of course not.

"Oh come on, brownrider. It takes two wrongs to cause a rift." counsels Morallen, now taking a slightly exasperated tone. "Don't pretend you can't think of anything you did that might set her off. Don't you know anything about women?" Whaaaa? Is Morallen switching sides? Well, probably not, since he's still playing with a scalpel and eyeing N'sync in an unsavoury manner now and again.

N'sync spreads his hands, palms up, and shrugs. "Look. I like your sister, ok? She hates me. I just thought, perhaps, that you might feel a tiny shred of compassion and help me out a little." His gaze settles harshly on Morallen. "I didn't come here to be psycoanalyzed. I get enough of those nasty little barbs from her. If you want to know why she hates me, ask her. I'm sure she's got a list."

"Runs in the family," is Morallen's quip regarding psychoanalysis, tossed off quickly while he eyes N'sync consideringly. Eye. The twirling of the scalpel picks up speed and slows down several times as he considers, thoughts warring for posession of his brain. At last he jerks his chin a little. "Tell you what. You want to pursue my sister, you act like a man instead of a little boy. Apologize. Bend your neck a little. And quit making so many bloody excuses. If she'll be civil to you, so be it. But..." And here he leans over to whisper conspiratorially in N'sync's ear, with an air of false cameraderie. "Make her cry, and I'll break both your kneecaps. It only takes 15 pounds of pressure, you know. Then move on to your elbows. Then your fingers and toe joints. And then I'll patch you back up afterwards." With a glittery feral smile, he withdraws, picks up his scalpels, and crosses back across the room.

N'sync stands suddenly, and that bitter tinge in his eyes shifts to a flare of anger. "Believe it or not, boy, I'm perfectly capable of acting like a man. I've even tried it." By his definition, at least. "Frankly, I was hoping you'd actually know a little more about your sister and be able to be of some actual help." He sneers at the Healer. "As for the other... you're quite welcome to try. I've been known to hold me own." He spins, lips twisted into a painful smile, and strides from the infirmary with swift intention. He pauses at the door just long enough to toss over his shoulder. "And for the record - I have no intention of making her cry. I was hoping to make her happy." And then he's gone.