Nighthearth

A comfortable nook, this natural extension of the living room is cozily attired with overstuffed chairs and a couple of well-worn loveseats. All have been covered in various shades of green, giving the very incongruous appeal of a miniature forest hidden away inside… a grove of man-made proportion. Fish stews and spicy white-wherry chili are often kept hot on the minor hearths east and west of the main, for those whose hours defy when meals are kept. Ornate, the largest hearth towers high, rich with carving and utilitarian in fashion: it holds court by providing the weyr with rich klah, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon wafting.

It's another drizzly autumn day in Southern, but not particularly cold. Still, there's something cosy about the nighthearth area, with its little hearths, constant klah, and consistently good stew, which is perhaps why several of the chairs are occupied right now, though it's an hour after the end of lunchtime. Sometimes, a person just feels like wherry chilli! Plus, the food is available outside normal mealtimes, without having to brave the kitchen. It's one of Ocelot's sweep days, and R'zel arrives looking as if he's been flying, still in his leathers and carrying gloves and helmet. He leaves these on a seat to claim it before advancing on one of the stew pots.

—

The newest ‘rider on the wing having been charitably assigned a nearer portion of their sweep area, Nick’s back at the Weyr a quarter of a candlemark sooner than R’zel — which time she puts to good use showering and changing out of her own well-dampened flying leathers.

She appears in the Nighthearth smelling freshly-scrubbed with her wet hair slicked back from her face, dressed now in a more terrestrial pair of leather pants, in plain black rather than the dark red of her flying gear and stitched with pockets in the same size and arrangement as the black cloth ones he saw her checking that day in the laundry a few sevens ago. Same kind of white shirt as usual. Same smoked glass shades. Same crisp and tidy salute as they come face to face, in the different phases of another vital shared mission: ACQUIRE STEW.

“Wingleader,” she greets him plainly, with a nod as she lowers her hand.

—

R'zel doesn't yet have a bowl in his hand. He acknowledges the crisp salute with another, though he's also smiling as he sees his new wingmate. "Brownrider. Actually, this is convenient: I was going to find a time to talk to you. Do you have time to join me for lunch? I've just come off sweep, so I was just going to get something here. The stew's usually excellent. Or there's klah, if you've already eaten." As he speaks, he unfastens his jacket, to accommodate the more comfortable temperatures inside.

—

Nick isn’t smiling — but she doesn’t, much. Her tone is amiable as she admits, “I was just looking for a bite of something, yes. Of course I’m at your disposal, Wingleader.” Another nod, and she turns away to claim a bowl and fill it from whichever stew pot’s nearest. She doesn’t appear to care which, or what might be in the others. One can’t go wrong in the Nighthearth, really. “Like swimming out there, today,” she observes absently as she replaces the ladle.

—

R'zel also takes a bowl, and ends up opting for today's offering of white wherry chilli rather than his usual fish, along with some bread that's been out on a tray just a little longer than ideal. A mug of klah to wash it down with, and he's all set. "You had the southern part of the river? It was dry where I was, but a lot colder than here." He finds his way into a chair that has another at a convenient angle to it, and smiles an invitation to join him. "So how did your sweep go?" The klah's set on the floor, placed safely clear of his feet, while he makes a start on the chilli.

—

Juggling much the same repast in practiced hands, with a folded napkin protecting the palm of her hand against the growing heat of her bowl of chilli for the time it takes to pour her klah, Nick follows R’zel’s lead and parks herself unceremoniously in that chair adjacent to his.

“Nothing of note except the felines,” she answers succinctly. A sip of her klah. “We flew pretty low to get a clear count of them. Roughly the numbers that were reported by,” and she names the last sweep ‘rider to cover that section, “in roughly the same places,” and she has the details at hand and repeats them in a few pithy phrases, some more definite and some deliberately cautious when the tree cover made it difficult to be certain. “I was going to write up a note over lunch,” she concludes, “though if you’d rather fold it into your own report…?”

—

R'zel balances his bowl on the arm of his chair, keeping a hand on it for safety as he answers. "Oh, yes, please can you write it up, with the numbers. Ve'rak's keeping track of what we see where." That's typical of R'zel: data gets collated to provide information, though he's just as likely to do the hidework himself as to delegate it to his wingsecond. "As long as they aren't any closer to the Weyr than that, they shouldn't be a problem." There's a faint grin. "Not for us, anyway. The people who live out that way might see it differently!" More seriously, "But we can give warnings if we spot any near a settlement." He continues to eat, looking somewhat warmer as the spicy food bites.

—

More klah; and then Nick bends to set down her mug opposite R’zel’s and begins to address herself to the napkin-cushioned bowl of chilli she’s been holding in her lap. Nestled securely, in fact, between two well-filled pockets. They have so many uses! “Yeah, we went twice round the cotholds down there to double check,” she goes on, “but the nearest pack was a small one and at a good distance. Of course,” she acknowledges with a sigh, “that could change quick enough any day we don’t have eyes in the sky.” Implicit is the fact that the Weyr, however well-intentioned toward its holders, can only afford to spare a certain amount of time from its primary responsibilities. “I’ll get all that written up for the Wingsecond as soon as I’ve put this away where it’s going,” and she lifts the bowl demonstratively before making further use of her spoon. A handful of minutes will make no difference in documenting the feline situation, but could easily chill the chilli. No hungry brownrider could countenance that.

—

"Thank you." R'zel won't argue with those priorities: he takes another spoonful of his own food before agreeing. "Yes, even if areas that need attention get more sweeps, the beasts will still have a clear run on Thread days." He follows that rapidly with a piece of bread to combat the spiciness of his food, and that with a sip of klah. Once the mug has been replaced out of harm's way on the floor, he gets down to the real reason for this chat. "So, it's been ten days since you came to Ocelot. How have you been finding it?"

—

Across from him Nick eats steadily and efficiently, intent upon fuel rather than gustatory pleasure — she’s chewing when he poses that courteous but expected question, and he’s necessarily kept waiting upon her answer until she’s wet her throat with a mouthful of klah and touched her napkin to her lips. “You’ve got good people,” she states first of all, “who get right to business even when it comes unexpectedly. I was impressed by that,” she admits.

Then she peels off her shades and hooks them on the front of her shirt, and regards the wingleader with serious brown eyes. “I’m happy to be back in the fight, and in such good company. I’d like to thank you again,” she offers quietly, “for the opportunity.”

—

R'zel nods at the answer, and responds without hesitation. "I'm glad to have you in the wing. The surprise Falls are a nuisance, but everyone knows they can happen, so we all know to keep our gear ready to fly, and so on." A somewhat playful grin crosses his lips. "When there wasn't one for several months, I ran a surprise muster, just in case anyone forgot. But Ocelot's always been good about being called out suddenly: it happens in the Search and Rescue work, too. How about the Fall, then? Did you feel you were fitting in?"

—

Nick murmurs thanks, quietly enough that her gratitude doesn’t constitute an interruption; she eats as she listens, and then says honestly, “I hope I did; but I can’t say I was really thinking about that, at the time. Too much else on my mind. You know how it is when you fly in the same skies long enough — you can tell some things just by smelling the air. I don’t have that same sense here yet so I don’t like to take anything for granted during Fall,” she admits.

There’s a slight hesitation and then she adds, “I like your dawn drills, Wingleader, but to tell you the truth I like them a little too much. I think surprises are a worthwhile exercise in addition to the regular training we all expect. My wing did those a few times a Turn at High Reaches, always in the shittiest weather conditions,” she confides, and at that thought she finally cracks a smile. “High winds, sleet… It’s good to have some training that’s harder than the real thing.”

—

R'zel chuckles at that, but looks at Nick with interest. "You may have a point there. I've gone for drilling as soon as it's light because there's a real danger of heatstroke here in summer, and we can't afford to have riders out of commission. It gets hot enough soon enough." Given that the temperatures at the Weyr regularly top a hundred degrees in summer, and that's not even in the tropical part of the continent, it's a genuine concern. "But we drill in any weather we might have to fight Thread in, and in the same places, too. The Southern weather tends to throw up plenty of variety without much effort on my part, and we go where we need to in search of different conditions. I expect you've realised that, even if we don't cover every acre of the continent, we fight in quite a variety of different places."

—

The brownrider is growing subtly more animated as they talk, sitting forwards in her chair and regarding R’zel with intent and intelligent brown eyes. “Yeah, I’m conscious of the danger,” she confirms ruefully, “but from my perspective, coming from a High Reaches winter straight into a Southern summer, I’m concerned also not to be too cautious in preparation.” She sucks in a breath and then admits in a lower voice, “If I hadn’t spent my first few months here pushing myself harder and working out more in the heat, seven by seven, I’d be neither use nor ornament even now it’s raining half the time. I’m the extreme case, yes, I’ll allow that, but I’m sure it must benefit your local folk as well to have real experience drilling in the most difficult summer conditions, to learn how far they can push when they have to and what warning signs to watch out for… It’s an interesting balance to strike,” she muses as she tears off another piece of bread. Then she shrugs and adds, deadpan, “Of course, if you were to offer me some nice cold winds next time, I wouldn’t say no.” And she pops the bread into her mouth.

—

"Probably not next time, but the time after," R'zel offers. "Southern Barrier Hold. At this time of the turn, it'll be dust for a lot of the route, but not all of it, and plenty cold enough for most people's taste." He gives a shake of his head. "You can't actually avoid peak summer conditions: whatever time you start, it's cooking by the time you finish." Unless you have ridiculously short drills, which Ocelot certainly doesn't. He continues, his tone thoughtful, "But you're right: it's definitely a balance to be drawn, and not every wing takes the same approach. I'll be interested to hear what you think once you've had some summer flying with us. This time of turn, of course, it's pleasant to go somewhere warm. Maybe we'll find somewhere nice to scrub up after the next one!"

—

“Is that so,” Nick murmurs, nodding her interest in R’zel’s predictions. “I’ve been to the hot springs at Southern Barrier a few times,” she mentions, “to soak my shoulder when it was still healing… Wouldn’t mind the excuse to drop in again.” She’s put away most of her chilli by now, with great expedition; she’s employing the last of her bread to mop up what’s left in the bottom of the bowl held in her other hand. “I won’t say I’m looking forward to the summer, but I’ll be better prepared for it the next time round,” she pledges seriously, looking her new wingleader right in the eye. Because he’d be right to have his reservations about that, wouldn’t he, after hearing such frank words spoken by an elderly transplant from the far north.

—

R'zel is at the mopping up stage too. "Oh, those hot springs are famous." He sounds appreciative. "I've been there a time or two when I've overdone the PT." He pauses to smile at a memory. "I couldn't believe how hot it felt when I first came. I mean, Fort gets hot in summer, but this seemed so much worse. People do seem to acclimatise, though: you'll see them out in the middle of the day and not worrying about it. Sunburn can be a problem, too. The healers provide something to put on your skin that helps you not to burn, but it's as well to be careful if you're not covered up." R'zel is fair-skinned and consequently prone to frying. "Talking of PT, do you run?"

—

By contrast, Nick the northerner tans: her face and throat have remained golden-brown into the autumn, though fractionally paler where her eyes are often covered by goggles or shades. It’s not really fair, is it…? One healthily-tanned hand sets down her empty bowl next to her dwindling mug of klah; she nods her complete understanding whilst chewing the last bite of bread and wiping her crumby fingers on the napkin still draped across her thighs.

“I’d visited Southern before from time to time— but living here, being here day in and day out, that’s another story, yeah,” she agrees wryly. And then R’zel asks a question the answer to which seems, to her, so obvious that she blinks twice at the bronzerider, positively nonplussed, before she speaks. “Yes, every morning,” she confirms for the record, “but I’ve changed my routine to start earlier now than I used to so my run won’t clash with Ocelot drills.”

—

R'zel nods, apparently satisfied. Tick off one wingrider who won't need initiating into R'zel's ideas of PT. "Good. We do a long one about once a sevenday, schedules and surprise Falls permitting, but since Thread cancelled the last one, I think we'll do it tomorrow. Why I asked, though: you'll find some of the riders go out together for their own daily stretch. Ki'hil's the leading light in that: if you need routes, or want company, he's your man. If you're going out before drill, though, you must be starting in the dark." He sounds somewhat concerned about that. "Where do you go?"

—

Loosening her cuffs, and folding her sleeves up as far as her elbows, Nick nods and repeats the name, “Ki’hil,” in order to commit it to memory. “I’ll ask him — thank you for the suggestion,” she says seriously. Her forearms also have a flourishing suntan, and the left one bears a silvery streak of threadscore that looks to date to the early years of the Pass. A few other, fainter, hair-thin scars may well have been left by knives. “I’ve been going out by myself, usually. Down to the beach or around the pastures,” she reassures him easily, “nowhere the footing’s uneven or I’m like to find myself racing against our feline population. Or now and again,” and she finishes straightening her second cuff and sits forward again, leaning her forearms on her thighs as she confesses, “Edyth and I slip away up north for an hour, and I run one of my old routes in the mountains. The air’s crisp and sweet up there, this time of Turn.”

—

"Does Edyth keep you company?" Amusement twinkles in R'zel's eyes as he explains, "I'd hate to have to explain to the healers why their ex-patient has come back half-eaten by felines."

He pauses briefly to swap his empty bowl for his klah mug. "I've got some favourite routes in the woods and along the coast, but I go in the daytime or the evening, depending on what else I've got on. It's a good way to work up an appetite for supper! But the next whole-wing outing is a beach run - miles and miles of sea and sand, and a bit of clifftop." He's smiling as if he's looking forward to it. "We've got other things coming up: a workout and sparring with the guards, a Search and Rescue exercise. Plus the usual, of course." Drills, sweeps, wing PT, Threadfall, rescuing anyone who needs it.

—

“I think enough of them know me by now that you wouldn’t have much to explain,” Nick suggests, deadpan. Then, with a quick smile — because even the most granite-faced ‘riders smile, on average, 300% more frequently during conversations that revolve around their dragons: “But yeah, Edyth follows along. He likes swimming better than running, though, we’ve hardly missed a day in the water since we came south,” she mentions. “I’ll tell you right now that these days I do better in a sprint than a marathon,” she admits, in reference to those many promised miles of sea and sand, “but I’m also pretty good at picking out someone who’s slower’n I am on the long haul and pretending I’m dropping down to their pace just to encourage them and keep them company. So that’s probably what I’ll do,” she chuckles, and sips her klah. “Age and guile can still beat youth and vigour, as I’m sure E’som would agree.”

—

R'zel chuckles at that, and pauses for klah, but he's soon back to business. "Well, let's see how you do. Roefeth might pick E'som up before the finish: he can make it, but he's slowed up these last couple of turns." Talking of dragons - and what rider doesn't - "Verokanth's with Edyth on that: he's a keen swimmer too." His head tilts as he remembers something. "Oh, and that reminds me: before the Search and Rescue exercise, how are you at rope work? I mean, rope throwing, and knots. Ve'rak and I do classes on those, when people need to learn. Very handy if you need to pick someone up from the sea or somewhere you can't land, or shift heavy objects by dragon." He takes another pull at his mug.

—

Rope work? It’s another of those times when Nick’s face just doesn’t move, till after a pause for thought. “Yeah, I know a bit,” she admits, no more guardedly than usual; “I had a seacrafter friend a while back who showed me some things. I throw axes more often than I throw ropes, though, so that’ll be something I can practice on my own time if you feel I’m not up to the Ocelot standard there. Which I’m probably not, yet.”

She pauses. “About the run, though. If I’d been flying with you a few years already I’d say,” she turns her hand over in the air in an equivocating gesture, “maybe I’d tap out too if E’som does. But right now I’m starting from the beginning in a new wing and I’d rather my wingmates see me do the same as they do rather than getting any special consideration. Even if I’m a bit shit, it’ll make me more sympathetic,” she allows wryly, “and I believe there are other ways in which I can make up for it, later on.”

—

"Fair enough," R'zel agrees. "But you're not long recovered from injury, too - it's not unreasonable to need to work your way up to doing the more extreme things." What Nick was saying about people needing to push themselves? Some Ocelots find R'zel's runs serve that purpose! "I'll sort out a time to check you out on the ropes. Oh, and I'm going to swap you and Th'mur in the formations." He's swapping Nick and her neighbour round, in other words. "From what I've seen, Edyth's more manoeuvrable than Mihucanth: he'll do well outside of him." He drinks the rest of his klah, and holds the empty mug on his knee.

—

A tilt of Nick’s head doesn’t quite concede the point. “It was my shoulder, not my leg,” she points out for justice’s sake; but then she’s diverted by something more interesting, and one can just about see the formation rearranging itself behind her eyes. “Thank you,” she says, nodding, “I think you’re right… Edyth likes to play ball games,” she explains, in case R’zel hasn’t heard that tidbit yet from Katrya, who knows it all too well. “Most days he does an extra hour or two of agility training just because he enjoys it so much — I think that’s why he recovered as quickly as he did from a wingsail injury, too. A lot of that kind of exercise, a little at a time.”

—

R'zel smiles broadly at that tidbit! "Ball games? That sounds fun. Vero used to like that when we were weyrlings, but he's not done it for ages. Maybe Edyth can start a trend." He gathers up his bowl and mug, and gets to his feet. "Right. My sweep's done - even less eventful than yours - and Ve'rak's taking sweep reports today." Lucky Ve'rak - he gets a share of the hidework. "I'm going to take Verokanth to hunt, before it gets dark - or anything comes up to stop us. See you tomorrow, Nick. Clear skies!" With that, he takes himself over to leave his crockery near the hearth, and then out towards the Living Cavern and the Bowl.

—

When he rises so does Nick, to echo his farewell: “Clear skies, Wingleader.”

But once he’s gone about his business she settles to her own, fetching a drop more klah from the pot on the largest hearth and a notebook and a charcoal pencil from one of her own capacious pockets. Lucky, lucky Ve’rak is about to get all the latest feline news.