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… What's happening?!
Over fifteen turns of Thread has fallen in 12th Pass over a conservative Pern peppered liberally (pun intended) with progressive Oldtimers from 10th interval, in Harper's Tale's current iteration. The conflict of ideology between the traditionalist Nowtimers and the Oldtimers - liberal survivors of apocalyptic comets from 10th Interval that both destroyed Crom Hold and changed the face of Pern as any remembered it to be - makes life, as they say, interesting.
More than Thread challenges those that walk the many roads available in HT's setting. From dirty trader politics in Igen Weyr's in-house and eccentric bazaar, icy antics of the indigenous wildlings in Southern Barrier Hold, and the struggles of both weyrs (Igen and Southern) that rise to defend all of the above, there's a little taste for any plotline that a player may be interested in delving into. Log in and check us out for more information!
… Are you a returning player?
You'll want to get caught up! Log in and see what interests you most: bringing your character forward or "reskinning" your existing character into a future character/rider at one of the new areas ({New} Southern Weyr / Igen Weyr). A lot of options are open to returning players — even if you've not connected in a long time!
Check out our areas: Igen & Southern!
Game Announcements!
Curious to see what's been going on in-game?? Check out our game announcements below!
| Title | OOC Date | Summary |
2020's Threadfall Dates!
Want to see our Threadfall history? Head on over to HT's Thread Schedule! Below are the Threadfall dates for the next quarter! The Thread Schedule can also be found from the top nav: Pern -> Thread Schedule!
| Title | OOC Date | Summary |
| 2020 Q1 Threadfall | January 1, 2020 | Threadfall Summary - January-March 2020 |
Recent Logs
Curious to see what's been happening today?? Check out our logs below!
There have been 17 scenes in the last two days.
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A Tale of Two Candidates A Tale of Two Candidates
    She looks from the shoe, to the false knot, to Zefran's face before her brow furrows in confusion. "Why?" She asks, sounding incredulous rather than angry.  Caravan Grounds Deep grooves in the hard packed earth criss-cross a large patch of denuded ground, bearing mute testament to the caravans that frequent this area. Despite the midden holes set back a ways from the main center of traffic, the air is sweet, redolent with the sagebrush that forms a loose perimeter around the flattened expanse. In what is as close to its center as the vague boundaries suggest, a stone ringed fire pit has been dug and surrounded with the odd log or two, ash overflowing from its darkly blackened core. "Thanks for the help!" A magnanimous member of the Reika lobs a shrill voice to cover his appreciation to Zefran, the smith apprentice. Or whom he thinks is a smith apprentice, the knot is there on the lad's shoulder. Zefran hikes up a hand and scrapes the back of his heels just for the sake of noise and a good mood. "I'm gettin' pretty good at this." He'll confide in the smartest person immediately around: himself, in a personal mutter. To a wagon who doesn't appear to have an owner around, Zefran peels a head scarf off from his head, sweat-damp hair tight to his scalp, and aligns his back to the wagon side as he rests on the moment's laurels, a metal runnershoe, bent, spun around in his hand. It's a case of odd time, neutral place, rather than right place right time or wrong place wrong time. It's more like neutral place, interesting times, which might be even worse. Aylee is enjoying her weekly day off, though the day seems to shift considerably based on the whims of her master. She's still dressed in her every day clothing though-it's possible that she doesn't actually have much outside of her androgynous clothing-clothing that preserves modesty as much as it obscures the need for it. She recognizes Zefran and approaches on the tail end of his little interaction. Her brows rise, and the corner of her mouth curls slightly in what is probably amusement. "Do you need some help?" SHe wonders, although she doesn't impose herself on his personal space—-simply a light call from the periphery. Dhazkyth proceeds down from the skies, backwinging like a legend into the crowded morass of the Caravan Grounds. Draybeasts complain in plaintive brays for having an apex predator suddenly amongst them, but the bronze seems to not care whatsoever. His eyes, whirling orange, are studying all around him: he looks here and there, sniffing faintly at one trader and sneezing (dryly, thankfully!) at another. He shifts over Zefran without even a pause, continuing to swing his head around. R'kyr? R'kyr should be here, probably, but the bronzerider can't be seen. Did Dhazkyth kill him with aspirations of being the first riderless dragon of Pern? Zefran draws his eyes upwards to find Aylee and within a second or so, "I need a smith. A real one," his chin will roll to the smith knot, a false one, for there's no way Smith Hall harbored him. A shoulder plants and pushes him upright off the wagon, deformed shoe offered to a genuine smith by standard and decree (maybe a certificate on her wall). "I sometimes blend into the bazaar with a different knot, change my appearance. Today I wus Derion, the smithy appren'ice frem Boll." Falling into the brogue of the region, with much creative license, and devil-may-care approach to Aylee. At least until a brawny bronze, one a study of contrasts, makes a winfall and he'll press his eyes shut from the backblow and its grit. "I know he's not yours." This does not seem to answer any of Aylee's questions—-in fact, it seems to cause more of them. She looks from the shoe, to the false knot, to Zefran's face before her brow furrows in confusion. "Why?" She asks, sounding incredulous rather than angry. As if it would never occur to her that this was a thing that someone might pretend to do rather than actualy doing it, presumably. She takes the shoe in her narrow, scarred hands, and looks like she might say something else, but then a dragon makes its landing and her face turns toward the bronze with rapt attention. She studies the lines of it like a whale watcher seeing a beluga for the first time. "No. I think I'd have to be a very different person for that to be the case." She says, noting the beast's color. Her head cocks slightly. "I wonder what he's looking for. Where's his rider?" But she's still holding the shoe, and her hands travel over it in half-hearted interest. Most of her attention is on the giant before them, though. Oh: there. Dhazkyth goes unerringly over the top of Zefran's head to drop his head to inhale deeply Aylee's scent. A mindscape unveils before the pair of them in vague snatches, as if the pair of youths stand suddenly atop a very tall building, looking down at an urban city below. Discordant, anachronistic noises rise from below: it's rush-hour traffic down there, make no mistake. Still no sign of R'kyr, though hopefully Aylee doesn't freak at this sudden invasion of chiaroscuro bronze living his best life. At least he holds off with any perverse commentary or obscene unicorn stuffies. His eye turns towards Zefran with a slightly gleaming look, as if questioning precisely why the fake-Smith is this close to Aylee. Who is obviously A Grade Off-Limits, by the bronze's aggressive lean of his snout, neatly dividing the two. (Still no R'kyr. Paging R'kyr… R'kyr to aisle four for cleanup.) Zefran fixes the tartan head scarf to hang around his neck and scrubs at his hair to separate it from laying tightly to his scalp. "Because I learn more things when I don't have a guard's knot on." Patiently explaining his level of genius. "I got a little intel on Roma and Steen motivations and was overhearing Akzhans at auction when my 'expertise' was needed to help with a runner who lost its shoe." This is when being an imposter is put to the test. "Luckily," self-confidence coming from a lax jaw as he watches Dhazkyth's behavior, "my trader background was useful." And then there's a great wedge between them, Aylee disappearing behind Dhazkyth's muzzle, and an image forced into his mind. "Aylee," hanging on to those last vowels, "meet Dhazkyth." His sense of self tries to stay intact during the rooftop session, though the pictures are overlapped and distorted at their key points whenever he goes to focus on them. He gives ground an space only reluctantly. For all of Aylee's many faults, hysterics is not on the list. Surprise rises across her features, a delicate raising of brows as she tries to process what is happening without having any experience with…anything similar. Her eyelids flutter in an attempt to consolidate and deide precisely what is happening, though she shifts the metal shoe into one hand (she handles it as if in afterthought) and raises her left toward the beast without actually touching him. The mindscape below is all rattle and rush, and the woman swallows, trying to focus on the winged animal in front of her. "Are you looking for your…dragon man?" She asks the beast, falling back on the somewhat colloquial term her old master used to use for them. The dragon men. "Yes. It's nice to meet you, Dhazkyth." She says, soft and airy and sweet like windchimes despite the fact that she works in a vocation where she should, by all rights, sound like a foghorn if there were any fairness in the world of abiding by stereotypes. As if on cue, here — finally — comes R'kyr. Bare-headed instead of garbed in the sand-linens he's typically given to wearing when out in the bazaar, the dragonrider instead quite owns the fact. Life has changed the man formerly known as Stryker, though he's still yet to replace that iconic Inferno leather jacket. High Reaches doesn't rub off that easily. Dhazkyth's expansive mindvoice explodes around Aylee, transporting her into a different world for a moment — there's a hint of a voice that starts to say something before abruptly the bronze is mentally gone-away, his head jerking up as R'kyr slaps a hindquarter. "I've got it. Thank you. You can leave now. Yes. You, with the wings. Get the fuck out of my way," for a man who doesn't talk much, the terse statements are stacked with a highly irritated excess. Much like Aylee, his beautiful voice is incongruous, though his is against his appearance: rough and lean and gaunt and dangerous with that threadscar marring one eyebrow. "Who are you?" he asks Aylee with preamble, Dhazkyth's head far above them. Only after does he seem to realize Zefran's here, and his attention turns toward the guard…Smith with a brief narrowing of those distinctive grey-green eyes of his. He'll threaten that one later, no doubt. Aylee is disoriented for a moment. Physically she just tightens her fingers around the bent metal shoe of the runner, which had been all but totalled, and she blinks. The mindscape unfurls around her like a blooming flower an though she maintains her sense of self, it feels rather like being buffeted by storming sands, and you can almost see that on her face when she comes out of it, blinking. She doesn't panic, even when the rather brusque, intimidating man is right there now. Right there. She's used to intimidating giants, and she takes a moment to fully process the situation before replying. "Aylee. Glass-craft junior-journeyman at Igen weyr, sir." She says, dipping her head slightly in respectful greeting. Her own head-scarf is tightly bound against her skull and doesn't even move when she dips. She glances toward Zefran as if trying to figure out whether or not she's in trouble. "Sorry, am I in trouble for something?" "Is your hair regulation?" R'kyr asks Zefran appropriate of nothing at all, annoyance coloring his melodic baritone. His face is quite mobile, going from unemotive to keenly discerning as he shifts his focus briefly from the recruit — without returning the salute because he's a bastard sometimes — back to the apple of Dhazkyth's eye. "You. Aylee. Excellent." His voice cracks half-sarcastic for a moment, before the man visibly works at mastering himself. "I wasn't doing anything important at all," please mark the sarcasm, "But he's insisting he has … 'smelled you for half a candlemark and will take no-one else' to stand for his eggs." R'kyr scowls briefly. "I'm not particularly a fan of women on fighting dragons, but I suppose Doji is successful enough." Dhazkyth lowers his nose again, not-at-all apologetic: his lifemate is an asshole but he really likes Aylee. It SHOWS. (Zefran? Zefran who?) "So if you're into something like that, you may Stand for the clutch on the Sands. Or you can go home, and… blow glass, or whatever it is you glasscrafters do." god. he really is an asshole. (But Dhazkyth is SO DELIGHTED!) Pace? Turn back? Zefran doesn't looked wracked with indecision, in fact, the rider almost seems to be right where he wants him. As Dhazkyth's background telepathy fades with the chop of a smith's hammer against a cold anvil, the Reika man adjusting the remaining shoe set, Zefran tries to entice it back but there's no trick he knows for it. Knees locked, scratched leather shoes practically ground-adhered, a callow tenor answers as beckoned, "it was as of last seven, it grows fast, sir." Between the loss of several seasoned guards, and the sudden gain of replacements that may turn makeshift, haircuts have fallen in priority below literacy but above penmanship. Time is allowed to elapse, but not too much. The moment, momentum, cannot pass. "Sir, I would like to present myself to the clutch as well." And a step forward is taken as if volunteering at muster, face as fresh as High Reaches snow pack. "I'm fit and have my wits, and can handle the rigors a fighting dragon required." Aylee is not totally thrown under the bus but he may as well underline the bronzerider's preference. There is a lot to unpack here, and throwing out the suitcase is definitely an option, but Aylee works the metal between her two hands and glances at the giant bronze with the expression of an avid bird watcher finding out that an eagle wants to land on their head. Joyous trepidation, maybe. She doesn't respond to R'kyr's irritation because it doesn't seem to be with her so much as it is at her. A myriad of expressions passes over her features, ending in irritation (maybe with Zefran) and then stubbornness. "What do I have to do?" She asks, and something about her tone is rather remenicent of a terrier with a rat. Wait, what is this? Dhazkyth turns to look at Zefran with appalled outlook: how DARE he upstage DHAZKYTH'S heart's-desire Aylee with this stepping-in! His mindvoice reasserts itself, wrapping significantly around the girl. « This one is mine, » comes his voice, unsurprisingly stubborn. « She's beautiful and she smells like sunlight on steroids. » What does that even mean? Everyone gets an earful, though, even upstart Zefran; R'kyr rolls his eyes and glances to Zefran with a single, evaluatory once-over. "You will cut your hair before you present yourself to Cremla for your bunk in the candidate barracks," he responds to the recruit. "Otherwise I accept your request." If R'kyr had any idea who the little bastard's mother was this conversation would have gone very differently — maybe. Regardless, the moment ends as it was supposed to, with R'kyr's light eyes focused finally on Aylee, irritation blending back under the self-control that he exerts to put his own anger at his lifemate in check. "You will have to work as a candidate, which entails lessons about dragonriding and hard labor chores. It is not easy by any stretch. You will submit to weyr regulation and show discipline. You will touch eggs to accustom them to the human mind. And when the time comes, you will step upon the Sands when they hatch and hope against all hope that you walk away with one, because the experience of sharing your soul is," his mouth forms a half-snarl, a wordless expression of how strongly he feels about his own lifemate, "The biggest fulfillment you can ever expect in this shithole." Dhazkyth ignores his rider's empassioned words and says only, « You get to have fun with arts and crafts, too. There was this one time with macaroni ar.. » he's silenced suddenly, simultaneous to R'kyr's dagger-sharp look upward. There is no softness to the rider, but Dhaz's tail curls briefly, possessively, around Aylee's feet. SAY YES. Even though R'kyr's an asshole. The straight back and boxy shoulders haven't been beaten into him by the guards, there's a matter of principle to keep them high. Aylee's understandable confusion is paradox to his understood expectations, or at least he's not asking any questions. Throw him a bone, R'kyr. There's another sobering look at Dhazkyth's obvious favoritism, Zef's mouth pushed right by a reacting muscle. "Yissir." Zefran breaks eye contact only to blink and steal a glimpse at Aylee who may or may not be his friend, but at least they'll be associates. "I look forward to being a candidate." Zeyta might even say she's proud, he can poll her later. Fingers at least stop their repetative gripping while everyone seems to await Aylee's answer with great interest. Peer pressure is great. The dragon's comment gets a soft laugh that brightens Aylee's face considerably. Like sunshine through a window covered by gray curtains. The prospect of hard labor doesn't seem to phase her. Potentially because as a glorified go-for and nursemaid for the apprentices, she does a lot of hard work already. "When do I report?" She asks mildly, apparently impervious to R'kyr's obvious distaste at the fact that she lives and is breathing currently on the planet. At least, that's how it comes across. She glances down at the questing tail and her smile grows wider, still soft at the edges. Gently affectionate despite the fact that this is ostensibly a strange reptile trying to hug her. Somehow it is still a joyous experience, like playing with dolphins or working molten glass. R'kyr frowns from Zefran to Aylee and back again; it deepens into a scowl before his entire expression smooths away. "Very well," he says. "You may both report at the same time. Perhaps you will level one another out." It's a surprisingly positive comment for a pair that includes a woman, but that's probably because… "Please see that his hair is shorn before presentation to Cremla," to Aylee because she looks perhaps up to the task of making sure Zefran is presentable. "Dhazkyth," he says sharply, and the bronze retreats after one last warm whuffle of air over the girl. His face goes pained briefly, and he mutters something to himself, before waving off both of them. "By tomorrow morning at the latest," he directs to both of them, a little more gently, before turning and heading back through the throng toward where he came from. R'KYR OUT. You overhear R'kyr mutter, "… … … … going … have my … at any point … fucking weird …" to himself. As everyone's shadows are growing longer, Zefran's made or may not be shadow-pinching one of Dhazkyth's trailing edges behind R'kyr's back. But instructions make him drop his hand and appear rapt, even when the pair take their leave. His salute is methodical, for this is the first time to think it may be his last under a guard's knot. Er, smith's. But not really a smith's. "Is it that long?" With mirrors and puddles far between, there's casual appeal to Aylee, who might have been used to further his own aspirations, but at least she curries dragon-favor or something. Aylee glances at Zefran with an expression that says she knows what he did and is not impressed with it, but that she still hasn't decided what exactly she ought to say about it. "I'm going to shave your head." She threatens, although there's no bite to it, probably because she spends the majority of her time scolding young boys who have little to no capacity for listening. Shaving his head seems to be the extent of her willingness to engage with his actions. "Do you have somewhere else to be?" She asks, even as she apparently heads toward the place that she's been living. Probably to grab some things. A Tale of Two Candidates has 0 comments. |
Dhazkyth causes a scene and Zefran does something unexpected. R'kyr's a joke, and Aylee - the prize of all prizes - smells really good. assholery |
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Gift Exchange Gift Exchange
  "…I think giving people things is one of the ways you like to show you care."  Galleries Stone benches rise up.. and up.. and up: grooves upon grooves show marks of their hand-hewn origins, small chips and uneven textures to tell the tale of humble beginnings in a place which looks upon the black-and-white Sands of Southern, a place of greater beginnings indeed. The Galleries take up roughly a third of the perimeter of the Sands: to the west are flat, staggered entranceways, ledges for dragons interested in watching the proceedings. Below and just easterly, a stitched-hide curtain covers the entrance to the bowl, keeping the wind away from the precious cargo often housed upon the Sands. It cannot help the shrieking of the wind above: though it is muted in this hollow, the intermittent sighs and moans of the thermals shrieking through the viewing-ledges above can be unsettling. These dreary days always seem to put people in a pensive self reflecting state, the cold weather mixed with the rain has most people running for warmer places. Which could be the reason, that Th'res has decided to come to the galleries, though as he walks up the stairs the cheery tune he is humming is clearly abstract against the current climate. Dressed in his dark riding leathers and that weirdly long scarf of his, he walks over to the edge to take a look at the eggs but really he is lost a little in thought. These dreary days are also nice for getting hidework done, since the number of people coming to claim Amani's attention drops. It lets her take on a little more of the load while Taurie is so preoccupied with the merchant aspect of her life. It also creates a quieter atmosphere for egg touchings. The Weyrwoman is bringing up the rear of the latest group of Candidates to leave the Sands as Zymuraith settles herself anew around her clutch, flicking her tongue a little in a subtle display of broodiness. Glancing up, Amani spies Th'res in the galleries, his humming helping her to pinpoint him as well. Once she's certain the Candidates are well on their way out, she ascends the stairs from the Sands to meander along the seats until she's beside him. "I think this is the first time I've seen you in here for this clutch," she notes, her actual greeting coming as a light bump of her shoulder to that of her blueriding clutchsib. Th'res grins and gives a light bump of the shoulder back to Sr. Weyrwoman. "Well I have been busy with wing duties and such. Being in charge never is easy after all." He motions to the very broody queen adding "How is she doing? I try to keep Jed from constantly wanting to check on her." Because the blue is anything if not persistent which boarders on crazy when it comes to his clutchmates. He is still all smiles looking back at Amani "And how are you doing? It has been rough for ya this last turn." "If it were, I reckon it wouldn't be worth it," Amani counters to Th'res' first, chuckling softly when he motions to Zymuraith. "She's fine. Jedameth can check as much as he wants; she'll be as patient as she usually is. Until she tells him to leave her alone so that she can tend to her eggs." Meaning she needs to take some time to adjust them to her liking again. To the bluerider's last, she gives a slight shrug and a small smile. "It's had it's rough spots, yes. But I've been weyrmated for an entire Turn now and certainly can't complain. My biggest concerns are Threadfall casualties and this ongoing business of trying to track down pirates." Her dark gaze turns to meet his now. "And what about you? You've been handling Lynx well, but how are you, Th'res?" Th'res chuckles and nods even grinning when she talks about weyrmating "And who would of thought it all started with a nice punch. Now look at you all beaming and mushy in love." There really isn't a sound of bitterness in his voice at all, just happiness for his friends. He does scowl abit at the talk of pirates adding "Well those sea rats are giving us the slip as well, but I think I might talk with some of the wildlings to see if they have noticed anything different in there areas." The frustrated look doesn't stay there long when she askes how he is doing giving a slight shrug "Oh you know me, I find fun where I can.." His ear tips are starting to turn pink as he adds "And no, I am not working my self crazy." Amani snorts at that, though also blushes faintly because Th'res is right. Even if "mushy" isn't the term she'd use. "It wasn't a punch from me," she points out. "Though I might've gotten a few in verbally. I can't remember now. And I think it was actually my almost dying that really got things moving." That has a way of making a person reevaluate what's really important. As for the matter of the pirates, she just sighs. "We are keeping in touch with as many of the clans as will talk to us, but feel free. More of us checking in can't hurt." To his last, she smirks. "If you're on the defensive before I even say anything, that might be telling. Just saying." Th'res rolls his eyes as she catches him in her trap, "I am not Defensive. Just a little nervous, it has been a while for me to be in the dating game again is all." He glances about, mostly because he expects one of his many friends to jump out with a cake or something.. IT has happened before after all. "How is living with F'kan? Did he finally get rid of that awful decoration he so loved to have in his weyr?" He is still blushing and yes clearly trying to change the subject! "Well, good for you!" Amani tells him, her smile broadening. She won't be the one ambushing him with cakes, leaving it at that. "It's your business and no one else's, saving who you decide to tell about it. If I wind up being someone you entrust with it, I'm all ears, but I'm not going to pry. Stop blushing already. It's just me, for Faranth's sake." Though she's sure that'll probably work about as well as telling her to stop blushing. It's uncontrollable, after all. "Of course he has," she says of F'kan's erstwhile decor. "Quite a while back. Our weyr shows a bit of both of us, and living with him has been wonderful." Th'res chuckles "well don't go congratulating me yet, She did agree but our schedules keep getting mixed so there is that." He glances down at the gold on the sands saying "She is in Jaguar, so the leader shake up has been a trip." He gives her a sly wink "Though not as much as it has been for you I would imagine. Finally having a competent MALE Weyrleader again." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two black and white wrapped cloths and hands them to Amani "Here… Belated weyrmating gift." "You haven't even told me who she is," Amani points out, arching a a brow pointedly at Th'res. The way he words his opinion about the Weyrleader brings some sternness to her expression, however, and she shifts, folding her arms as she faces him a bit more squarely. "Yes, it's good to have R'zel wearing the knot, but Evka did the best she could under the circumstances." If a woman winds up as Weyrsecond, things can still happen to place that woman as Weyrleader, and Amani will certainly vouch for her brownriding friend whenever prompted! Then she's being handed something and unfolds her arms to accept it, her expression relaxing as she examines the cloth and starts to unwrap them. Th'res just grins at the stern words saying "Oh I know Evka did a hell of a job, I was talking about the REASON she had to take the lead in the first place. How is she doing by the way?" He Leans on the railing and adds "Kahra is her name. Brown rider, we have similar backgrounds so it might actually get along well." He is hopeful, as he watches Amani unfold the cloths he will watch her expressions as two carved dragons are in her hands. One a Brown carved from amber and polished to bring out the darker veins, while the likeness is close to the original subject there isn't much in the way of detail. The other is a golden Cats eye Heliodor yellow Beryl gemstone carved in the likeness of her own golden queen. That placates Amani somewhat, and the name Th'res finally gives earns a nod. "Another one from Igen, if I remember rightly. I hope things work out well…" She trails off as she fully pulls the cloth back to reveal the gemstone dragons, her eyes widening as she brings them fractionally closer to her face. "Th'res…" She takes up the beryl dragon meant to be Zymuraith and holds it more aloft to catch the light. "These are gorgeous! They must've…" She shakes her head, forcing herself not to overthink it. Her eyes are glittering just a bit as they meet his once more. "Thank you!" Th'res grins as he watches his friend look at her gifts "Yeah took me about a turn, hence the late gift." When she holds it up to the light, there are small refraqtions that will look like tiny stars almost. "You put the two together.." he mimics how to do it in the air infront of her "And they should look like they are cuddling out in the sun." He is all smiles and watches Amani "I am really hoping this one lasts for you as well. Both of you need a good run in the love department." Amani can't help but laugh as Th'res demonstrates how the two are supposed to fit together. "I'll have to show the dragons, too," she decides, and carefully bundles them back together. "And go put these in the weyr before I decide to do anything else. The bluerider's last has her smiling warmly. "I think it will. It feels so different compared to anything that's come before…and I'm willing to bet he'd say the same." She won't presume to speak for F'kan, but based on private conversations, she decides she can say that much. "So do you," she counters. "So I hope you'll find your one now that you've put yourself back out there. Whether it turns out to be Kahra or someone else." Th'res gives her a warm smile "Well I am not going to count this one out or jinx it. Did that to much last time after all." He looks back at the gold before asking "Do you think I should get her something? Kahra I mean, for the date." He gives her a pleading 'it has been a while' look as he fishes for advice. There's a hint of uncertainty about Amani when Th'res does his bit of advice-fishing. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to be asking, Th'res," she admits, flickers of all of her past relationships flitting across her mind before settling on to the present in which her contentment lies. "But…I think giving people things is one of the ways you like to show you care." She brandishes the bundle with the dragons in it a bit as evidence, giving him a little smile. "Maybe start with something simple, just to feel out how she'll take someone giving her that sort of attention. Flowers, or maybe a little trinket." She could be totally off the mark, but it's what she's got for now! Th'res nods listening to her words, she could be off the mark but it is better than him trying to over think things. "Thanks, Amani. I haven't been this nervous since we first tried to fly as weyrlings!" The confession comes with another sheepish grin before adding "You know we should double date sometime. You get F'kan, and I will find someone. I know a nice little island off the coast that hardly anyone goes to. Wouldn't be so bad for a get away now that you got some good help." "Ah…it's a nice thought, Th'res, but keep it in mind for when you're very sure," Amani suggests. For her and F'kan, given their positions, it'll take a ton of planning to coordinate on a getaway, and making it happen somewhere secluded seems more private to her than a casual double date would be…but she'll keep that to herself for now. "I'm going to take these home before anything happens to them," she says of the dragon figurines. "Just…remember to be you, Th'res. I'll see you later." She gives him a quick squeeze around the shoulders in gratitude and them carefully picks her way back out of the galleries, down the stairs, and homeward to give her gift a safe place to be shown off. Gift Exchange has 0 comments. |
Clutchsiblings catch up a bit and make a trade - a tangible gift for advice imparted. |
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Goats and Glory Goats and Glory
  Zafina blinks, and then blinks again. "Huh?" she's actually momentarilly struck quiet.  Central Bazaar All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars. It's a glorious sunny day, even if it is marred a little by the muck from the rains, but Zafina doesn't seem to mind, much. She does avoid the worst of the puddles, but that could also be because of a single kid following her. Of the four legged kind. The furry critter is white and black and prancing as it follows, pointedly avoiding getting it's feet wet as much as possible. Zafina currently has a full bag slung crossways, and it hands down fairly heavy looking as well, though she hardly seems to notice as she munches on a small hunk of cheese. Flanking her are a couple of canines who trudge through puddles or not as they go, they don't hardly seem to notice. Coming quickly through the bazaar going the same way as Zafina but a fair clip faster — and far more furtive — is Niaeri, a young woman clearly beholden to Auvergne bloodlines. She looks over her shoulders and her eyes widen in a way that might be comic, and then — seeing Zafina — she seizes the opportunity: AND the other trader's arm, should the girl not immediately jolt away. "Oh, cousin!" she says, pitching her voice louder and so-relieved, smiling down at Zafina as if the other girl was her mission in life. "I didn't expect to see you here!" A man trails behind her in Steen colors, then stops at the obvious interaction, looking… perhaps… stymied. Bo and Jynx come onto alert at Niaeri's sudden appearance on the arm of Zafina, but as Zafina doesn't react with alarm, they sit down as she stops. The little kid prances up to Niaeri and to bump her with her nose looking for food if she doesn't move out of the way. For Zafina's part she glances upwards at Niaeri and blinks a moment and then a bright smile crosses her face. "Well hello there!" she exclaims, acting almost as if being accosted by strangers is nothing unusual at all. "Fancy meeting you here, if you've come lookin' to get some of me goats, yer gonna have to wait a bit. Just sold the last one, outside of Tidbit there." she nods to the small kid "Being a bit of a runt, no one was much interested." The barest of flickers as her looking around before she's gazing back at Niaeri "Everything well with ya?" Relief cascades over the girl's face when Zafina plays along, gratitude momentarily shining in the Auvergne lass' lavender-blue eyes. The Steen scion loiters, as if waiting to see if this is going to take very long, and Niaeri laughs in a way that seems rather unfettered at the talk of goats… and the small kid butting into her. Without untangling her arm from Zafina's, she leans down to offer Tidbit an appropriate amount of ear-rubs should the goat desire such. "Everything is looking up now! The day's been… rather unexpected," and this strange creature looks indeed quite rattled, as if she's just ran into a situation and is completely out of depth. Her smile broadens. "But now that you're here we can go to uncle Jerome and maybe see if he'll take this last kid of yours," she says, carefully NOT looking back at the man starting to look as if he has second thoughts about tailing the dark-haired young woman. "You know how he is about lost causes…" Tidbit just eats the attention right up and tries to latch onto a finger or two as she's at it. Tilting her head a little Zafina hmms some and nods "Well, it has been awhile since I've paid me respects, and as much as I like the little ones, sadly I can't keep them all." she grins at the half-pint and then gives a long slow whistle and a couple of clucks of her tongue, almost as if thinking a little. The two canines stretch a little and close in a bit before laying down, backs towards Zafina and ust laying there, heads up and ears alert. "How has he been doing?" Oh, Niaeri might end up going home with Tidbit. Her eyes are already soft looking down at the little runt, carefully untangling her fingers to straighten. "He's so cute," she says, enrapt. It's about this point where the Steen lad determines loitering isn't going to yield any fruit and turns, disappearing down an alley. "Uncle?" Niaeri says, forgetting herself for a moment after being under the goat-charm spell; she comes to with a visible adjustment, straightening and NOT looking over there, not looking, no she's not looking at all… "He's… he's taking things as well as could be expected, I suppose." Only then does she risk a look over, anxiously, toward where the Steen lad stood, before deflating with a sigh. "Oh, thank you so much," she says, her voice low. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean…" The anxiety is back, and something that seems to border fear — it sets a fine tremble to her finely-boned hands. "Aye, she is a cutie, and she'll make a fine meal, or if she grows into herself at all, as runts sometimes do, she'll likely be a good milker, her sisters have been before in the past. Or, iffen ya just want a companion, she's a sweetie." she says as she just prattles on. "And think nothin' of it, you've done me no harm." she notes as seh takes the womens hands "I've got teeth too, so don't ya mind much, course so does Tidbit there, so don't let her be taking yer finger too much, they'll get ya sometimes. Not to mention it's a bit of a bad habit you don't really want the getting into. Though it can make things a might interesting when they see somethin' danglin that ain't really what ya wantin' them latching onto, and oh boy." There's a bit of a giggle there. She clucks a littl, almost a little tune and the Bo and Jynx seem to relax a little more, though there still attentive. "So tell me, what did yonder buck there be wantin'?" "A fine meal?" Niaeri says, her voice twisting in horror. This cute little thing?! It's obvious Nia comes from the pampered section of the bazaar, where they don't see the fullest circle of life. It's most easily discernible from the fine quality of her clothes - they're beautiful, well-saturated in color and obviously tailored specifically to her form. "But… but she's so cute." And a fine, fine distraction from whatever sets her atremble as it did. She looks down at Tidbit, utterly dismayed. A meal! But… the ramble catches her by surprise and she gawks a little at Zafina, her eyebrows furrowing in half-marvel, half-consternation. It takes her a minute to realize the context of the question, and after looking confused, the Auvergne lass swallows hard. "I… I think he was following me. I think he may have… I don't know. Uncle will kick me out," her voice is legitimately scared now, and one hand - she's had one hand clenched this whole time, it turns out - spasms. "I can't… I can't. Nobody can know," she says, and yes, Zafina MAY HAVE ran into a very young madwoman. Zafina shrugs a little "Well, you don't have to eat her. I do know some that keep them as companions for themselves, for runners or just to help keep the brush down and the area fertilized." she notes "They are pretty good with the brush, I've ran a herd from time to time on pasture for bovines. Since they don't go for the same food as them, there's no competition, not like you'l get with ovines. Man, you should here some of them bovine herders where them ovines are concerned. Best way to be starting a feud and all." she grins some "And now why would Uncle be tossin' ya out. Don't ya all set great stock by family?" she asks curiously. "And why would it be you because of him? You didn't go and sleep with the buck now did ya?" she tilts her head "Though, I'm not all that up on all the politicie stuff and all, or did ya give him somethin he wasn't to have?" she frowns a little "It can't be that bad now, can it?" "No… no. It's worse," Niaeri says, her face going a little white. It is, in fact, almost as white as the knot in her hand that she turns over. "Someone gave me this. I can't… I can't. I promised, but… but I can't do it. Uncle will never take me back!" Her eyes go far-off and dreamy briefly, in a very distant kind of way: dragonriding is a fine daydream but a waking nightmare upon reality's assertation of dominance. Her eyes suddenly snap-to, landing on Zafina's face with some new desperation. "He might have seen me," the Steen buck no doubt, "But if… if you take this," she's compulsorily thrusting the candidate's knot into Zafina's hand, "If you take this and I buy Tidbit from you, maybe.. maybe it will look like I was just getting it for you, and it was part of the deal, and you… you can stand for the clutch and I can…" Not have her entire life ruined by ancient bazaar morals! SO WHAT ABOUT IT, ZAFINA?! Can you say no to that imploring, desperate look? (or the metaphysical cha-ching sounds about the fact that Niaeri is ready to be fleeced over this goat purchase?) Zafina blinks, and then blinks again. "Huh?" she's actually momentarilly struck quiet. She looks down at the white knot, and then scratches her head a little. "Huh." she murmurs again. Certainly it is not what she was expecting to hear. "Umm." She blinks again "So let me get this straight, ya promised someone you'ld stand and took the knot, now you've had second thoughts because you don't wanna be kicked out of yer family, so you'ld rather break teh promise and, hmm." She frowns a moment but that look on the poor woman's face just as her taking a deep breath and letting it out. "Well, I do need to get Tidbit sold off and all, but can ya really be passing off that to me, won't the ones who gave it to you know that I'm not you and be wondering how I came about it? They might even think I attacked ya or stole it from ya and then where would I be? Staked out for the Threads to get for attempting to steal somethin' that wasn't mine and all. I'd be booted out and then me goats would not be sold here, and I'd not get anymore of the delicious cheeses here, or procure more recipies and, wait. What's that other fella have ta do with your Uncle?" "No, no, the weyr is fine, it's… you just need to tell them that bazaarmaster Iaela told you to go. She told me to go. That the bazaar had a quota, that they have to send so many candidates or the weyr gets mad. They don't know it's me, they just…" Niaeri's face falls. "It's okay," she says, her voice scraping along. "I.. I got myself into this, I'll get myself out." She straightens a little and looks back over her shoulder, her fallen-face forlorn in the moment. "I think they're going to make me marry him," she replies, after a long moment, about her erstwhile stalker. Her eyes are bright when they look back at Zafina. "Please don't eat your goat," is what she says instead, her voice unsteady as she belatedly reaches out for the knot, eyes dropping with a single betraying tear rolling down one pretty cheek. "She's very cute." Once again silent Zafina just blinks and looks almost panicked as Niaeri starts to cry. Definantly not her forte "I uh, um. Iara, Iae umm, yeah umm bazaarmaster, umm hey, don't umm, no need to umm, I mean, well. Umm, if it means that much to you, I mean, I guess I could do that for you, I uhh, don't cry." she says looking almost plaintive. "ANd I won't eat Tidbit, you can eat her, I mean, you can have her, she's takin a fancy to you and all, and umm." she looks around. She'd not used to dealing with weeping women. "Marriage? Don't you want to marry? Or is it that you do and that's why you don't want to stand? I'll stand, I'll go for you. Please don't cry." And just like that, Niaeri brightens. "Y…. you would?" she breathes, blooming into a lovely young woman again. "Oh! Oh you are… you are amazing!" And cue the point in time where she whirls 'round Zafina in a hug, beaming suddenly in stark contrast to the tears still showing on her cheeks. At least they seem merely residual and not happy tears, which could be very confusing for Zafina all things said and told, eh? "All you have to do is go to Cremla and say that Iaela sent you, that the bazaarmaster sent you, and then all you have to do is stay a little while, I'm sure they won't notice if you sneak out. You are.. you have saved my life." Her face splits under the force of her sudden, brilliant beaming smile: "And you gave me TIDBIT!" She drops to her knees to pull the baby goat toward her for forced-cuddles. Hopefully she doesn't get headbutted in the face for her troubles! Talk about flabbergasted and all that. First tears and now hugs and more blinking from Zafina. She then can't help but grin. Zafi, Zafi, Zafi. You're so.. amazing? Ahem. "Yer, umm, yer welcome." she says and then she grins brighter as she watches Niaeri cuddle Tidbit and she just sighs in awe a little. A match made in.. Bazaarland. Ahem. "Crema, Lala, Okay, umm. And yeah, I do think Tidbit'll be happy with ya." Since baby goat seems happy too. "Wait, sneak out?" She blinks a little and then just shakes her head. Well, it'll be nice to have an actual bed to sleep in for more than a night or so I would suppose. I could look at this as sort of a vacation and all." she says and then she's clucking at Bo and Jynx and the pair is rising "What do you think ya do? Fancy some time off the beaten path?" she murmurs as she starts to walk away. Goats and Glory has 0 comments. |
Niaeri is running from something in the bazaar, and Zafina helps a girl out. MAJORLY. |
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You break him, you buy him! You break him, you buy him!
    Weyr Entrance No standard weyr-arch for Southern, no, not when an open-air bridge could curve so gracefully into the exterior of the bowlwall, the concave swoop of the weyrbowl itself nestled against the far high-rise of the rivercliffs. A pocket of white marble is delineated in gorgeous architecture at the termination of the bridge, a staircase switching back to a terace above; the stone buildings of the guard compound rise in a vivid vein against the rough-hewn darkness of the cliffs it settles against. The classic arcs only possible by ancient stonecutters show through, Southern's ageless beauty to be admired by all who trespass her walls. As the sun sets on another Southern Autumn day, the clouds appear gilt with Rukbat's fire. That's not going to stop them drizzling all over any evening activities the denizens have planned though! Once such specimen sits under the eaves of the Stables, sans dogs and sheep for the first time this seven. Instead upon Maikah's rickety bench are settled four very smol firelizards, ranged from gold to green each sitting expectantly as he uses their evening meal as an opportunity to teach them to beg adorably. CLEARLY he's not expecting anyone to catch him in this very srs training endeavor, as he demonstrates pressing his hands together and bobbing them up and down a few times. "Like this guys." The gold has her head attentively cocked, but the blue and green? They're about to get into one of those scabbles that mark them as siblings. Rain isn’t so much of a hindrance when it’s become almost a novelty, compared to the sparser amounts that Igen’s climates may see. Regardless, Divale’s not aiming to risk in being drenched to the bone when her business here, so far removed, is completed. Her attention drifts more and more towards some distant point, perhaps towards those hills and the herds. Bartering, perhaps, with her other half, as Lukoith is no where to be seen (and that is never a good thing). She would have ghosted her way right by the stables, if not for Maikah’s —serious— attempts at training. Not to mention the line of firelizards. With one last glance over her shoulder, she decides to alter course, drifting closer now. “If only it were so simple,” she muses, dryly. “We’d have them well trained everywhere, wouldn’t we?” Azraelle's swinging by the weyr entrance on her way to the Kitten, obviously expectant of beer - or other alcoholic substances - to finish off the day. The meandering pathway to the Kitten comes past the entrance to the Stables, and the black-haired woman — her hair now bound back in an appropriate braid, severe and showing off the stark lines of her face — turns abruptly upon noticing a vaguely-familiar face. She's still a few paces off, but incoming, her eyes turning thoughtfully upon the foreign brownrider. Maikah would be a BIG FAN of Pavlov if the knowledge was still attached to the training methods he employs in the shadows of the stables, as it is he rumbles. "Worked with my dogs, and these seem … almost as smart." The gold and the bronze, definitely… the blue and green? Not so much, but he shall persevere! Of course it takes a little while to recognise the dry voice in the wet rain is female and a moment or two longer for him to drag his attention away to actually check the owner of the voice. Despite his laggardness, he is quick to salute both brownrider and green. (BUT not curtsy, not today -Azra— Satan, not today!) "Uh, Southerns greetings to you, brownrider?" He's really not in a position to make official greetings on behalf of anyone, but he gamely tries. "Maikah, herder journeyman." That at least is more practised than the greeting, he's been saying it more these days, however the effect is ruined by him trying to stand respectfully while his immature fair dive for the victuals he abandons. "Shit." “I wouldn’t have thought,” Divale’s tone continues on dry as ever, though now with a muted note of bemusement, to match the vague smirk curving her lips. “To compare the intelligence of firelizards to canines.” Her dark eyes focus a little more sharply on the young herder, but only in appraisal as greetings are offered. She seems almost bored with the formality, though follows suit. “Igen’s greetings,” she murmurs, with a darted sidelong look for the rapid approach of Azraelle. Hmm. Brows furrow, but she can no sooner delve more on the matter when names are being offered. “Divale, Wingrider, brown Lukoith’s. Herder, you said?” Why does that sound… ominous coming from her? There’s a huffed breath of thwarted snickering, when his fair take advantage and dive for the tidbits left unattended. "Didn't think that one through," Azraelle's half-ruined voice comes forth, rich and husky and rife with amusement. To Maikah, certainly, with those firelizards diving as they are. Her dark eyes turn upward toward Divale again, assessing the other dragonrider with a thoughtful raking of her attention. "Glad to see you're sans-curtsey today, journeyman," she airily says, a crows-dark smile slowly lifting her mouth. "Igen," she directs to Divale, "If you break him, you buy him." She pats Maikah's shoulder as she passes by him, the lean weyrsecond obviously not planning to stop and talk. BEER. It's calling her name! Maikah does try to regain control of the situation, but getting in the way of smol HUNGRY firelizards is always going to be an exercise in futility! Eventually he just decides to ignore them… The gold at least keeps the noise down to a minimum as she does what golds do best - boss everything in sight! "I was fine!" Maikah doth protest, "And she's not a Lady Holder, she's a brownrider." Is that the hint of cheek in his retort for the Weyrsecond? "A salute seemed more appropriate." There's definitely some humor twinkling in his eyes before he turns polite attention back to Divale. "Over trained I guess." He admits, with a deprecating shrug. "As you noticed I'm a herder." And a herder's gotta herd right? A brow quirks for the reference of a curtsey, amusement no longer so held in check — there’s no laughter, but the small smirk may as well suggest it. She will address that in a moment, as her focus turns back to Azraelle. “Weyrsecond,” she quips, low, in return. The remark earns a darker smirk and a dry: “No promises.” In breaking him? Buying him? BOTH? Who knows, as she dips her head ever-so slightly as the greenrider makes to move on. Again, her gaze darts up to Maikah. “I would have enjoyed a curtsey! I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure…” she teases, in the next breath thoughtful as brows furrow, gaze slightly distant. “Indeed.” To his rank, yet once more confirmed. “To what do you specialize in?” "She deserves a curstey, Maikah! We prepared for this!" Azraelle calls back carelessly as she goes, tossing a fulsome smirk over her shoulder before truly disappearing 'round the curve. "And try not to split your pants this time!" Azra has came, she's been seen, and she's conquered: sorry Maikah for the mom-level embarassment, and not-sorry Divale for all of the extra… extraness. Azra will have to flirt with the Igen brownrider in some other timeline, but for now, she's disappearing through the swinging doors into the depths of the Kitten. Maikah knows something is up, when talking to the fairer sex they usually respond with barely concealed amusement or annoyance, he's got that much at least. Warily he answers monosyllabically: "Sheep" Undoubtedly even as they speak Lukoith is wreaking havoc upon the carefully curated herds. But it's also a pretty regular occurrence despite numerous complaints to weyr leadership. His inured at this point! "Well, I do have my very manly dignity to maintain." Which would have been much more believable if Azraelle hadn't shared the pants-ripping escapade on her way to the beer. WHICH MAIKAH WOULD LIKE NOW VERY MUCH. Beer isn't nearly as confusing. Beer makes everything better! "Or I guess not." Sad Maikah is sad. This is by far some unexpected entertainment! Poor Maikah. Divale just looks so smugly pleased, in a very subdued, dark way. A shame Azraelle had to heed the call of beer, though the brownrider’s gaze may linger on her departure just long enough to border on something else. Mhm, yes, another time~ “Sheep.” she echoes in turn and no, Lukoith has not wrecked havoc yet, but perhaps that dark mote circling in the distance IS his threatening stance thus far. “Are all the… sheep under your purview or merely some?” Care to vaguely point in the direction, Maikah? For curiosity sake. There’s a low chuckle now, as Divale’s eyes narrow further in amusement. TOO LATE! “I won’t tell.” she reassures with little sincerity behind it. Maikah shrugs, his hand going instinctively to scratch his scalp under his super masculine man-bun. "Thanks." There is a dry irony in the deep rumble, perhaps for the departed Azra, and for Divale's magnamous offer to keep his secret safe… Although is it a secret if the Weyrsecond just blurts it out to all and sundry. "I'm just a journeyman. So…" How to explain the complexities of sheep? "It depends on the time of the turn. It's been a bit full on at the moment." Autumn = sheepie sexy times. "But it's calming down." Cos even the randiest ram can't service the entire flock. "Do you need something brownrider?" Not only does it occur to him that the brownrider is staring at dat ass way longer than he would have dared, but you know…women don't exactly flock to spend quality time with the bachelor herder! Probably not a secret by then, but at least for now! Divale doesn’t seem hurried in the least bit for whatever Maikah conjures up as a reply; when he finally does explain, she nods satisfactory. “I’d forgotten that much abides by the change of seasons,” she admits, purposely cryptic and vague because it is no longer the point. She blinks, as if mildly surprised by his query, but there is only that vague smirk again. “Lukoith has been over the fields since he arrived. I’ve been keeping him from wrecking havoc — I’d be remiss if I made more work for you.” No, she’s not sorry at all, truly. “And if I am fully honest, it was never really about the sheep. Your Weyrsecond,” So delightful, that woman. “Was not far off the mark.” Breaking him, buying him. Only Divale’s going to spare him the first and not really, technically, do the second! “Igen Searches, for Jaehnieseyth and Dhazkyth’s eggs. And I think…” Another look over, as if appraising the —goods— young herder. A brisk nod. “Yes, you’ll do.” If he accepts, that is but Divale is Divale and she leaves that part out. You mean it wasn't Maikah's irrestiable masculine charms that caught her attention? Quel surpris! There is a moment of shock, illuminated in his pale blue eyes, even as his beard conceals his jaw dropping. "Uh." She may have worked out that he sometimes has trouble with words even in this short interaction right? "Are you the one that Searched Tzielle?" He blurts the question, a hint of what is racing through his mind given with the name he utters. Even before she answers though the answer comes: "Yes." Short simple and honest, just like him (except the short part…). With a visible shake he gathers his wits and adds quickly so not to give offense. "I'd be honored." Again honest. "Kinda thought I'd gotten a bit old for it." He admits, but the boyhood dreams never really die do they? Little does he know, that no amount of masculine charm would ever be irresistible to Divale. Oh, she’s puzzled it out, but maybe that’s what’s drawn her further in. He doesn’t talk much? Perfect. He may survive this, just yet! “I did,” she confirms, after a lull of combing memories — thankfully not many concerning visits to Southern. Intrigued, she tilts her head. “Do you know her?” Ahh, and there it is! The necessary key to this whole -sale- search! “Good.” She may not have had the patience to convince him, nor is she inclined to push. His rapid agreement works in his favour! “What is your age?” she asks, while similarly gesturing for him to follow her. No time like the present! And time is ticking. Divale never lingers long here, in Southern. “I can give you some time to gather your belongings, as well as inform those necessary.” she explains, while casting a glance to the hills in the distance. “Lukoith may yet feed. So you have some leeway before we’re due to return.” And if the brown happens to snack upon some of Maikah’s herd, well… "I've twenty-four turns. Soon to be twenty-five." He just scraaaapes in on the age limit thing, but that means he's not all that excitable. "I only need five minutes!" He really doesn't have much stuff and his older firelizard will take care of any messages he needs to send ("Llew, look after my dogs. Might be gone for a bit. Maikah."). "Well make that ten." His gaze returns to the 'Kitten, the allure of beer far greater than that of the scary lady who taught him to curtsy. "And yeah. I know Tzielle. Seemed it worked out well for her." And that is ALL he needs to know. He really doesn't take longer than that ten minutes he claimed, a rugged pack fulled with extra clothes and breath slightly yeasty. ONE FOR THE ROAD OKAY? "The usual rules? No drinking, no sex, do the chores?" He can live with a return to apprentice rules, and he's positively garrullous now that things are underway. “This will be one chance, then.” Divale’s not going to mince around the obvious truth here! No pressure, either, on Maikah. She may follow his gaze towards the Kitten and exhale heavily. Ugh, fine, she’ll allow the drink! So long as he isn’t completely intoxicated. Even if that would be amusing to complete her evening, Divale’s not wanting that much trouble — or babysit until he’d sobered up. While he’s off, keeping to his promised allotment of time, Divale will seek out Lukoith. There she will wait, where the brown will give his own belated cursory up close inspection. Complete with a deep inhale and growled exhale. Passed! Only now may they mount up those straps, though Divale will secure what needs to be secured (if anything) first. “Yes, that is the quick summary of it. You will be given a more thorough run down by the Headwoman when we present you to her.” Wonderful. “Have you ridden before?” There’s a nod to Lukoith, who has crouched down in preparation for his rider + 1. If this is his first flight, she’ll give a brisk, no bullshit, rundown of what to do, what to expect. And then it’s only a few more steps beyond that, that will see them airborne, Between safely, and off to —adventure!— Igen. "I did come here by dragon." Turns and turns ago now, but he's not a complete novice. However if he seems nervous about the upcoming flight it is well hidden, and being snuffled on by a critter is all part of the herder experience. However he is quick to follow instructions and his time traipsing about the place definitely has him more than capable of getting on up there when told. No sign of intoxication, or even tipsyness, just the slight bubbly scent of yeast in his beard. "You're the one driving." He points out once he (and his belly-full bebe's) are settled comfortable. Usually solid and predictable, Maikah really couldn't have predicted how this particular day would end. You break him, you buy him! has 1 comments. |
Maikah was just minding his own business (attempting) to train his firelizards, when he's interrupted not by one, but two riders! Azraelle was merely on her way through, but Divale lingered for reasons soon revealed… |
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(Un)solicited Advice (Un)solicited Advice
  War Room Within this room there is a constant buzz, a low-pitched thrum of activity no matter the time of day — or night. Here are the records for the current leadership, and pertinent information for the time: inventories and star-charts, ledgers and tithe manifests and wing records. Such valuable information is kept twice-watched by two disparate forces: a guard at the door and the archivist at his table, and none quite sure which of the two is more dangerous. Afternoon in the Weyr is almost a time of relaxation, most are taking there lunch and the shifting of morning to swing duties is about to begin. Though a wingleaders work is never done it seems, as currently the Lynx Wingleader is going over flight reports and making notes for the new Weyrleader. Th'res takes a break and runs his hands through his red hair, realizing it might be time for a hair cut "Shards, I swear I am going to have to give some of these folks a mandatory writing class." He reaches for his mug, closing his eyes and enjoying the still warm beverage. "If I can't read it, I flog it onto my wingeseconds to decipher," comes a familiar feminine voice from the doorway connecting the Library and the War Room, a stack of hides in her own arms. Without ceremony, she places them carefully enough on the table, then seems to forget all about them as she slides over to where th'res is working and hops up to sit on the table top next to his hides. "Hi you," Alyna greets as she looks down at him, crossing one leg over the other, subconsciously always trying to make the redhead blush. It's one of her favorite things to amuse herself with. Besides, it's been far too long that she's seen her friend. Th'res looks up and gives her a grin saying "These are my wingseconds writing." He leans back and will advert his eyes as she crosses her legs, is he blushing not yet but it is only because he is at least used to this for the time. "How are you adjusting to your new role? Finally happy you are on top." He didn't mean it in a bad way but then he does have a good poker face and just kinda examines a spot on the wall till he knows she is done settling onto the desk. "Well then you're screwed," Alyna replies with a shrug of her shoulders as she leans back a bit, propping herself up with the aide of palms laid flat on the tabletop behind her. As to the new knot gracing her shoulder, that causes the greenrider to sigh heavily, "When did I ever say I wanted to be on top?" she asks with a sassy tilt of her head to gaze down at him until she realizes the possible innuendo, and smirks, "When it comes to rank I mean…" she qualifies with a wink aimed at the Lynx Wingleader. Th'res chuckles and shrugs "I figured it was all the same to you. How is the kids and your mate?" Because he rarely sees any of them anymore as he seems to have his own pursuits these days, though Alyna may have heard about that little trip to the Klah Bark with a newish rider and all. He reaches around her and grabs his stylist that seems to almost have been hidden under the green riders curves. "Or have you become like me and never even go home anymore?" "It's one kid, if there's another running around my weyr, it's not mine!" Alyna replies with a giggle, "D'har's great, he's been a dream with me taking on more responsibility. To be honest, before R'zel went and got himself locked into the position of Weyrleader, I was going to tender my resignation from being Wingsecond, because of the time I was missing out with them. Adryn's a proper little boy now, running and climbing and talking up a storm. And I'm burried under those," she tosses her thumb over her shoulder at the hides, "when I really just want to be home more. But that's the life of a rider, sometime we do what we have to, not what we want to." She leans to one side just a fraction of an inch to 'help' Th'res get at that stylus he's reaching for. Th'res grins and takes the stylist then playfully pokes her hip, before saying "Some are born to leadership, others are tossed into the fray." He looks over at his reports and sighs "I think we need a distraction." He looks up at the green rider quickly, slight blush on his ears, "And I mean the whole Weyr.." "Well if someone else is born to the position they are welcome to it, but for now, I'm doing my best and hopefully one of my wingseconds will show promise to take over the reins one day," There's certainly a hopeful glint in Alyna's eyes, chuckling softly as she's poked gently. At talk of distraction, the greenrider perks up, hoping the bluerider is finally going to take her up on a little one-on-one. But then he qualifies it and she chuckles with a shake of her head, "Uh huh, sure you do. Well there's going to be a Hatching soon, that's always good for a distraction." Th'res nods and grins "Yeah, but I think honestly after the last fall we all could use it." He motions to the reports he is working on "Lynx got lucky this time that we can help out the other wings. Be we are all to high strung." He leans back and askes "By the way do you still keep up on the gossip around the wings?" "Speak for yourself, Ocelot is doing just fine," Alyna sniffs as she crosses her arms over her chest and considers the bluerider for a moment. "You'll figure this out when you've flown for over a decade or more, but it doesn't stop, literally. Until the day we die, or the pass ends, this is our life. The best you young ones can do, is get used to it, good and bad. Look, the bad ones are never easy, but they happen, a lot more than you think. It's the nature of the job." Yeah, she's harsh and matter-of-fact, but she's also quickly approaching her second decade of Threadfighting. To his last, she tilts her head back with an exagerated sigh, "Not as much as I used to, don't really have time for much else other than Wingleading." Th'res nods as she talks, listening and taking in her advice. When she says she isn't up on gossip he gets a little disappointed look saying "Darn, was wondering what you might have heard about new brown rider in Jaguar." His ear tips are still red, as he now starts to busy himself again. He glances around to make sure they aren't getting easdroped on. Well, well, well, Alyna suddenly perks up a bit at the sigh of those pink ears as she leans in a little closer so she can lower her voice, "New brownrider? I'm guessing it's a she by the way you're already blushhing. You're going to have to be a bit more specific, as in, new how? Like from the last clutch or transferred? Cause I've only heard of one transfer lately, and he was a bronzerider that came into Ocelot." Th'res looks like he is about to object but sighs, knowing he has already put his foot in the bear trap that is Alyna and her interest in his love life. "Her name is Kahra, she graduated before R'zel took over as wingleader. I was just wondering if you had heard anything about her." He then lifts his mug up to his lips adding softer clearly trying to hide it saying "I asked her out on a date.." "Kahra…. yes…." Alyna goes pensive as she tilts her head to one side, the name ringing some bells. "I think I remember her when me and R'zel were picking who we wanted from those clutches. I was hopeful, but she is a bit timid for Ocelot, seemed unsure of herself as a rider. Pretty though…also blonde from what I remember." The last is said almost like a tease. His last brightens her smile though as she squeaks with excitement, "And… how did it go?" Th'res is still trying to hide in his cup, but mumbles "I am picking her up later and taking her to the Klah Bark…" well more like she is bringing her own ride but there ya go. He glances around again, before adding "And don't you go telling people, I don't want her be part of some bad rumor." "What would I tell anyone?" Alyna replies, leaning back to scoff at the very idea with a shake of her head. "I'm way too busy for that kind of bullshit. Have fun on your date. Be yourself and she'll be yours by the end of the night, guaranteed." Leaning forward, she pulls a small flask from the back pocket of her pants and takes a quick swig. "Just don't over think things. Go with the flow." she adds as extra tidbits of counsel if he will take them. Th'res chuckles bitterly "Easy for you to say, your flow isn't like thousand turn old Lava. You realize the last time was even with a woman in the romantic sense was over four turns ago right.." He shakes his head and shrugs "But I already put my foot in it so why not. You think I should get her a gift as a preemptive I am sorry?" "Wow…. I don't think I've gone 4 months without….nevermind, it's not important," Alyna shakes her head as if to clear that fact out of it. Four turns is almost too impossible to even consider. His last makes her awww softly in sympathy, "Oh sweetie, if you go in defeated, you're only going to make it happen. Women love confidence you know. You should be going in there as if there's absolutely no reason for her not to fall in love with you after a single date." It works for Alyna at least, most of the time. Th'res nods and gives her a sly smile "Love? I would be happy if she smiled after it." He leans back and grins "But really, do you think I should get her something. She said she has never had a date, I figure might as well go all out right?" He glances towards the door before adding "I was thinking something like a scarf or head covering." "Never been on a date before?" Alyna asks with some skepticism, "As I remember it, she was one of the older ones to impress that clutch. I mean, as long as it's not too over the top, that's likely to scare her off. Really, for a first date, you don't want to put on too much, it's about getting to know one another first and foremost." She sighs and shifts a bit uncomfortably with dishing out the dating advice to one of her dearest friends. Th'res nods with this before saying "We have similar backgrounds, mostly holdbred views." He chuckles as he reaches out and pats her knee "See, you are making a find wingleader. Giving advice and everything." He stands up so for once he is able to look her in the eye adding "You really think this is a good idea? That she won't want someone her own age?" "Well I know she's at least in her twenties, and so are you…So I don't see the problem." Alyna shakes her head as Th'res stands in front of her. For emphasis, she puts her hands on his cheeks and holds his face as she makes sure there's no way he can misinterpret her, "I think this is a good idea, and I will be utterly disapointed in you if you don't at least go on one stinkin' date, bluerider!" And just to counteract her sterness, she plants a peck of a kiss on the tip of his nose before she lets him go and leans back, giggling. "What did I say about overthinking shit?" Th'res blinks at the kiss, his ears now all bright before he chuckles and gives her the silliest salute he can muster saying "Yes Ma'am. And if I don't show up for a meeting don't come and find me.." He leans over and gives her a tight hug, "Thanks alot my friend. I will try to keep from overthinking it." "Ugh, out of here with you and your 'ma'am'!" Alyna exclaims as she hugs him back briefly. "Don't worry, I'll cover for you." she says before turning back to her hidework with a sigh to mutter under her breath, "I wanna go on a date…" sure to say something later to her weyrmate in hopes of doing the same sometime soon. But for now, more work! (Un)solicited Advice has 0 comments. |
Wingleaders, and long time friends, have a bit of a chat when they probably should be working. Backdated just a bit |
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Tangles and Tribulations Tangles and Tribulations
  Clever fingers and experience (though who knows how; see also: her hair is a tragedy of curls that cooperate with no one) make the work look easier than it is.  Galleries Though occasionally cleaned by ambitious (or neurotic) drudges or weyrbrats being disciplined, the lack of Eggs over the last several Turns has led to the Galleries falling into a state of disrepair. Sand can be found…well, everywhere. On the benches, under the benches, on the railings and walkways. There is also the random tidbit leftover from people who've wandered into the gathering place since the last cleaning. A random bit of cloth here, a bit of something that might have been a carving-in-progress once there. It's not early-early, fortunately; most people are off and doing their duties, which means that many places are empty or relatively so. Post-clutching, the gallery has its fair share of gawkers, but it's not an overwhelming number by any means. Khulan is among them, of course, settled somewhere near the bottom, with a nice, clear view of the eggs. Her cadre of 'lizards are scattered about, while she has a notebook open in her lap and sticks of colored graphite at the ready, along with a pen. She's drawing, working her way through the collection of eggs thoughtfully. She's been here long enough to be unobtrusive, just another piece of furniture; easy for most to overlook. Out on the sands, there is a sleeping dragon: Jaehnieseyth seems to have allowed Dhazkyth his wing duties while she takes a nap, though she'll just about certainly get clingier as time progresses. For now, the eggs are small and yet many of them are easy to see from the galleries above. Casla quite possibly also fell asleep in her papasan chair, work in her lap, but she's roused and has stepped out onto the sands. From there she glances up to see if there are any onlookers — it's terribly awkward to be the center of attention like that, at least for her — and instead of looking displeased, she smiles. Standing on her toes to whisper something directly into Jaehnieseyth's headknob, she then heads up into the galleries and silently sits down next to Khulan, sandal-clacking giving her away. Mostly she's as put together as sands-sitters get, but her messy bun is totally falling apart. "I am going to buy that," she declares, "so make at least two if you want to keep one." It's not her herbalry book, at least; this one appears to have a few pages missing here and there. Khulan looks up from her work, a smear of color on her forehead from where she'd apparently rubbed with something grey. "Ah, saa-Casla." Time at Igen has softened and reshaped her accent some, but it's barely detectable to most. Her friend's mussed hair is noted and she absently picks up a cloth to clean her fingers off. "I was planning on giving it to you and saa-Jaehnieseyth as a gift," she admits with a veiled smile. "You do not need to pay for it." A beat, then she motions to Casla's bun. "Here. Please." Casla's cool, tired smile blossoms into a broad grin at that reveal. "Oh! We will happily take it, I hope she doesn't ruin your attempts." Since Jaehnieseyth has been burying eggs, which is normal for dragons, yes, but perhaps not to her extent. Right now the amjority are still visible. "Since she does keep trying to hide them, or lie on top of them, but I think right now she is content with the arrangement. It is good to see you come look," she starts, then pauses to untie her hair and offer Khulan the band and ribbon, repositioning so her friend can reach her hair. "And clean up the mess of my head, yes," is added with a laugh. The artwork is set aside carefully, with Thorn perching nearby to keep it pinned in place with a talon or three. "Oh, no, saa. She is doing what she feels is appropriate. For the ones I cannot see, I make pretend." There are some colors in her palette that aren't exactly visible on the field of eggs; some artistic liberties are definitely being taken for some of the mystery ones. As Casla turns and offers her hair, Khulan finds a comb in her bag and begins to gently pick and brush any tangles out. Her touch is gentle, but efficient; turns of fighting with her own hair make it a little easier to work with other people's hair. "I am glad to be here to see them. You are doing well? She is doing well? Do you need anything, saa?" "Company is enough, and hair assistance cannot be frowned upon." Casla hasn't heard yet that they got a stylist as a candidate; he's going to be put to work on her soon enough, though her hair is light and smoother than an Igen-blooded would be used to dealing with. It's a bit thin and stringy and sad after a couple of days of perpetually sitting on hot sands. "Jaehnieseyth would be glad, I am sure, to give you a chance to express creative freedoms. She is currently not supplying commentary." The tip of her tail twitches, occasionally a paw, but the gold doesn't stir. The younger woman clicks her tongue at the state of Casla's hair; playful chastisement and nothing more. "Ah. I will have to get you a few things while you are out here," Khulan muses. "This heat is not kind to skin or hair." The hair is not immediately twisted up in a bun, though. She starts to braid it instead, separating the locks so she can do an intricate weaving of them. This might take time, but that's okay; Trellis will happily guard the band and ribbon. He may get entangled, but that's his problem. She glances over at the slumbering gold, veiled smile in place. "That is good to hear. I am glad that she is resting well." At least, that's her interpretation; a non-chatty dragon? Must be sleeping well. Casla has a gift for untangling chains, so maybe she can also assist in untangling Trellis. "My hair is weak and sad," she agrees, statement still light and satisfied; Jaehnieseyth is both having a thorough nap and is a doting, happy mother of her small army of eggs. The cheer is contagious, making Casla more relaxed than her normal state, leaving her able to do things like — mock her own hair in peace. "And my dragon, she is comfortable and warm, though when she wakes she'll complain about being hot and itchy. A cycle. You are welcome," Cas circles back to the earlier topic, "To come by and put things in my hair whenever you have the time, provided I am not asleep. Though it is easier for me to sleep a full night now — distracting eggs means no dream-interference." And Jaehnieseyth has been doing that since the day she hatched, so it's a very odd but nice reprieve. If anyone else could untangle Trellis, it would be Casla. The blue ends up with his own hindfoot in his maw. The ribbon has no beginning or end. Khulan, for her part, weaves her way along rather deftly for someone who has likely never had to do the same with her own hair. "I have things for weak and sad hair," she replies with a soft laugh. "Special oils and shampoos, yes? I will even bring a bucket to wash it in, if she is difficult about letting you get time away." And she will. Absolutely. Another flicked glance to the sleeping queen, then back again to Cas; her raised eyebrow might go unseen, but it's still apparent in her tone. "Ah, is that so? Then I will hope the eggs take a little more time to harden so you can have a little more rest. For a time, at least." Some gears are clicking in her head about an itchy, hot dragon; but they're moving slowly and her hands are busy. On the sands, Jaehnieseyth's forepaws twitch again, and Casla tenses for a second, but relaxes again when the dragon doesn't do whatever Cas thought she might do. "I have yet to try escaping to bathe, but I will have to do that tomorrow, I think, so we shall see how she reacts. I thought she was going to roll for a second and that would have started a whole chain reaction — but no, she seems uninterested in doing so." Cas' green Aphelandra has settled nearby, watching Trellis and inching slowly closer, as if she thinks it looks like heaps of fun and needs to get in on that tangly action. "You will be my hair's savior, either way, and Weyrwoman Diem will be pleased because I will not look like a drowned pole cat in front of observers. Have you given thought," it's said gently and lightly enough that it seems more a logical segue than the out-of-nowhere it might be, but perhaps it is logical because Casla needs a personal hair attendant, "to Standing again?" "Let me know when you are ready to try, saa, and I will do my best to distract her." She has her ways, from snoot-rubs to scribbles to a gaggle of firelizards that are naturally distracting in their own ways. Khulan finishes the braiding and starts a slow twist, abandoning the idea of a basic bun and replacing it with a classy kind of updo. Clever fingers and experience (though who knows how; see also: her hair is a tragedy of curls that cooperate with no one) make the work look easier than it is. She reaches for her bag, only to pull out a pair of rippled hair sticks. These are woven in, pinning the braided twist neatly in place. It's as she's doing that, however, that Casla's words hit and she freezes. Nearby, Trellis tries to offer Aphelandra some ribbon; it's wrapped around his tail, which makes his tail bounce. Confusion abounds. Khulan is silent for a long moment and it's not hard to imagine that her eyes are shut - because they are. Eventually: "I have not, saa." Aphelandra definitely does not understand that this is going to get worse if she reaches out to grab the ribbon, and so she does, and now there may be two tangled firelizards instead of just one. Casla is distantly aware, but more of her attention is on the feeling of having her hair positioned and twisted and made much nicer; the firelizard tangle will be sorted when it comes time for it. "We would both like it, if you'd want to," she says."Jaehnieseyth likes you very much, especially since I do, but also out of her own mind; anyone who does a good snout rub is on her good list. But we will not push, if you would prefer not." Khulan didn't stand for Zsaviranth's clutch, so Casla, who has inherited most of the left-behind candidates from there, can understand she may not be interested at all. Oh. Oh no. Trellis has a tangle-companion and this will not end well for anyone at all. Not that he seems to notice or mind, of course; the blue releases his foot and tries to catch the ribbon and ends up messing everything up and oh, let's not think about the shape that's making right now. Thorn looks on with a long-suffering huff-sigh. Khulan finishes working the other stick into Casla's hair, slower than before. Deliberate. When all is said and done, she presses her palms to the updo, as if to secure it further, somehow, then drops her hands to her lap with a faint sound. Finished. She's quiet throughout, teeth embedded in her cheek and gaze downcast. The moment of silence unspools, drawn thin and tight until the young woman exhales softly. It's not precisely a sigh, but it bears some emotional burden all the same. "It would be rude of me to decline such an honor, saa-Casla," she finally murmurs, lifting her head a little to look at her friend. "Nor would I wish to upset saa-Jaehnieseyth," not that she suspects the gold would be particularly put out - but, she can't be sure. She worries over her lower lip, distorting the veil. "I am grateful for you and her. I am grateful for your friendship. So. I will Stand. For you. For her." It's only right. Reaching up a hand to delicately touch her hairstyle, Casla micro-nods in approval of what's been done with her sad, weak hair. No longer is it hanging limp and pathetic. Truly, Khulan and Meztillian should go into business together. "There is someone you should meet as regards the hair," she says, "Who I believe Tzi just Searched, so he will not be difficult to find — " She stops talking, to give Khulan a concerned-friendly look and then turn the 'concerned' part very firmly on the firelizards, trying to resist an eyeroll. Aphelandra has tried to grab onto MORE ribbon and is possibly stuck to Trellis' tail. But never mind that! Focus back to the important part: "Khulan, we would love it, but if it is not what you want, do not feel like you must." Still, the candidate's knot she'd been keeping in her pocket just in case? That's taken out and presented. "If it is what you want, please take this with our utmost affections, but don't feel bound. If you decide to leave, we'll cope." She's smiling, and she means it, but of course selfishly she'd rather just keep Khulan. Maybe it would be better to leave Aphelandra and Trellis tied up like that. Surely it can't get any worse. Surely. Khulan glances at them when Casla does, her own mouth pulled to a side with dismay. A real sigh follows at the sight of them, though it's something of a relief for her to see that some things never truly change. "I will be curious to meet this person." And it's honest, that; she's been working hard at selling her own goods within the Weyr proper. If she can make new connections? Even better. Her gaze returns to Casla, inexorably drawn as the goldrider's attention fixes back on her. The offer of a knot is regarded obliquely, a brief flick of eyes that lands back on her friend. She reaches over to put her hand on Casla's own, featherlight; barely there, but enough to confirm her choice. "If I choose to give the knot up, then I shall. But, until then, I choose to accept this honor." "Okay." Casla says this once lightly, still sounding almost nervous, but then she repeats it again. "Okay. Good." And makes more of a presentation of the knot, so Khulan can choose to wear it. And so that matter is resolved, smoothly enough for now: Cas takes a deep breath, and mellows out. Everything is at least good enough, at the moment. "His name is Meztillian, I believe. If I am remembering it right." She's bad at names, but he was extremely memorable! "He does hair. If he Impresses he will probably be doing everyone's hair, unless the Weyrlingmaster is not one to ask one of the class, I do not know her well." As for the firelizards? Cas is definitely paying attention to them, but … "Do we want them to sort themselves out or are we worried they might die? I do not want to keep you from reporting to Cremla, if you prefer to be prompt." She has all the time in the world to take those firelizards down to the sands and detangle them. That nervousness is shared, in some ways. But, when Casla presents the knot, Khulan accepts it and reaches, with her free hand, to pull down the veil. "I choose to Stand for saa-Jaehniseseyth's clutch, saa-Casla." Her tone is one of reassurance, even if it's mostly to reassure herself. "Thank you. Please, pass my thanks onto her when she wakes, if it is not an imposition." Her smile is visible, at least; a little lopsided, but genuine. As the name is given, it's filed away; her knot is applied with fingers that tremble the tiniest bit. "I will seek to speak with him once I am settled then. Perhaps he may be of some help with my hair." But then there are firelizards and the revelation that she will need to move and also Cremla and Amarante and- a breath hisses past her teeth. "I should speak with saa-Cremla," she agrees. "If you wish to try to separate them, then I will owe you another favor." Or three. Sweet Rukbat, how flexible are firelizards?! "I will take care of this and speak with saa-Cremla. I-" she tries, fails, and tries again with, "Thank you." "I will," says Casla, smile broadening even as she touches her hair again (it is not being sad or weak right now, even if deep down it still is!) and then moves her hand to her lap. "But you are always welcome to return and let her know. From the front of the galleries she can usually hear and she will come over if her concept of what the eggs wants allows it." Almost on comamnd, Jaehnieseyth's eyes open, still weary; she blinks in their direction, a few times, and then adjusts her head before closing them again. "I may come borrow you both soon, you and Meztillian the hair master trader candidate, to fix — this." Fingertips to her head. "But for now I will just hope the sticks hold as long as possible. Settle in, tell me if you need anything; I am easy to find." She is drawing herself to her feet so she can go back to sitting on hot sand. What a day. Yet when Jaehnieseyth does wake all the way, she certainly is pleased with her latest candidate. She is also pleased with the pair of firelizards she's temporarily gained (Casla will eventually return Trellis), as once they've been un-ribbon'd, the pair are quickly enlisted into headknob-scritching. Tangles and Tribulations has 0 comments. |
From Casla's sad, weak hair to Khulan's Candidacy, with firelizard tangle-ups and egg illustrations in betweeen. |
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Wild Rider Meets Wild Dophineer Apprentice Wild Rider Meets Wild Dophineer Apprentice
You like working with…" He trips on the word, frowning. "… the sea fish? Dolphins, them?"  Living Caverns Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in a naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophobia. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about, candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next to the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the Weyr's youngest. The rich blue of the Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open. Rukbat's light has long since died, leaving room for night to run her fingers across the land bringing a chill that so easily settles into the bones once the warmth of day is past. Fja'vn lingers at the buffet tables, staring at the different offerings of meat with a healthy man's appetite and a gluttonous' man's conundrum. "Good shape, you. Mmm, good crisp, here." Without care, he jabs one meaty finger into one of the steaks to test the texture of the piece of food. He licks his finger and does the same with the pork chop. Given other suspicious indents, other food has been thusly poked without ceremony or care to the rather, ah, uncouth action. It's perhaps a touch late for one of Novi's rank, still she's to be seen gathering a mug of klah and a small plate of fish rolls. The rider is given a look, then, "The roast wherry is good," or so she hears. With those few words the senior apprentice moves to find a table where her food, klah, and some hides are set down for studying. "Ahhh, is it, sasa?" Fja'vn casts a look at Novi when she mentions the roast wherry and shifts a few degrees to pluck up a fingerful of the meat — tearing it right off the bone. He tastes it, rolling it around on his tongue. "Bisbien," the word slips out, strange. "Good, this," the wildling rider adds, jerking his thumb at the meat. "Maybe get this. Steak's a bit off." As the apprentice trails away, he finishes piling up his plate and eventually takes a seat not far off from Novi, by happenstance, really. It's close to the wine section. His eating is rough and savage, with little regard to grease and bits of flesh and other trailings of food. Why use forks when a man has perfectly good fingers?! Novi eyes the rider for a bit, then shrugs. She's seen worse. She grew up with worse, "I'm Novi," she says as she goes over her notes. These on proper search and rescue ettiquette. She'll be walking the tables soon, which will give her another charm to the silver bracelet she wears in place of a knot. Though for formal gatherings she does have a knot it's just not something the dolphincraft appentice usually wears. Fja'vn glances at the apprentice, but doesn't seem to recognize bracelet or lack of knot. "Fja'vn," the intruduction comes as more of a grunt than anything formal, though he does heave a sigh. "Fja'vn. Ocelot. Paendryth's." His strange wildling accent gives a kind of musical cant to his diction but he's understood well enough. "Well met," he adds, then shoves a large hunk of wherry into his mouth. A nod is given as Novi pops a fish roll into her mouth. She'd seen the pair around, "Dolphincraft apprentice," is finally said, with a light twist to the bracelet with the two charms on it, "Not sure I've worked with Ocelot," probably she hasn't. Her specialty, intended specialty, is search and rescue after all. "Ahhhh," Fja'vn glances at the shiny bauble on her wrist. "What's it, that?" he gestures at the bracelet, cocking his head at the gesture she exhibits in twirling it. "Dunno, maybe has, maybe not, you. I forget faces, so not help, me." He shrugs, but it's not unkindly. Just a matter of fact. "Try to remember, now, eh? Maybe will stick. You like working with…" He trips on the word, frowning. "… the sea fish? Dolphins, them?" Novi gives a nod, "This?" the bracelet is given a fond look, "It's what lets others in my craft know my rank. This one," a tap to the slightly smaller, and decidedly less fancy charm is given, "is from when I was an apprentice, the other one says I'm a senior apprentice. I should be getting my journeyman's charm soon," it's been a long slog to get to that point too, "No worries on names. I'll probably forget yours too," a grin is given to show she means know real harm with that. It's just that she is far better at remembering the names of the dolphins in the pods she works with than she is at remembering peoples names. He laughs in the camaraderie of shared forgetful names and the sound is as warm and inviting as flannel. "Good, good. Try, me, but never can remember. Not without Paendryth's help," he adds. Fja'vn eyes the charms on her bracelet before he asks, all serious. "What stops you from gettin' a charm and putting it on yourself, eh?" As if it were that easy to gain rank, but the man is clearly not weyrbred or even… craft or holdbred. Something wilder and stranger. Novi chuckles at that, "The smiths have a list of who is supposed to have what charms, when. Each charm is crafted only when someone is getting promotion," she doesn't really expect Fja'vn to retain the information, but it's offered just the same. In fact she's rather expecting the eyes to glaze over, or some other excuse to be made. After all Novi's been accused of rambling on about dolphins, and 'nobody enjoys hearing about dolphins all the time' is an oft heard complaint from her fellow apprentices. "Hrrrrgh," the sound is almost interested, curious. Fja'vn finishes his meal but lingers a moment. "Neat, that. Different than what the others do. Good luck, you." He stands and gathers up his plate and glass and tips his head in a lazy nod. "Enjoy, the roasted tubers made the guts dance," he says as if it's a good thing. "Gotta be gone, me. Drills early, sasa?" And with that, the bronzerider saunters out of the living caverns after tossing everything in the dirty pile. Novi gives a nod, and a smile before she too is depositing her dishes in the dirty pile, and heading to the apprentice dorms. Wild Rider Meets Wild Dophineer Apprentice has 0 comments. |
Fja'vn and Novi meet. A chuckle is had over their mutual inability to recall the names of people. |
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Goat Dealing Goat Dealing
 « It's not my fookin' fault that the curly-haired blokes are out like a well-appointed buffet, » announces Rhovvth, loud enough and irritated enough to carry.  Lake Shore Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens. It's a glorious spring day, the sun is up and the clouds are there. Well maybe too much clouds on the horizon and all, but that doesn't stop Zafina from being out and about with her latest herd of mobile snacks. In fact she's currently looking through a bag of foodstuffs and spices that she's traded one of the younger kids for. The rest of teh caprines are milling about near the waters edge while a couple of canines keep an attentive eye on them. "Looks like we're gonna eat well when we have to hike it on back" she murmurs more to herself than the critters. "If I can get the rest of these ones sold off, we'll be doing pretty well I think." Rhovvth lands nearby, shattering any stillness of the lake or otherwise with the powerful buffeting of his descent's backwinging. A blackwater bastard indeed, the mercenary brown turns 'round to sniff very curiously toward the crowd of caprines, here at the edge of a lake where dragons roam. His eyes may even whirl larcenous, because he's that kind of dragon, along with being a massive specimen of his color: he half-hops a turn to be closer and lowers his nose all casual-like, sniffing with good interest toward a fatter goat. Hello there, mobile snack. And one of the more interesting problems when doing business in a Weyr, the effect the dragons have on the livestock. The goats start hoofing it away from the dragon while the canines circle around them and drive them back towards Zafina. For her part, Zafina looks less than alarmed. In fact, she looks quite contemplative. She looks around, generally where there's a dragon, there could be a rider nearby. She might be able to strike a good bargain here. Perhaps. She eyes the brown, she doesn't blame him for likign the looks of her goats. Prime meat they are. And they're not fat, they're nice and chunkily muscled. Lots of good meat on the wethers. Fatter, it's all relative in Rhovvth's mind! The brown has neither straps nor rider, but a certain glinting interest. He swings his casual gesture over toward one of the canines, finding them a good red-herring for his ultimate concept of 'eat the fucking goat': hello there, small dog, how are you? He keeps an eye on Zafina and moves a half-hop closer to the herd, because, well, when you're a hungry (or opportunistic) dragon it's hard to be subtle. Where the hell is Kev? Kev's around here somewhere. Or maybe Kev's still back on the Sands, picking up shards of shells. Anyone's guess, really. Zafina lets out sigh even as she rolls her eyes at the brown. She just gives him a look as she crosses her arms a moment and tips her head a little. Avaricious flying stomachs. Then one hand comes up and fingers go to mouth and she gives a shrill long whistle followed by a few short ones. The canines, who had been keeping more an eye on their charges than the dragon, take action and go to work as they work the goats and send them fanning around Zafina to settle them behind her as she eyes the dragon. Well. All but one of the goats who is quite intent on following it's own stomach. Always was the troublemaker of the bunch. As for the dragon, Zafina continues to eye him and she waggles a finger at him "No just eating them critters, ya here? Girls gotta make a livin' somehow and I don't see ya forkin' over some marks or even some alternative payment." Actually, it wouldn't do to think about what a dragon could leave behind." Rhovvth is in the act of ratcheting his mouth wide enough to just fit his entire face down over the loan troublemaker goat when a stern baritone calls, "Rhovvth!" loudly enough to carry towards Zafina. The brown's baleful glower is felt more than seen, being emphatic and red-whorled, but he backs away with all the begrudgement that only a gigantic dragon can have. « It's not my fookin' fault that the curly-haired blokes are out like a well-appointed buffet, » announces Rhovvth, loud enough and irritated enough to carry. K'vre's eyes turn toward Zafina and he lifts his eyebrows at the small goatherder. Zafina blinks a moment and gives her head a little bit of a shake and eyes the brown just a moment and then she is all smiles for the rider. After all, it likely wouldn't be anyone but the rider yelling at the dragon. Her eyes take in the rugged appearance and the state of his clothes and tilts her head a little "Looks like yon brown there fancies himself an affcionado of fine flesh. And I must say, I do believe I've fine quality caprines here that would please any dragon, or even his rider. From the delicate flavors of the kids, to the more robust of the wethers which do quite well cooked on a lnice low heat for a long time. Season it up, marinate it some, pull the meat and you'll fine the meat juicy without dripping with so much fat that you'll get it all over yourself. Whatcha think? I could sell the lot of them to you for a good deal." K'vre's out here sans-knot, the day not rating the jacket which his triple loops are currently tied upon. There is no questioning that he's a rider's rider, though - this is a man of upright bearing and stern mien, his shoulders wide and arms thick despite the otherwise lankiness of his frame. "I think you're far mistaken if you think I'm a cook, miss," the brownrider says after a brief moment of his mouth working without words coming out. His baritone is on the higher end, failing the tenor range by half an octave, pleasant and Keroon-lilted at the edges. "I'd wager that you're running a risk bringing these out here, unless you're deliberately looking for some dragons to eat your herd?" He stops a stride or so away, his arms folding across his chest: he's not quite impassive, something of amusement playing at the world-weary corners of his eyes. "Life itself is a risk." Zafina says with a bit of a shrug "And well, one cannot tell by sheer looks alone if a person can cook or not. Should I assume that just because you perch yerself on yonder dragon that you would have no other skills but that?" She gives a cheeky grin. "But, tis no worry to me if you cannot cook, and tis always possible you may end up dining on one of mine, through someone elses purchase." She notes as the lone goats head comes up suddenly and he makes his way past her to mill around with the rest of the herd. "It's a risk indeed bringing them up here. I've lost a kid to a wild wherry before the Bo and Jynx could get to her on our way here. But it's good practice for the canines to manuver the herd around, and well, perhaps I'll strike a good deal with some rider who wants only the best for his dragon." "Is it, now," K'vre replies, that same air of an almost-smile lingering around him. He seems rather content to allow Zafina all the time she wants to speak — and speak she does, at length! — whilst keeping a bit of an eye on his lifemate. The brown's turned around and started to trek down the lakeshore, dragging his tail behind him in a sinuous tracking over Igen sand. It's altogether a good thing it wasn't Raktraeth out here — Zafina might be out some goats without compensation. "You might keep a little more to the caravan grounds," K'vre says, not unkindly, "In future herding. You've ventured into the realm of dragons, and the weyr will not recompense beasts that shift past the bazaar." He unfolds his arms to point eastward: "On the other side of the pens is the stockyard, and past the stockyard is another watering hole." A pregnant pause: "One less frequented by giant goat-killers." Zafina hmms a little at that and gives nod "Good to know, her eyes glancing towards the brown." She then grins "So, only bring the critters out here if I've a mind, to get a few dragons addicted to the meat with a few little freebies, and thus having them sweet talk their riders into procuring more of the delicacies for them." No, not an ounce of shame in her. "So, I take it I can't talk ya into buying some for your magnificant brown dragon there?" she asks curiously. First hit is always free, Zafina? "We stock caprines in the feeding pens, when it's cheap enough pound-for-pound against herdbeasts," K'vre says, familiar enough with the administration of feeding some four hundred dragons in several different dimensions from several different perspectives throughout his life. Plus: Th'bek. That guy, man. K'vre's grey-blue eyes follow after Rhovvth, still trucking down the shoreline as he is, before returning to Zafina. "I think I will pass, but if I ever find myself in need of someone to sell something of mine, I'll be sure to find you. Your persistence is admirable." A bright green lands nearby, and K'vre's calm regard is enough to keep the Arroyoan at a fair distance from the herd. Zafina gives a litle shrug, what can ya say? "Well, a girls gotta eat an all, and being faint of heart is certainly not the way keep the belly fed and the body warm. And well, there's caprines and then there's good food. You just keep that in mind." There's a glance towards the green, and then a throughful look for the man himself. "But I'd be happy to sell any wares you might have someday, for a nice commission of course. Though, I'd be of a mind to offer a discount my dear brownrider." Tilting her head a little, Zafina smiles "Well, I did have in mind a bit of a discount on the commission, but I think I'd give ya a discount on the carpines as well, and no, I did not mean that my caprins aren't good eatin'." she states "Not that I'm saying anything against the tithed caprines that are given to the Weyr mind you, but when you raise in bulk, sometimes quality isn't always as high when you aremark specific does for specific bucks to get a higher yeild offspring all around. Not that a high quality buck can't produce high yielding offspring on does that aren't of quite a superior quality. But it's a tradeoff that has to be made iffen yer lookin to maximize the amount." She shrugs some "We've some herds we manage that way, but then we've some we personally see to teh breeding of and though the output is maller, the yield more than makes up for it." If Zafina threw that at any other rider (sans Th'bek, or maybe F'mond) she'd probably be met with glazed eyes at the end, but K'vre is once-Kevrael, steward's son of Keroon with resultant tolerances for such commentary. "High-yield offspring is necessary when you require the level of herd turnover we do to field enough flesh for four-hundred and five dragons," he pauses with a half-smile, "Not to mention the thirty-eight new dragonets in the barracks tonight, and however many to follow with Jaehnieseyth's clutch." He turns his attention across the lake briefly, where Parhelion riders are having a bit of a row. Literally - they're in a boat. He shakes his head, wordless. Then: "Frankly, the co-efficient for poundage of yield versus resources typically constrains us to requiring tithes of herdbeast and wherry. Caprines are quite big here for milk and cheese, especially in the bazaar." A faint smile, looking rusty on his face: "We have several cheese shops." "Oh aye, and even if you've a herd that maintains does that consistantly have quads or quints, if not more, you still can't beat the larger critters for overall meat yield." Syhe follows her gaze out on to the water and watches the rowers a moment but then her attention is called back by the mention of cheese. She does smile a bit at that "Aye, there are some very good cheeses there as well. I've done some cheese. Mum's better at the cheeses than me though, and well she's a cave an all for them. Sometimes I bring some in for her. She doesn't get out as much anymore, mostly the cheeses go to the traders that come through in exchange for needed things, but every now and then. You like cheese?" she asks curiously. "Find me a person who doesn't like cheese and I'll make sure they see the way out of Igen," K'vre replies, amusement again keeping his tone relatively light. "Though I will admit goat cheese isn't my favorite. I like a good cheddar." As rugged as K'vre looks, it makes sense that the man would have basic-man tastes in food. "And I suppose that melting cheese the Auvergne has isn't half-bad," he says, reflective of fondue as any person should be. "Does your entire family herd?" he questions, lifting his scruffily-bearded chin toward the goats beyond. Zafina can't help but laugh at that "Cheese is a wonderful comfort food, that's true. I do love a nice wine soaked one myself or some that's in a pastry with some some berries and hot spices and then baked until it's all nice and melty wonderful." She mms a little and just closes her eyes briefly at the thought. At the question she looks thoughtful "Well, not all the family, Papa and the boys do the critters mostly, and myself as well. Though now I spend more time takin' critters here and there and all. Mum says it's well enough, she could hardly ever keep my in one spot as it was. Mum she does the gardenin' and cookin and all. Like cheese. But we've our goats, but Papa he does like his bovines. He's a soft spot for them and all. "You're very specific," K'vre comments dryly for Zafina's culinary descriptions of twice-baked brie. "Nothing wrong with a bovine," with thoughts AGAIN to Th'bek and F'mond GUYS LEAVE HIM ALONE JESUS, moving on, proceeding. "I think they're about to hang themselves up," he speaks to the rowers, Parhelion doing dumb shit starting to look like they might capsize: "I'd best go rescue them before they need real rescuing." His glance shifts down the goats and then back to the girl: "Be careful," is his neutral admonisment before he inclines his chin sharply to her and starts to pick his way around the lake to where the canoe is sloshing around perilously. Another little what can you say shrug "I know what I like." she admits and then looks out over the water and then shakes her head some. "Why people feel the need to play on the water when there's perfectly good land for our feet to be on is beyond me. Well, I'd best be getting these walking snacks on down to safer pastures." she notes as she gives the canines another few whistles. "You be careful as well, many a rescuer has been known to be needin' rescuin' themselves." she states as she follows of after the canines. Her hands flicking here and there as she goes. Then she stops and looks behind her. "Oy! You shardin' lazy snot. You'ld be just as happy if I left ya to be a draggie snack now, wouldn't ya?" she calls to the same gpat who had not followed the others before. He lets out a startled bleat as his ear is pulled on "Get a move on ya ruddy fool." she snorts as she gooses him a bit too and then he's trottin' off after the others. "Better yet, I'll tie ya out durin' Threadfall" And with that, she's heading out and away. Goat Dealing has 2 comments. |
Zafina tries a novel tactic to sell goats. Slightly backdatd |
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Welcome Home, Asshole Welcome Home, Asshole
  "Are you from Igen or are you just visiting? I think this is the hatching that absolutely no one should miss. I've been to several, but this one is special." Why? K'mine has his reasons. Galleries Though occasionally cleaned by ambitious (or neurotic) drudges or weyrbrats being disciplined, the lack of Eggs over the last several Turns has led to the Galleries falling into a state of disrepair. Sand can be found…well, everywhere. On the benches, under the benches, on the railings and walkways. There is also the random tidbit leftover from people who've wandered into the gathering place since the last cleaning. A random bit of cloth here, a bit of something that might have been a carving-in-progress once there. Here there be dragons: far above on the ledges and below on the Sands, Dhazkyth's chiaroscuro form on one side balancing Jaehnieseyth's soft beauty on the other. A leanly muscled man sits on the first row of the galleries, staring down on the array of eggs below with a very remote look on his face. He's wearing a High Reaches' jacket, Inferno's crest spilling fiery across the back, with no indication of Igen loops on his shoulder; it wouldn't be amiss to consider R'kyr merely a visitor, come to oggle the eggs with the rest of the crowd. For crowd there is: nearly forty people loiter amongst the rows, the dull roar of murmuring rising behind him. Not many would pass up the oppertunity to at least glimps at the eggs at least once. Least, not of their own will. Even the young can be spotted taking a peek from time to time. Sneaking in when they have a free moment or two. Which is how and why Sophius found his way to the galleries on this day. Taking a few free moments he has away from the infirmery to take a glimps at the eggs that were on the sands now. Though starting to think he picked a bad time to do so, noting the crowd that was gathered there. Still, he had to take a glance while he was here. So he made his way closer to the ledge that overlooked the sands directly. At least he wouldn't smell like the infirmery. He also told his two firelizards to wait outside for him. They were contented on napping anyway so they picked a place that was on a sunny ledge out in the Weyr bowl. R'kyr isn't the friendliest bastard to have ever been sired on the other side of the tracks — (except not, his mother would be appalled if she had any idea where her son was, regarding his manners today) — so he doesn't look over at Sophius' impingement upon his turf. It takes a minute for his grey-green gaze to track over, lifting to take in the Healer's profile. He's on the wrong side to catch the knot, but the rider says only, in a voice beautiful despite his rather scarred exterior, "Quite a sight, isn't it." His words are remarkably flat. Might be talking to himself and not Sophius, come to think. Sophius did do a little ducking around a few people that were between him and the viewing ledge. Then he comes to stop in a spot where he could get the best viewing angel while standing near those who were there looking at the eggs. Hearing the words that were spoken, he did glance over to R'kyr though wasn't rightly sure if the words were spoken to him or just in general. Shook his head some then turned his gaze back to the grounds and the eggs that were there, kind of letting the daydream he tends to have take over his mind for a moment. Looking from one egg to another. Quietly, he makes his way into the galleries, his freshly washed hair pushed back with fingertips as green eyes watch from face to face. No one here he prefers to see, no one of any importance so his steps are slow and leisurely. The eggs are peered at, though the man favors a seat first. He's been on those sands before, so let the newly initiated have their fair share first. Movement catches K'mine's attention as well as a familiar face. There's this little voice, a little alarm that allows prey animals a moment of clarity, to sense and see the real danger before succumbing to it but K'mine's is broken today so he'll sit directly behind R'kyr because why not? Seems he already has someone to talk to so he'll have to be good and mind his manners for now… If K'mine is prey — and tasty prey at that, let the world know — R'kyr is certainly a predator, his gaze turning again upon Sophius. Evidently his words were for the healer, for the bronzerider inquires, "Have your ears turned off on you, lad?" with his crips Fortian accent, eyebrows lifted with visible sardony. One of them is half-destroyed by a small, intricate threadscore, giving his entire appearance a slightly piratical air. He hasn't seen K'mine yet, but JUST WAIT Kair, just wait. Someday he'll get eyes in the back of his head… or Dhazkyth will ken into the fact that Ved's beloved is sitting right behind his dumb Ryker. At the lastest batch of words that were spoken by R'kyr, Sophius snaps out of the daydream quickly. Soph looks away from the sands and the eggs that were there to glance to R'kyr, "Sorry," Trying to place a name to the face for a moment, then adds quickly, "R'kyr, I wasn't sure if you were speaking to me or not." Before glancing to the sands once more…. and answers the first question. "For my first time seeing eggs, it is quite a sight." The greenrider leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and he tilts his gaze towards Sophius for a moment. He raises a curious brow, perhaps peering a little too he long, and then goes back to watching the eggs along with the crowd. If Dhaz doesn't clue his rider in, Vedziyath will be sure to share some lovely oversaturated and rather graphic imagery! Pay-Pern-View. Or Pern Hub. K'mine reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a red fruit and he takes a bite before placing a foot all rude like on the bench beside R'kyr. Eating around Doji isn't a good idea at the moment so he'll have to sneak in what he can in passing. "It's all definitely a sight," he chimes in smoothly, taking another deliberately loud bite. R'kyr's look encompasses Sophius fully for calling him by his given name, and he dismisses the Healer soon thereafter, turning his attention back to the eggs beyond. Dhazkyth's stirring on the sands, turning his snout upward toward the viewing ledges: Vedziyath, is THAT YOU UP THERE? Or is that God? It might be God. R'kyr's shoulders stiffen at the familiar voice, or perhaps the foot rudely placed on the bench next to him, and he half-turns to give K'mine a look in profile. The smile he slowly unleashes is probably more unsettling than most things that creep about in Pern's shadows, but well, does anyone expect anything else? The ex-High Reaches rider reaches out and shoves the boot off his bench with a, "Fuck you, K'mine." So pleasant, our favorite convict-guard-rider… now returned from the far north. Sophius shuffles a little on the nervous side for a few moments as he felt the gaze upon him, even so much as taking a step back. Lets out a slight breath like 'phew' as he sees the dismissal. Takes a few more steps, putting some distance between himself and the riders. After a few paces, he comes to lean slightly on the railing to gaze down onto the sands below once more, looking at the eggs. Turning his gaze away once more as he hears the sharp words that were spoken from one to another. It's God, it's definitely God. At least, the one that Dhaz wishes he could be~ K'mine presses the back of his hand to wipe the juice from his mouth while R'kyr shoves his foot away and the greenrider laughs, his tone a little bit playful and a little bit not. "I'm sure that alley way booth is still serving if you're down for round two." ilu2, R'kyr. "Of course, let's look at these eggs of yours a little longer. I was wondering if I would see the day Dhazkyth would sire a clutch, and yet, here we are. I'm rather excited, I wouldn't want to miss a moment of this one. It's going to be big." All said as both feet are re-applied to the bench, this time on either side of R'kyr. Why? Cause K'mine has a deathwish and a little bit of redfruit left. His hands won't like to be idle for long. He turns to Sophius, eyeing the young man for a moment in silence. "You said this is your first time seeing the eggs? How many hatchings have you attended?" K'mine might've been a little loud besides R'kyr's ear cause you know, you get old and your hearing goes. Sophius had a hard time hearing the bronzerider so the greenrider just wanted to be helpful. Sophius! R'kyr will yet remember the boy stands there, but for now he is engaged in fending off both Dhazkyth's internal thoughts and his own consideration of the man seated behind him. "No thank you," R'kyr replies rather politely, or at least the words are — his voice, beautiful instrument that it is, is rather sharp and particularly derisive. "I had a nice gander at Rosie's the other day. The velvet was how I remembered but they've changed the scent of the rosewater oil." He turns his head just enough to look back at Kair, one eyebrow lifted in masculine challenge rather than intrigue or come-hither: High Reaches has beaten some of the bullshit out of him, and installed some other software that seems… rather alarming really. But before he can escalate to normal Stryker asshole levels, Kair's asking Sophius a question, and the Inferno-jacketed bronzerider turns his attention back to the Healer to hear his answer. Sophius glanced once more back to the sands below, looking at the eggs, least the one's he didn't see before. Though does answer the question he hears posed to him, "I haven't had the chance to attend a hatching yet." No one from Fort Weyr offered to him to go see a hatching when he studied in Healer Hall. And his family is just crafters, no one of any real rank to be asked to attend a hatching. Still had that nervous look about him, everytime he heard R'kyr speak. Though just kept glancing at the eggs that he could see from his current vantage point. Rosewater oil? K'mine tilts his head to the side, brushing aside his damp hair to give R'kyr a rather sour look. Ugh, that's one scent the man can't stand to catch, even in passing through the bazaar. The greenrider prefers the scent of… well? ANYTHING ELSE. Hey, High Reaches? Challenge Accepted~ At the least, Kair returns a crooked smile before those green eyes are back to Sophius. Eggs and hatchings are exciting things, it's a fair question! The last of the red fruit is devoured and he begins to lick his fingers clean. He forgot his handkerchief and no one likes sticky hands. Especially in the galleries where there's a myriad of unfavorable things to cling to them. "Oh?" he says to Sophius after working on a stubborn spot on the webbing between his thumb and index finger. "Are you from Igen or are you just visiting? I think this is the hatching that absolutely no one should miss. I've been to several, but this one is special." Why? K'mine has his reasons. "Not a single one?" R'kyr asks Sophius, half in disbelief, his attention returning to the Healer with… well, it's not like he's necessarily a nice man, but the level of intensity he brings to bear is likely unpleasant regardless. It redoubles in levels of acidity as K'mine speaks, and he turns to leverage a look at the greenrider. "And why do you think this one is especially special, greenrider?" he inquires, his voice half-hostile. Sophius shook his head a few times to clear the thoughts of the day dream that he has while he looked at the eggs for a moment longer, having heard the words that were spoken to him. Turns his gaze to both K'mine and R'kyr, responding to K'mine first. "I'm not from Igen but my post as Sr Apprentice healer is Igen Weyr. Before I came here, a couple months ago, I was studying at Healer Hall and before that, where I was born was Green Fields Hold. I hope I wouldn't miss it but if I'm needed in the Infirmery, I'll be there instead. Guess it'll end up being upto Master Jhothulos what happens that day for me." Then shook his head to R'kyr's question. "Not a single one. No one form Fort Weyr would bring me to a hatching when I was studying at the hall…. nor Telgar Weyr when I was at my home hold." Though seemed interested in the 'special' bit himself, was about to ask but heard R'kyr's words first. "Why wouldn't you think this is special, Bronzerider?" K'mine answers, leaning in to rest both of his arms across R'kyr's shoulders. He brings his face a little closer to quietly add, "Both of our dragons were on those very sands together once. Vedziyath might not find herself down there again, we'll have to live vicariously through you both." Oh, c'mon now. Kair wouldn't miss this for the world! Think about how adorable those Dhaz babies are going to be! Vedziyath thinks alien facehuggers are going to burst out, only they're going to be colorful like my little ponies. Glittery ones. She even shares the imagery of said spawn getting upclose and personal with a unicorn stuffy. K'mine turns his curious green eyes back to Sophius, and he trails his fingertips across the seams of R'kyr's jacket in thought. The weaver part of him is definitely internally screaming at how shoddy the lining was done. "Well, I think there's always an exception to everything, it's just a matter for the right opportunity to present itself. What's your name? Don't think I caught it." A fucking VEIN pops out on R'kyr's fucking FACE when K'mine comes in so close. His back stiffens, his jaw clenching, the man seemingly ready to incite violence against his fellow dragonrider. "I think you're taking your familiarity a step too far, Kairmine," he says in a velveteen-over-steel voice: the edge is so very audible, ready to rip forth. He stiffens further when the greenrider goes into a familiar cadence, taking a deep breath directly through his nose and allowing his head to rest back a beat, eyes lifting to the ceiling. What indignities must he survive? Dhazkyth is fucking cackling below, a certain unicorn stuffy dancing around a stripper pole for that show of glittery MLPs. You overhear R'kyr mutter, "… fucking hate … life." to himself. Sophius listens to the answer that was given in thought for a few moments before shaking his head a bit. Noticing the crowd shift a little at the tension that was brewing, moving about so as to not be too close to either rider should tempers flare too much. He himself remains where he is as he nods his head slowly a couple of times at the response spoken to him. "I'll have to wait and see." Spoken with a little hesitation. Then clears his throat some to keep his voice from breaking, then says, "I'm Sophius." See? Vedziyath can be friendly when she's glowing oh so brightly outside, sometimes. Once in a while. Rarely. Well, maybe it's exclusive to this moment because she has fuel and when there's fuel, a fire must burn. K'mine sighs heavily, slowly removing his arms from the bronzrider's shoulders and he holds his hands up to show the man he's on to his best (bah!) behavior. He'll even do a little finger wiggle with a shit eating grin! Jazz hands! Sophius manages to reclaim the proddy riders attention for a moment so poor R'kyr can compose himself. "Well, Sophius, perhaps you won't have to wait too long." The greenrider slips a thankfully no-longer-sticky hand into his pocket for a moment and he pulls something out. He moves his feet away from R'kyr and rises, carefully stepping on the bronzerider's bench so he can move to the floor and approach the young man with a white knot in his upturned palm. "Will you stand as a Candidate for Dhazkyth and Jaehnieseyth's clutch?" Enter R'kyr sigh here, but he seems to relax in not-insignificant degree when K'mine's hands finally leave his shoulders and the greenrider moves on. His own grey-green eyes flick over to the tableau of searchrider and possible-candidate, scarred eyebrow lifting in tandem with its fraternal twin to await Sophius' answer. Was that a skip in the beat of a heart or just Sophius stand there, a little flabbergasted for the moment as he's asked. It takes him a few moments to find his voice, trying to clear his throat, trying to sound as professional as he could before he could answer. "I'll have to clear it with Master Jhothulos first. But if I do get the go ahead, I would gladly stand." Trying to think if Master Jhothulos would be about. "I can go ask him now, I think he should be still on duty." "All you have to do is show him your new knot, and I'm sure he'll know exactly your meaning. He just has to be informed of your change of status. Once he's been informed, you're to collect your necessities and report directly to the Headwoman for placement. Then stay on your best behavior, don't skimp on the responsibilities given to you as a Candidate and I assure you that those days will fly by faster than you think." K'mine keeps his hand outstretched until the knot is taken, but he does glance over his shoulder over to his own fellow Candidate-turned-Clutchsib with a crooked grin. See? He can behave while Vedziyath is threatening to franchise Rosie's! R'kyr's disdain has returned when Sophius invokes the thought of asking a Healer regarding dragonrider business. "Our call pre-empts all others, boy," he says — not unkindly, really, for R'kyr, though the words are still sharp. "Any master affiliated with the weyr forbidding his own apprentices to Stand would be thrown out on their ear." Obviously Jhothulos' obedience could be compelled, but the clutchsire's lifebonded isn't about to stand for any conversation that it would even be in question to begin with. His attention levels to K'mine and goes unemotive when that crooked grin is tossed back at him, copface returning to R'kyr as easily as if… well… as if he were a guard again. Sophius makes his way closer to both K'mine and R'kyr, giving a nod of his head. He gently takes the knot as he tries to keep himself from getting too excited. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure he'll let me." Just the formalities that has to be followed. He takes note of everything that he's told, already knowing where most things are already. "I shall do that after I see Master Jhothulos." He then turns to nod to R'kyr pratically dancing with excitement now. Again tries to to keep himself composed and professional, "I'm sure once he sees the knot, he'll give me well wishes." "Well, don't leave the Headwoman waiting, Sophius! She's expecting plenty of Candidates and if you want a chance at having a decent spot in the barracks, I suggest you turn tail and run. Run to your Master of yesterday, get your things, and report in to your tomorrow. Take too long, and you'll have to sleep closest to the entrance of the barracks and guess which people get the shittiest details when the teaching staff is in a pissy mood?" Well, truthfully, that didn't stop K'mine and R'kyr from getting shitty details, but shhh. Let the precious baby Candidate keep that shining hope. Now that his hand is freed, K'mine is gonna take a seat on the bench beside R'kyr, thankfully leaving a respectable amount of space between them. He really did want to see the eggs, afterall. R'kyr for once holds his tongue regarding Sophius' insistence to check in with his master, and instead turns his attention back to the Sands below. Indeed - Kair and Ryker both had a great deal of shitty details, and it had nothing to do with their bunk placements! But don't tell that to the new kid. The bronzerider turns his attention to a particular grey-and-white egg and narrows his eyes until Dhazkyth obligingly moves over the Sands to nose more sand beneath it, until it looks less… wobbly. Vulnerable. Who would have ever thought Dhazkyth would be an attentive clutchsire? (Everyone knows it wouldn't have been the Rosie-franchising Ved's aspirations for her unicorn-obsessed clutchmate!) Sophius nods his head some as he turns, "I'll try to be as fast as dragon can fly between." he says. Though to his dismay, his excitment has gotten the attention of his two small firelizards. Both come down to whirl around and chirp happy things before he could try to calm them and collect them. "I wish you both a good rest of your evening." he says before fully departing as quickly as his feet could carry him. Being followed by a small gold and brown firelizard who are chittering away to each other, their sounds being muffled quickly as they follow the lad. Sophius is given a salute and K'mine is just going to rest his face in his hands for a moment while he yawns and rubs his fingertips into his eyes. It's Vedziyath who is exhausted and demanding sleep, and Kair's just fine where he is while she gets that sleep. That also means he's in control of his impulses for a little while. Maybe. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out yet. It's a pathetic sound but he'll swallow it down and try again, quietly this time. "It really is good to see you again, R'kyr. Even if it's just for this clutch." K'mine slowly pulls his hands from his eyes and once again, resting his elbows on his knees. His gaze doesn't leave the eggs. They really are a sight to see. "You haven't heard?" R'kyr replies, leaning back and turning to study Kair with those guard-impassive eyes of his. Yes, copface has returned, but it doesn't seem as openly, actively hostile as some of his responses from just earlier. His grey-green eyes are reserved, though, in a way unrelated. Despite all of his High Reaches regalia, well… "I was transferred back just before Jaehni went up. I'm in Parhelion now." The ill humor R'kyr holds for being part of that institution is well-versed in his… rather sordid past with Igen's guards, no doubt. It's always Alanis 'ironic' when a convict once a guard turns out to be a future guard as well, doesn't it? "You'll be seeing more of me." Kair watches the eggs: Ryker watches Kair. Who watches the watcher? Probably some creep four rows back tbh. As long as they don't hear any wet slapping sounds coming from four rows back, they should be safe. If they hear it any further than that, then it's par for the course until the guards show up. K'mine does blink in surprise at the news, and he chances a quick glances towards R'kyr's face before peering back at the eggs. "Welcome home," K'mine replies, fingers keeping themselves busy with the hems of his own sleeves. "I'll buy you a drink after she rises, that way we can both actually have a chance to enjoy it. No mushrooms for dinner this time. Promise." There will be steak, damnit. "If Doji is feeling better, then maybe she'll be able to join us. If duty allows us all, of course." There's a brief glance over, and it isn't concern that knits R'kyr's brow, he would disavow that, but out of all of that he only heard: "Is she okay?" regarding the part of the their trio not currently in present company. The lack of wet slapping noises means he doesn't have to put on his guard hat (it's still bizarre even to think!), and he ignores a) any niceties welcoming him home, b) any commentary about K'mine being proddy and c) ANYTHING involving mushrooms. R'kyr's face undergoes a fascinating change at the news that Doji is pregnant: there's a roil of incomprehension followed by a flash of some strong emotion before his face just shuts down again, back to copface. It seems to spur him on to stand. "Congratulations," he says, looking out at the eggs. "To both of you," he says, glancing down and over to K'mine, one brief look. "Dhazkyth tells me that Casla needs a fresh serving of icewater," some kind of caustic humor except without much humor — it almost has the flavor of an excuse, but surely conflict-heavy R'kyr would never recuse himself from anything! "If you'll excuse me." He tips his fingers in some kind of salute analog before turning and leaving; at least he was mannerful enough to not just… walk off! All K'mine can do is smile and nod, keeping his eyes on the eggs. R'kyr was never a bubbly girlfriend-type, and K'mine was always fine with that. The bronzerider's cadence with life has always been smooth and stable in his own opinion. The greenrider offers his departing friend a salute with a little less joking and a little more respect at his departure. He twists in his seat, watching the man leave until he can see him no more and he smiles, chuckling softly. "Welcome home, asshole. Welcome home." Welcome Home, Asshole has 1 comments. |
Hijinx in the galleries between an old pair of clutchmates who know eachother a little too well. Sophius is pulled from innocent bystander status in the mix. |
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Can YOU Turn Down A Naked Woman? Can YOU Turn Down A Naked Woman?
  "White with black and blue? They could all be considered neutral colors depending on which weaver you're talking to. And what shade of blue. Black, pink and blue would probably be a bit too much."  Public Baths Stout walls have been erected around several naturally formed pools, serving to provide a semblance of privacy and protection from the harsh wind and sand. Above the pools, well cleaned walkways criss-cross beneath tiled arches and descend with a stairway or two leading down to each pool to provide one means of slip-free access through the area. Surrounding the pools there are benches, receptacles to put used clothing and towels in, and areas to get sweetsand and towels from - if you didn't bring your own. It's been a somber affair for dragonriders around Pern, with High Reaches and Ista being hit with back-to-back disastrous falls over Nabol and Farmcrafthall — and then High Reaches signaling urgent aid late in the game the day after for a truly catastrophic fall over Tillek. As one of the dragonriders who flew both South Telgar in Igen's regular fall and then an extra shift over Tillek, it is a very tired Tzielle who drags her carcass into the baths in the late afternoon, bags already under her eyes. It's a very un-Tzielle moment as she drags on over to the hottest of all hottest pools, strips her firestone-smelly clothes and slips in with the barest wince. Life sucks sometimes. :( Meztillian might not be a rider, but he's certainly looking a bit worse for wear himself. That absolute shiner on his eye may have faded slightly but it's a long way from gone still and as he strips and slips into the pools a few more assorted markings from his bruise collection are visible. The hottest of the hot pools is where he heads as well, only acknowledgement for his fellow bathers is a brief mumble and a head nod as he slips all in. And then a SIIIIIIGH as he melts into that warm water. Tzielle dips her hair back into the hot water and draws herself upright, eyes cracking open to see… Meztillian of the black eye! "Oh," the greenrider says, involuntarily — quite despite herself. "That looks like it hurts," the once-Smith says with a full dose of sympathy, her face showing a similar measure. As her nearest partner in the hot water leaves, Tzielle sliiiides over into the larger empty space, already seeming rejuvenated by the healing heat of Igen's baths. It's the best part of the desert weyr, right? "I've been getting that a lot," Meztillian doesn't even need to crack his own eyes open to guess that the surprise was directed at him and he shrugs. "Doesn't hurt as much as it did when I got 'em and numbweed is a wonderful thing." Too bad some of those bruises on his back must be sharding awkward to try and reach on his own. As Tzielle slides over, he does finally crack and eye to keep a cautious eye on her. "Have we met? I'm Mezt." "What happened?" GIVE TZI ALL THE GOSSIP MEZT. "Oh I'm Tzi." Informal - they're naked, what does he want, a full lineage? The greenrider's voice is lilting with the tones of Igen Sea Hold, but at a quick clip that makes it occasionally difficult to sort her words. "Did you just," her wet hands lift to drip water onto the surface of the pool as she air quotes, "'Run into a door'?" A significant look. Mezt has rehabilitated Tzielle from her tiredness: she also wants to just make sure he's not a domestic abuse victim, okay? Meztillian coughs as the presumably rider (because what other bazaar woman is usually this brazen with a strange man?) begins an inquiry. "I said something I shouldn't have." He leaves it vague and very similar to the story he gave L'xan but at least he manages it without any of the uhhhs this time. Lying improvement! "No, that would have had to be a very violent door." His attempt at a peaceful soak looks like it's flying right out the window and so he'll start on with the scrubbing. Tzielle is probably pretty clueless regarding her (small) cleavage. She used to be really self-conscious about her body, being a girl in the Smithcraft, but… well… dragonriding will whup you out of any notions of modesty. "Like what? Was it something good?" (SORRY MEZT, Tzi is all up in your business.) Meztillian would also be clueless about Tzielle's cleavage since he's very much not looking at it or at her at all. He's looking at his elbow as he scrubs it. Between the heat of the water and the topic of conversation, the lad is already turning pretty pink. "I thought it was. He and his friends disagreed." So undisclosed multiple people versus poor ol' Mezt on his lonesome. TOTALLY UNFAIR! It's very sad that Meztillian isn't interested in Tzielle's cleavage, speaking of, because can you imagine the kids they'd have? Holy shit. But procreation isn't the name of the game here, gossip is; and the greenrider's focused on the trader's words, clueless that he might be pink from the conversation and not from the steam. "You got into a fight with a bunch of people and lived? Was it in the bazaar?" Tzi's not even trying to seem like she's scrubbing, instead gazing at Meztillian as if attempting to judge if he's being serious or just joshing with her. Those strictly theoretical children would have such jaw line and cheekbones it would truly be amazing. But that's not even a thought entering Meztillian's head as he continues to be grilled. "Yeah, I was taking a leak behind the Cantina. And I don't think they were intending to be lethal…" He certainly hopes they hadn't been, but seeing as they most had beltknives they could have brought out and didn't, he was probably safe enough. Put it on the bucket list. Stranger things have happened. Tzi's face screws up when Meztillian talks about taking a leak behind the cantina, but she doesn't remark on it. "So what did you say?" She seems to recollect that there's soapsand here and things to do, so she absently grabs a handful and starts to haphazardly soap up an opposing shoulder. "I mean… it must have been something pretty awesome. To get punched in the face. Right?" As almost flippant and quickly ready as his last answers have been, MEztillian is suddenly hesitant on this, taking a moment to rub his hand along his jaw as he ponders. "Well…. I don't quite remember it all since I was quite a few drinks in at the time… Something about his eyes and that he had the most gorgeous head of hair I had ever seen." And seeing how even wet, the trader's own mane is still rather impressive, that is saying something. "He wasn't as… receptive to the compliment as I thought he'd be." He took a swing and got a big ol' miss. "Oh," Tzielle says, taken aback only a moment: "Oh," in dawning understanding. It isn't as though she doesn't have her fair share of dragonmates with ye olde dragonrider's disease, as they call it. "Well, why would you flirt with some oaf out in the bazaar anyhow? I have this friend," she warms to her topic, "Who has real nice hair and would probably like yours too," she critically assesses Meztillian's even-while-wet and then flashes a brilliant smile. "You might know him. Big tall guy. I'dre?" AHAHAHAHAHAhahahahem Tzielle is going to hell. "I normally know better!" Meztillian squirms and crosses his arms as if that will save him from judgement. "I was drinking and he kept laughing at my jokes and kept moving closer and I thought…" He stops and shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Why I normally stick to riders anyways." The last is said in a mumble. The mention of a friend gets his cautious attention again, although there is a hint of a smile at the mention of I'dre. "I think I know the one you're talking about. Bluerider, yeah? I've tried to get my hands on that hair before…" But alas, Mezt's luck in love has been poor indeed lately. "Bluerider. REALLY tall," Tzielle enthuses, and then falls back, all of one-shoulder scrubbed and sighing. "He's very pretty." Her voice is unabashedly wistful, as if speaking of the finest candies in the Auvergne cafe - or those delicious macarons, even more expensive than their crepes - something sweet that she will never afford to taste. "So you stick to the riders, eh?" Her smile returns, focused on Mezt with a bit of a bright tease to it. Kiiyith thinks to you, « I bespoke Meztillian with « You sense: Perhaps you are having a stroke, Meztillian, for a bright light flashes far across the boiling steam of the Baths: a BRIGHT light. It's pink. IT'S PINK. Tnce tnce tnce … is that a base beat? You might have a headache. Or a stroke. Or maybe the heat's getting to you, but there's a little neon bunny hopping along the angular skinny line of Tzielle's nearest shoulder. It's staring at you, too, as if weighing every one of your thoughts. No big deal. » » Meztillian nods along as Tzielle paints the picture. "I think he's the same one I'm thinking of." Tall, pretty blueriders with hair to dream of aren't so common after all. And he has his own sigh as well before he continues to scrub and gives another shrug. "I try to. But since I'm a trader and don't really stick around much myself, it can be a bit challenging to coordinate anything." His face wrinkles suddenly and he tries to bat at something in front of his face before shaking his head and back to bathing. "Huh," Tzielle says, sounding rather distracted all of a sudden. Her gaze, unfocused, bobs right over Meztillian's farthest shoulder, and she comes back to herself when he seemingly bats at something in front of his face. "Vtols in here?" she asks, on alert as she squints around. "Shouldn't be vtols in here this time of year," she says, more to herself than to him. (That happy pink bunny isn't going ANYWHERE. It keeps going and going and going…) "It's nothing," Meztillian doesn't seem entirely convinced of that himself, but he doesn't start batting at anything again. "You'd be surprised where vtols could get but normally there'd need to be an awful lot of food lying around…" And since the baths are thankfully not a dumping ground for forgotten snacks, it's pretty barren aside from towels and the discarded clothes of current bathers. "Uhh." Tzielle half-sways in the water and then affixes her attention very specifically upon Mezt. "Hey. Do you think white goes well with black and blue?" Her hazel eyes search his face openly, as if really needing this answer. "Or is pink better?" she seems FORCED to ask. Meztillian is going to take that as a COMPLETELY NORMAL AND STRAIGHT FORWARD QUESTION. "White with black and blue? They could all be considered neutral colors depending on which weaver you're talking to. And what shade of blue. Black, pink and blue would probably be a bit too much." Look, Mezt normally prefers his hair to get all the attention and not his clothes so he keeps the rest pretty low key. "Uhmn… I think it's kind of a…" Tzielle turns her head to a side, tilted thoughtfully as she assesses Meztillian's face. "Kind of a bruisey purple?" she hazards. "Maybe uh… royal blue? Is that a thing?" A different vibrant girl of Meztillian's acquaintance would have been way quicker to name a precise hue. "But white works better, I'm guessing. Yeah?" Her eyes snap back to normal, her face momentarily angelic. "Yeah, white works best," Meztillian is pretty decisive in that even if he still hasn't quite keyed in on what this is all about. "And royal blue is a thing, but normally that's more of a purple. Deeper than the healers. Made of some sort of crushed trundlebugs I think…" "Oh great. Then you'll do it." Tzielle's voice is bright and brilliant and relieved! "White for you! You can go report yourself to Cremla. You know Cremla, right? The headwoman? Tell her I sent you." She picks up another fistful of soapsand and finally starts on the other shoulder, while the neon bunny sits and stares at Meztillian with a gimlet stare. It takes a moment and you can probably almost see the gears whirling away before he lets out a loud ooooh. "Wait, you're serious? Be a candidate?" Because if not, that would be a real awkward conversation to have with the headwoman with his black eye. And seeing as he's pretty sure candidates need to be mentally sound even if some riders he knows might not be, he'll wisely not acknowledge the phantom staring bunny. OH GREAT HE GETS IT! "Oh you're a smart one," Tzielle approves. "Very quick. I tried that one on someone last cycle and I think they were in the candidate barracks for like… I don't know. Three weeks maybe? Before they even realize they were really a candidate and it wasn't just a joke." But she grows serious, sitting more upright. "Yeah, that bunny on my shoulder is Kiiyith. She's kind of fucked up sometimes," she says as an aside, "I think she's spending too much time around Vedziyath these days. But she does think you'd be a good candidate, if you really do want to Stand." How about it, Mezt? Can you really turn a naked woman down?! Strangely, Tzielle might not be the first naked woman, but her current offer is one that he cannot refuse. "I'll find Cremla right after I finish this… and maybe see if I can do something about the eye…" Making friends with bazaar girls can come in handy sometimes and a bit of cosmetic knowledge is one of the perks. He tilts his head at the idea of the last candidate. "He never took a moment to look around and see what everybody had in common?" Assessing crowds is normally one of the trader's skills after all. Except apparently after six or more drinks. "So I wasn't seeing things?" He's still a bit confused about the bunny. "Good," Tzielle says, satisfied with the trader's answer. "Cremla won't care about the eye, really. She's seen far worse." Or so Diem is frequent to say.. or so Tzielle hears, not typically being in such lofty heights normally. "No, I think he thought it was a joke," she says, of the dumb candidate from last cycle, thoughtfully. "But he impressed a brown," she finishes with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. "And no. It was Kiiyith. She says hi by-the-way. She's outside." Creeping. Like a badass hunter… or show-hunter, whatever. But first impressions! Nevertheless, Meztillian acquiesces with a nod and his scrubbing picks up the pace. Maybe he's trying to speed clean himself so Tzielle doesn't get a chance to change her mind. "Tell her hello for me. And thank you." And once he's sure he's actually clean, he's not going to linger. Into fresh clothes and off he goes and surely to face even extra long lecture on the importance of the no fighting rule. And when he scrambles past Kiiyith, the BRIGHT green shoves her nose down to say high, to inspect to make sure his hair is as perfect as she saw through Tzielle's eyes, and to approve his further walk toward the caverns. YEAH BABY. That one's HERS. Can YOU Turn Down A Naked Woman? has 0 comments. |
Tzielle and Meztillian go to wash off, and Tzielle gets all up into Meztillian's business. (Someday they're going to have a baby with EVERY T and EVERY Z and EVERY I and every beautiful cheekbones ever! well uh… …. …. maybe.) |
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Bone-Cheating Quacks?! Bone-Cheating Quacks?!
   That… is not fair. Akhiqar loses a bit of color. She's threatening him with the bone-cheating quacks?? What kind of choice is this. Central Bazaar All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars. Sunset paints a masterpieace across a spring sky, clouds laden with peach-purple limning like fresh bruises on otherwise healthy flesh. As Rukbat slides past the horizon, her light sprays outward and touches all but would linger in shadow. Closing time, then, and the shops recognize it as the calls for final sales are flung into the air from desparate merchants. Akhiqar — a messenger by face, now — winds and weaves his way through the crowds, eyes intent upon a blood-red canopy'd stall, jaw set. Anger flints cold, striking blue eyes and that anger seems to be directed towards a stout little man with more hair on his arms than his head. "Silreji, you old fool," he loses his temper early, drawing the eyes of onlookers. The assistant bazaarmaster of Igen would never do anything so gauche as stalk, but her movement down the main aisle of the bazaar's stalls is a little too deliberate and a little too fast to be anything but. Iaela's in her most striking red dress, something between crimson and maroon, terribly deep — like blood spilled at dusk. Does her heading point her DIRECTLY toward where Akhiqar aggresses against a bald old man? Well. It does rather appear that way. Jeneeva is looking about the stalls as she adjusts a new headscarf about her honeycolored hair, wiping a bit of sweat from her brow as she finally gets it secured in place. "It's so hot," she mutters as she looks around the bazaar, her small lap harp in it's case and bouncing against her hip as she walks. Then she hears the angry voice. She pauses a moment, unsure of whether she should get involved. She tugs uncertainly at the hem of her Harper blue sundress as she takes a deep breath and moves toward Akhiqar. Harpers are supposed to mediate afterall, even if it's not realy her area of expertise. "You sent me there knowing," Akhiqar's voice contains barely leashed violence, "knowing what the response would be." With a savagery that keeps him from noticing either Iaela's stalking or Jeneeva's loitering, he yanks down the sleeve of his arm exposing the mouth of an angry wound, crusted with blood. "You and yours have harmed the last messenger if I've anything to say about it." His voice is a mix of some place beyond stained with the Igen influence of his two or so turns within Igen proper. "The bazaarmaster will get a report." Seething, he cuts his eyes away, landing first on Jeneeva before skating over her to Iaela and then back to the stout merchant, who's fish-mouth gape is almost humorous. "Or," the anger bleeds away, "Maybe you cooked your own sausage." "Silreji," Iaela's silken voice lifts, sweet and soft and viperous: "How fortuitous to find you here." The red-garbed woman pauses in the street, standing to her full height: she towers over the poor little man, all things said and done. "Harper," she beckons to Jeneeva — they'll make a nicely striking pair against one another, dark hair and light, red-wine and Harper-blue dresses — "Please witness what I have to say here, if you would be so kind." It's less a request and more something she expects, all told; there comes a certain power with her knot, or with the grace given by the man who bequeathes her with power here in the center of his own. Her eyes lift to Akhi inquisitively, with the experience of long acquaintance; "Are you well, Akhiqar?" Jeneeva looks at the angry wound on Akhiqar's arm as she listens to him rage and steps ever closer. She bows her head ever so slightly to Iaela, "I would be happy to assist in any way I can of course, Jr. Journeyman Jeneeva at your service," she offers as she stands beside the other woman; blue against red, light against dark, and a shy reservedness against the other woman's obvious confidence. "I'll live. Won't even scar," Akhiqar affirms with a bob of his head, taking a step back at the same time he tugs his sleeve down. The blood is crusty against the wound, the skin ragged, but the unsightlyness of it is quick to disappear behind stained linen. Silreji glowers, his dark brows drawing down as dark eyes turn stormy on Iaela. Jeneeva gives him a moment's pause — a harper lends such… weyr to the moment. "You got somethin' t'say, y'say it quick." The squat little man spits off to the side, narrowly missing Jeneeva's shoes. "I gotta shop to close and waiting cus't'mers." "Fuck," Iaela says, despite herself, upper lip curling at the sight of crusty blood against linen: "Get it bandaged," she directs to Akhi, concern and command commingled in her contralto. Her attention turns back to Silreji and she smiles a thin little thing, ample lips hardly turned up at the corners. "By Harper's witness," she smiles something faintly more genuine to Jeneeva in a brief aside, "I'm glad that you are ready to close up shop. I'll need your space by two marks after dawn tomorrow, and the bazaar will be happy to seize any remnant property as common property should you leave anything behind." Her smile holds. It's unpleasant for the little man, undoubtedly, for the Rivern — for the woman — to hold such pull. "It is good that you'll live," the young Harper states with a smile as she looks over Silreji, her heart racing as she attempts not to show the uncerttainty that she's feeling. Managing to keep her expression somewhat impassive as he spits near her shoe "Were you worse off than this man may find himself ina more… uncomfortable position I'd think." She turns to smile at the other woman nods, "I stand as witness, and see it done." Then with another deep calming breath and a glance at Silreji she adds, "Perhaps you should be more forthright and less rude in whatever future business you are forunate enough to find." "You can't do that~!" the stout man sputters, the skin of his neck flushing from the rush of rage and blood up the veins of his neck, cording the tendons and causing the blood to push against the surface of his temples. "The bazaarmaster will hear about this! You didn't even hear my side of the story!" A wheezing whine enters the man's voice, bringing the rumbling baritone up into a sound unbefitting the size of his girth, or the depth of his rage. He looks like a child in the throws of a tantrum. Akhiqar's eyes narrow, though his muttered, "Thanks," comes with a quick flash of exhausted smile at the harper before his attention turns back to Silreji. "What story? About how you ordered a fake messenger and tried to shake him down for the marks of his other clients? Or about how your goons followed him and tried to get him killed by trying to push him off the edge into the midden heap?" Incredulity limns the still-boy-almost-man's tone as he shakes his head. "Your men were incompetant and didn't finish the job." "Be quick about it," Iaela says, seemingly unconcerned by the tantrum-throwing Silreji. "Or don't. I could use a new chair for my office." Her eyes drop to the chair behind him, one quite well-padded. Her nose wrinkles. "Maybe not that one, though. It would be such a task to clean it adequately." She turns her back on the squat merchant, apparently trusting in Akhiqar's physical prowress to allow the spill of her hair and the narrow v of her back to show to the tantruming man — the better to observe Jeneeva. "I'm so sorry for the abruptness, but thank you, Harper. I'm Iaela of the Igen Bazaar, Ceapan-bazaarmaster's assistant. Are you new to the boundaries of the bazaar?" with a lilting upward smile. Jeneeva looks over Silreji and then down to her slipper pointedly, "I am only here to witness, I pass no judgment other on your lack of manners. Should the Bazaarmaster with my testimony I shall happily provide it, but it would sem to me that the matter has been settled for now. Be thankful that you were not judged having to pay out damages to this man. It would seem that he would have the right to ask for such judgement, based on his story." Shaking hands aare clasps behind her as she attempts to hkeep her breathing calm and her voice steady. She turns her attention over to Iaela once again and smiles somewhat nervously. "You are most welcome, I am happy to witness, though I'm afraid I'm not much more use than that. My skills lay in composition, not diplomacy or mediation. It's a pleasure to meet you Iaela, please call me Jeneeva. I only arrived here from the Hall a few days ago, and this bazaar is so… vast." She casts an uncertain glance around her as she starts to breathe easily once more. Silreji fishmouths for a moment more before turning and yelling towards the crowd gathering at his stall. If he isn't careful, he'll give himself an apoplexy, but that's not Akhi's problem. He does keep a wary eye on the stout little man, though the merchant has ceased to pose a threat and so his attention shifts back to the two women just in time to hear how vast the bazaar is. "Big enough to get lost in," he comments, absently rubbing the fabric of the sleeve covering the wound. "Thanks, Iaela," he delivers the words with weight before turning to Jeneeva. "Name's Akhiqar, or Akhi, whichever." The rage has melted away with the problem solved and his good hand is given for a shake, though the fingers are grubby with the grime and grit of the bazaar. "Messenger for the bazaar," that 'master' is left in the middle ground of unspoken is plain given the obvious connection to Iaela. Iaela looks over Akhi's elbow to where Silreji still rages, and turns her attention back to Jeneeva. "Well, Jeneeva, please do feel welcome in Igen's bazaar. We have lovely crafter abodes that you will probably call home… but I fear I might yet still need to call upon your skills." She walks away from Silreji, beckoning Akhi to join them with a slight, half-smile up at the messenger that's far less formal than what her earlier pomp would have allowed. A show… or something on show for someone else. "I get the feeling," she says to Jeneeva, gesturing to Akhiqar, "That we might need to get our fearless Akhiqar away from the grasps where some jilted stall trader might try to wreak revenge against him. What is Harper's thoughts?" She glances, once, significantly, toward the weyr proper. Jeneeva reaches out to take Akhiqar's hand in one of her more delicate ones and give it a good shake. "It's nice to meet you Akhiqar, I hope that your work isn't always so dangerous. She turns her azure gaze toward the assistant bazaarmaster and offers a somewhat nervous smile. "I am already settled in at the crafters quarters, I'm just not used to it yet. A sevenday ago I was still in the dormitories with the other apprentices. I will be more than happy to lend you my skills should you need them though, such as they are. Perhaps a song about an ill-mannered merchant to travel the bazaar?" She giggles at her own joke before nodding in agreement. "I think that would be a good idea, perhaps he should see a healer as well." The grip of his hand is warm and rough, and doesn't linger. "Nice to meet you too, harper. Eh, it is what it is. The bazaar life isn't without peril." Yet his tone suggests that it is… not something he's unused to either. To Iaela, a shared look is given as brows dance upward. "I'm fine, I'm fine," Akhiqar protests raising up his hands, palm outward, in a universal gesture. "Just a little scratch. Nothing that little shit hasn't tried before." Which he shouldn't say, but Akhiqar is a pro at keeping the secrets he wants and not the ones he doesn't. "Wait. No. No healer." Halt. Dead. Stop. Do not pass go. "Healers are how people die and lose limbs." Of all of his refugee'isms, Akhi balks at anything to do with the Crazed Ones that attack with their needles and ointments. Shudder. Faranth forbid! Iaela scowls upward at Akhiqar at the sense of the lad being intractable, and reaches into her pockets — yes, of course her dress has pockets, she's not uncivilized — and pulls out something tangled and white. "You think you're safe, but I don't, and Diem told Ceapan if we didn't find five candidates for this upcoming cycle that she wouldn't buy another purple scarf, and it's not to do to piss off the senior queenrider, now is it? So you can go to the healers," Bone-cheating quacks that they are, "Or you can go be a candidate at the weyr for a little while." The white knot is extended with a glint in her eye. "Will you please tell him that I mean it?" she requests verbal backup from Jeneeva, because Iaela is wholly about getting accord from well-placed women. AKHI CAN'T SAY NO IF THEY BOTH TELL HIM TO DO IT. Jeneeva watches the exchange between the two uncertainly. "I don't really much like going to see the Healers either, they have all those pokye uncomfortable things, but you really should, and it would be best for you to get out of here for a while I should think." And then the white know is offered and she smiles at him before giving a sideways wink toward Iaela. "Well there is another option though it would seem. And something else for me to witness as well. I think you should listen to her Akhiqar, I won't insist on taking you to the Healer that way and save us both the discomfort." She gives him a slightly pouty look, her eyelashes batting ever-so-innocently. "You don't want me uncomfortable do you?" Nevermind the fact that she's been uncomfortable most of the time since arriving. That… is not fair. Akhiqar loses a bit of color. She's threatening him with the bone-cheating quacks?? What kind of choice is this. "You got my ba~" a quick glance at Jeneeva and he swallows the rest of his words. The muscle in the side of his jaw flexes and his eyes narrow, but he snatches the white knot up. "I won't go near them chancers and cheats," he vows, but the white threads are crushed a little. "Don't fill my spot, then, kay? I don't wanna come back and have no job." A hint of fear etches the sharp planes of his face, something vast and deep sliding beneath that simple statement. A refugee's uncertainty made manifest. Pulling away from the moment, he turns to Jeneeva and tips his head. "Uh." A moment's calculation and he goes with his gut — always his gut. "I don't know." And in that, Akhiqar will always fall towards truth, even if it makes a situation worse. "Sorry?" It's a dingleberry on a pie that might make things better given the almost comical shrug of chagrin he tries on for size. If Iaela truly had Akhiqar by the balls, it would be a much more pleasant experience for all involved. Maybe even Jeneeva. If there was enough wine involved. But for now, Iaela rather enjoys the leverage point, her carmine-clad lips parting in a smile just for Akhi and his valid pointing-out that it's not FAIR. "I'll always have a job for you, Akhiqar," the assistant bazaarmaster says with as close to fondness as she ever gets: he's very efficient, after all, and she's nothing if not beloved to expediency. "The sun will always shine on you upon my decks," she invokes, the color of her Rivern heritage showing in her form of oath. It's said lightly, but not without genuine nature behind it. "My dear Harper," she says, taking it upon herself to link elbows with the girl in the blue dress, "You're giving our fair Akhi quite the floundering. I don't know if he's ever made a girl uncomfortable in his life." Her smile is bright and joking for the messenger CANDIDATE. "You'll be sure to tell Cremla that the bazaar sent you?" she pauses to ascertain. Akhiqar needs to go against her quota, after all~~~ the knot is taken and the Harper smiles at seeing someone else nervous and awkward for a change. Apparently she was completely oblivious to the fact that she just may have possibly been flirting, but then she doesn't get out much. "Apology accepted, though I'm not quite sure what you're apologizing for since we both avoided a trip to the healers. But it would seem that everything has been properly witnessed, congratulations Candidate. I'm sure you'll do the bazaar proud out there on the sands." She turns back to the assistant bazaarmaster and shrugs. "I'm afraid it doesn't take much to make me uncomfortable, especially in a new place, but I'm sure I'll get used to things here soon." "I am from the bazaar," Akhiqar states, the words rising to meet the Rivern statement to firm up the idea behind his identity. A refugee who's home has become this place of disaster and danger, of beauty and wildness. He shakes his head, but doesn't comment. Anything else he says will get tangled up in the way women like to tangle up words. "Best if I get going now," because escape is the name of the game, now. "Iaela will see you safe from the bazaar and trust me when I say, no one will mess with ya with her blade at your side." And with that, the messenger boy is off. To outrace them chancers and cheats in the shapes of healers, likely. And to give himself up to Cremla as a Candidate of the bazaar. The meaning behind it will not sink in until long after his life has changed once again. "Well, come with me," Iaela drawls, "And I'll give you the lay of the land." To Jeneeva, who she apparently intends to draw through the bazaar and show the sights. Her lingering look back to Akhiqar is thoughtful, but she doesn't call after him, instead turning her own attention to the future before her, one dusty step at a time. Bone-Cheating Quacks?! has 0 comments. |
A ruckus happens in the bazaar that changes the direction of Akhiqar's life. |
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Dammit.
 Dammit.  Dragonhealer Yard Painfully elegant, a stubborn brand of cleanliness is retained in the gentle colors of faded murals and various curtains hung from the rusted metal poles meant to shelter injured dragons on spacious couches lining the permanently soot-stained limestone walls. Of a dusty no-color somewhere between brown and gold, the floor extends onward, fading beneath ragged cabinets built to withstand anything from lashing draconic tails to various medicinal spills. For once, Kevashi isn't over everyone's head. Maybe in over his - but he's on the ground. Kneeling, in fact, next to a slim blue dragon as he helps hold a small, deep gash on her foot closed, his hands stained green by ichor. A dragonhealer stands over him, carefully stitching the gash closed. "You're lucky it's such a clean cut," the healer was saying to the dragon as he stitched. "The bone was sharp enough to slice cleanly through the hide rather than tear, so it'll sew up nice and tight. Watch your hands, boy," she added, and Vash shifted his grip down the cut, looking less disgusted than might be expected at the whole procedure. It's no question that K'vre comes here as if on a mission, ducking through the heavy curtain between the infirmary and the dragonhealer's enclave as if he's here to do business. Grey-blue eyes sweep the dragonhealer's area and only once they land on Kevashi and his overseer does the weyrleader move, his steps again heading with purpose toward the the pair. He limits himself at the fringes, evidently unwilling to interrupt the very practical exercise in healing… and perhaps interested in watching Vash's competence as an apprentice in such things. Pulling his hands away at a curt order from the healer, Vash stares at his glistening green hands with a wrinkled nose, reaching out to pluck up one of the cloths used to clean the wound before it had been ready for stitching and scrub his hands relatively clean. Once the healer is finished stitching, he leans in to cut the waxed thread short and takes the needle gingerly when it's offered, dropping it in a bowl for disinfecting. "Alright. A bit of numbweed and you'll be ready," the healer said, gesturing for Vash to use the paddle to spread the numbweed over the cut. "Next time you eat, check the ground for remains before you step, hey? Clean this up," she adds to the assistant, with a grudging nod of approval before striding off. Sighing, Kevashi begins gathering up the used supplies. There is a certain amount of approval to K'vre's mien throughout the entire course of it, waiting until the dragonhealer's departed to step up. There's a murmured word for the blue, K'vre replacing where the woman stood with his hands tucked into his pocket. "Hey, kiddo," he says, glancing down at the green hands and the freshly-stitched wound below. "Having fun yet?" "Oodles. Is that a word? It is now. Oodles." Kevashi seems to have picked up a bit of snark somewhere along the way. Or maybe it was always there and he just never had a reason to let it off its leash in his father's hearing. Still, as he gathers up wads of bandages and used cloths and shoves them in buckets, he sends the brownrider a bright grin. "Nah, really, I am. It's really interesting how much like treating a human it is to heal a dragon, and yet there's some real differences. And at least green is prettier than red," he adds, with a sighing glance at the ichor-smeared rock at his feet. "Everything okay with Rhovvth?" Why else would the Weyrleader be haunting the Dragonhealers' Yard? The blue lifts his paw, studying the stitches, then blows a warm breath over brownrider and boy and limps off to rest somewhere more comfortable. "Oodles," K'vre tries it out. "I think my father dressed a girl down once for using it. Said it was too imprecise a piece of language." Kevashi would have probably hated his grandsire — it's fortunate that the old bastard's not around. "Rhovvth's fine, thank you. We're all a bit… dismayed," he gestures with a finger twirling 'round: all the catastrophic falls of Northern Pern, and paired with a heavy normal 'fall of Igen as well. "They say High Reaches lost the better part of an entire wing." His face goes dark for a moment, quietly pained. Kevashi snorts softly. "I think it's quite precise. Obviously, more than a little, less than a lot. Or maybe more than a lot, I suppose it depends on the context." Wiping his hands clean once more on the last cloth, he tosses it in the brimming bucket and studies the area for any more discarded supplies. Mention of the falls and the 'Reaches loss sobers the young man and he scuffs a foot in the dust. "I heard some of the dragonhealers discussing it," he murmurs. "It didn't sound… very good." More precise language from the would-be dragonhealer. "I haven't helped with score yet, but I'm warned it's coming." "I would have paid to see that argument, I think," K'vre comments reflectively, before shaking his head as if to clear it from that line of thought. His ghosts can haunt him some other day, but not today. "That's why it's so important. What you're doing here," he gestures toward the blue, "The weyrlingmasters and the fresh weyrlings in the barracks… the eggs on the Sands." His gaze sharpens at the last one, focusing on Kevashi's face. No intensity there, not at all~~~ "Wait, I could get paid to argue? Why didn't anyone ever tell me this?" Irrepressible, that's the word of the day. Also, precise. Then, back on the real topic: "Sure feels important." He toes at the bucket, with its stained cloths fountaining out of the mouth, lips quirking. "But I know what you mean," he adds, to forestall any arguments or I-told-you-so's from his father. "I think most of them have finally accepted that I might know a little bit about healing, and I didn't just get the job 'cause you're my dad. Well. Just because." Mention of the eggs gets a covert side-long peek from dark eyes, one eyebrow winging up inquiringly. What? More nepotism? Yes, please. "Yes," K'vre concisely replies to Kevashi: "They call them Harpers and they can be fucking obnoxious." He's not one to use invectives or expletives lightly, so combined together… well, the weyrleader's probably thinking about the Masterharper and arguing. "You're not allowed to apprentice to them. Your mother would kill us both." In case Kevashi is thinking about a career change! In fact: "Though if you're thinking that being a dragonhealer's assistant might not be what you want to be for the rest of your life, I might have something for you…" Kevashi's teeth flash in a grin. "Don't worry, even I'm not masochistic enough to consider Harper as a career. I don't think I'd have to wait for mom to kill me - I'd probably die from boredom of listening to them talk about themselves." Someone's been assigned to the harper tent during a Gather or two in his time. K'vre's oh-so-unsubtle suggestion earns a smirk from his son, and Vash shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels as he turns to face his father fully. "I dunno, I just got the badge. They might think me fickle." "Talk," K'vre agrees, "And argue." The weyrleader shifts, rocking back on his heels to mirror his son's pose, his hands still in his pockets. The genetic lineage here is strong. "Oh, well, if you're so pointed at being a dragonhealer's assistant, I'm happy to just leave you be," half-laughing his tone: he lifts a hand from one pocket, an old tangle of something white showing between his fingers. "I'll just find a different owner for this, then." An eyebrow lifts. In challenge. Yoink. Quick fingers, quick hands, and Kevashi's snatching at that knot before his father can pull it away. Time to see who's faster - dad or boy. "Gimme," he laughs. "It'll make up for the disappointment of not being asked to Stand for your clutch," he adds, pointedly reminding the brownrider that his own dragon's hatchlings have wandered off with their new lifemates and Vash himself was not among the potentials on the Sands. "I want to be out there." K'vre doesn't give it up quickly, lifting his hand a bit — not enough to get completely out of Vash's environment, but enough to not give the knot up immediately. "This is a big commitment. I think you're ready, if you are. The reports I've heard have been very favorable." His expression is suddenly serious. "But dragonriding can kill you. I need you to know that before you take this." His hand then loosens: enough for Kevashi to take full possession of said knot, should that be what the boy really wants, with the full bald statement of dragonriding's lethality before him. Silent for a moment after he takes possession of the knot, Kevashi draws the cording through his fingers, studying his father thoughtfully. "Just because I haven't treated score doesn't mean I don't understand what it is - what it does," the boy finally replies, his voice devoid of his earlier laughter. "You don't spend the first half of your life at a healer's beck and call without understanding some of the dangers out there - and you don't grow up a rider's kid, even if he doesn't know you exist, without making an effort to learn what it's all about." He drops his gaze to the white tangle in his hand. "But I could have a partner out there. That's a duty - a chance - I won't give up on." "Good," K'vre says, very softly, at the end of Kevashi's words. "You are a son of mine." It's spoken almost more reflectively than anything, as if there may have been question up to this very moment — a question of spirit rather than genetics, perhaps, as if that intangible element was yet at question. "Fine, then. Sign out with your lady dragonhealer and let us walk you down to the barracks. Cremla will be overjoyed to have you," his smile faintly returns, "To delegate watching over the incoming holder-kids who don't know the middens from the baths." "Yeah, but do you trust me to steer them right?" Kevashi asked, with a flicker of an impish grin. Knot clenched tight in his hand, he backs up a step before shooting a salute at his father - probably the first he's ever actually granted the Weyrleader - before plucking up the bucket of soiled supplies and dashing off to find his boss-of-the-moment. His return is nearly as quick, his expression just a bit disgruntled. "She said that you really should make up your mind about where you want to dump your kids. Then she reminded me that she's still going to work my tail off, Candidate or no." He flashed another of those irrepressible grins. "I think I'm growing on her." "Of course," K'vre says, long-suffering smile shot off in half-apology to the corner where the dragonhealer is: Casla's rubbing off on him with there being any apology to the look whatsoever! "Well. Come on, now. You can grow on her later, after you've had a proper haircut and claiming a cot before all the good ones are gone." The brownrider turns, waits for his son, and falls into step to lead the way to the candidate barracks… and Kevashi's future beyond. Wait. HAIRCUT? "My hair is fine!" Kevashi has a vanity, and it's apparently those loose curls currently caught up in a short tail curling down the nape of his neck. As K'vre walks off, the newly minted Candidate is left staring after him - then he yelps and dashes to catch up. "You just mean a trim, right?" Right? "… sure." #shiftyeye Damnit. Dammit. has 0 comments. |
K'vre has a very special question for Kevashi. |
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Present Plans and Ponderings of the Past Present Plans and Ponderings of the Past
 "I find that…even when matters are pressing, if you can find just a few moments to spare for the things you love, it makes everything so much more tolerable."  The Treble Clef This is a place of idyll repose, a place of music, a place of soul: no liquor finds the tables of this endeavor, nor does darts nor dragonpoker. This is a place for the Harper's soul to rest, with hearty fare served to a degree of sophistication higher than the kitchens in the weyr proper, if for a price… but the draw of it is no doubt the open platform front-and-center, where a bar would likely stand. The Treble Clef does not deal in alcohol, but it does promote the artistry of amateurs and Harpers alike in the well-outfit stage for those to entertain those who stop to sup within these gently-outfitted walls. The Treble Clef is relatively quiet today, at least as far as the customers are concerned: there are a number of empty tables. In terms of sound, it's rather less so, as a pair of harper apprentices are performing. The soprano has quite a powerful voice, and she's tackling a lively number which apparently requires to be rendered fortissimo by both the singer and the accompanying guitarist. She's doing quite a good job with the complicated runs and trills. There was a time when R'zel was a frequent visitor here, and a frequent performer as well. Those days are past: in fact, he's greeted with some surprise by the staff when he enters and orders lunch. While it's being served, he takes a glass of juice over to one of the tables with a good view of the small platform that serves as a stage, and he's soon rapt, apparently giving his full attention to the music. Amani has never been a frequent patron of the Treble Clef, so it's usually a surprise when she decides to drop by. After a morning of hidework and chatting with various people both on and off the Sands, she makes her escape with the desire to hear something other than just talk while eating her lunch. So, the Treble Clef it is! She enters the room with a sigh, noting the volume of the music but not caring too much. It's different, and that suits her fine right now. A quick glance around finds her gaze landing on R'zel, which garners a lift of brows and a smile. "Mind some company, Weyrleader?" she asks when she's near, trying not to interrupt too much. She can see that he's listening…but she'll never get permission otherwise, of course! R'zel immediately turns towards Amani, getting to his feet with a smile. "Of course, Weyrwoman!" He pulls out a chair for her. "I didn't know you came in here. This is the first time I've managed to get in in since I became Weyrleader, though I do like to come when I can." His voice is kept low, out of instinctive respect for the performance, though this isn't a concert, as such, and it's considered quite all right to talk. "May I get you anything?" He hasn't called in at the Sands yet today, though Verokanth is there at the moment, in quiet attendance. Amani can't help giving R'zel a bit of a lopsided smile as he goes about pulling out a chair for her, sitting down and settling and lifting a hand to get a server's attention. "I don't come much. I just…needed the music today," she tells him. "Zymuraith is asleep, so I thought I'd get away for lunch. You don't have to get me anything; it's alright." She's planning on a whole meal, after all. "I'm not surprised you'd come here, all things considered. And I'm sorry taking on the knot has kind of limited that…" She has a bit of a resigned expression for him at that, knowing full well how much responsibilities can impinge on free time. Such is their lot! "I find the atmosphere here more pleasant than the Kitten, and it's a break, a change, from the Living Cavern." R'zel resumes his seat as he speaks, continuing lightly, "Besides, I play here myself, from time to time. Or I did." Apparently that's something else he won't be doing now he's Weyrleader. "Verokanth was heading for the Sands after I left him: I think he's just installed himself on guard in the entrance. Are you a music lover, then?" The server arrives, ready to wait on Amani, and he falls silent to let the Weyrwoman place her order. "At the moment, I definitely agree," Amani says of the atmosphere, and smiles up at the arriving server. She's in the mood for stew and a sandwich and tea, so puts in an order for just that and, once the server departs, turns her attention back to R'zel. "I have an appreciation for it. You tried to help me learn to read it once, remember?" she points out with a little grin. She won't blame him if he doesn't; it has been some Turns. "Even if you can't make it back to playing here, I hope you at least do for yourself. I find that…even when matters are pressing, if you can find just a few moments to spare for the things you love, it makes everything so much more tolerable." "Oh, yes, I remember!" At least, R'zel remembers now he's been reminded! "Did you ever get anywhere with that?" He can't help glancing back towards the platform as the soprano reaches the climax of her solo, and gives an appreciative nod. "She's got a good voice, and good technique, too. That's a tricky piece." Smiling at Amani, he concedes, "You're right; I need to make a point of it. Otherwise the time just slips by. I do try to practise every night, but I've not always been managing it, recently." He pauses to give a quick clap as the girl finishes her song, and the guitarist takes centre stage. Amani chuckles softly, giving a little shake of her head. "I think I can remember the notes on the treble staff, but that's about it. One of those things I have to keep set aside," she reports with a sigh. She, too, adds a quick bit of applause at the end of the singer's set. "It sounded it," she comments, and takes R'zel's word about it being tricky. She can hear complexity but does not, of course, understand all that goes into it. She is glad to hear that R'zel at least tries to take some time with his instrument, even if it isn't consistent. "Sometimes it won't be possible, of course," she concedes, and sips at the water that appeared on their table at some point. "So long as you get to sometimes, though, that's what matters." She sighs and relaxes back into her seat a bit, thoughtful for a moment. "I think this Hatching will happen before we know it," she opines. "Those eggs are already good and hard." "Do you have any idea when?" R'zel sounds only mildly surprised at that, perhaps because he and in particular Verokanth have also spent some time on the Sands. "I had a suggestion from one of the wingleaders that we should take advantage of the gaps between scheduled Falls over the next couple of sevendays to give everyone a chance to relax with a Weyr party, but I wasn't sure how well that would go down in the kitchens with a Hatching Feast coming up, perhaps quite soon. And I must admit, I haven't taken it any further. Though I think he's right about everyone being in need of some rest." He suppresses a sigh. "I'm glad we had a decent break after that one over the Boardwalk." That would be the really heavy one with all the injuries. "If I had to guess…a few more sevens," Amani replies, but then gives a little shake of her head, smirking gently. "It could also just be wishful thinking. They might have almost another month in them yet. I might just be being restless." When such heavy Falls happen and she isn't out there helping because she's on the Sands, it tends to happen. The idea of a Weyr party brightens the goldrider a bit. "I think it'd be safe enough. If the kitchens have been able to handle double clutches, I don't think it'd be too much of a problem, even if the Hatching does come sooner rather than later." Ardstelle's got this. A slow nod answers the bronzerider's last. "It was definitely welcome," she agrees. "But any further rest we can give this Weyr is something we should seriously examine and make happen." Her food comes then, and after thanking the server, she starts unstacking the sandwich in order to get the condiments just where she wants them. R'zel frowns a little as he considers the pros and cons. "This isn't really my area of expertise, but if the weather weren't so unsettled, I'd suggest a beach party. Nobody minds if the catering's really simple then, as long as there's something roasting and a decent bonfire and plenty to drink. But it's wet and chilly, which would be miserable doing anything outside." His own food arrives then, and he pauses while the server sets it out in front of him. He's gone for braised meat in a spicy sauce with tubers and green vegetables, a slightly more elaborate meal than Amani chose, which is why it took a little longer. When he's thanked the server, he continues, "I wish I'd spoken to you sooner about this." Even though Amani knows the weather isn't good for a beach party, she's still obviously contemplating, considering their options. "The living cavern hasn't been outright transformed for a party in a long while," she observes, "and it isn't a bad place for it. I think it'd be fine there." She scoops up some stew and savors it, brows hitching slightly upward at R'zel's last. "You can always come to me with anything on your mind, R'zel," she reminds him. "When we're not occupied, obviously, but still. And it's alright. We're talking it over now." So it can now get done sooner! "We could always make sure we have it on a fair day, if people really want to be outside. We could set up multiple bonfires, braziers on the boardwalk… It could make for a pleasant atmosphere." And if not now, then certainly during the summer. R'zel nods as Amani speaks, beginning to cut his meat. "Or we could do it on the actual beach, near enough to get everything into the Thread shelter if it rains or anything. That place is big enough for quite a crowd." 'Anything' probably means if Thread appears out of nowhere when there's a crowded beach, as has happened a time or two! "So how do we make this happen? I can suggest some dates that could work, around Fall and our other commitments, but I'm not sure how far I'd be expected to be involved in the planning apart from that. Catering isn't really something I can be very useful about." "You don't have to be," Amani informs him, jabbing his way with her spoon to emphasize her point. "That's part of the goldriders' purview." Though she'll likely be the one to take on this particular issue, not imagining that Ryott would enjoy it all that much. Still, she'll present the option to the junior Weyrwoman. "And yes, I was meaning the beach. For the bonfires. Dates are good to have, but we might have to just plan and be prepared to get it set up at the spur of the moment, considering the weather," she says. "Unless we do decide to do it inside." Then dates are simply the way to go. R'zel lets out a theatrical sigh of relief, grinning. "I was so hoping you were going to say that!" He pauses thoughtfully with his fork poised. "Here's a thought, which may or may not be a sensible one. If the weather is bad here, and I want to run a drill that won't benefit from being done in the rain, I usually take my Wing somewhere else. Is that an option for this?" He stops for a moment, heat tilted to a questioning angle, as he thinks through the ramifications and possibilities. "I mean, how much would we need to transport if we had a picnic instead of a normal party? Somewhere on the north coast where the weather's still pleasant. The Old Weyr, say? The weather's not so seasonal there: it would still be nice for swimming, and we could still do a roast on the beach." He seems to be warming to this idea. Amani ponders R'zel's suggestion as she chews a bite of her sandwich, spoon still poised between two fingers. "A picnic…could work, so long as everyone transports their own food. Pack it here from the living cavern, take a basket. All the dragonriders'll be having to take passengers." Mention of Old Southern has her raising a brow, however. "Is it?" she asks over the matter of the weather. It isn't somewhere she's been much. "There's still a lot of suspicion surrounding that place, but we could try. Feel it out before committing to it." R'zel sounds rather puzzled by Amani's concern. Apparently he's not bothered by rumours from the past, but there may still be reason for caution. "Plenty of people go over there to look round, and bathe their dragons. It's got a really good beach, and it's interesting to explore. A bit sad, I'll grant you: my father remembers it as an active Weyr. Though I believe there have been reports of wildlings in the vicinity, so we'd need to check that out. I wouldn't want to provoke any incidents. Anyway," he brightens, "if a picnic would be good, and seems feasible, that's not the only warm beach on the continent. I'm sure we could think of somewhere to suit, and we could send a few riders to check out wherever seems good." Amani nods along with R'zel's points. She doesn't know the entire story herself, mainly having caught murmurings in passing about the old Weyr. Still, there've been just as many suspicions about this Weyr, so maybe they ought to just push past it all. Her attention is caught when he mentions his father knowing the old Weyr as active. "My only real concern is how many people it would take away from here, holding the party somewhere else. If it turns out a good portion of the Weyr wants to go." She gets another spoonful of stew into her mouth, regarding R'zel curiously. "Your father…is an Oldtimer?" Is he an Oldtimer? Have they had this conversation? She honestly can't remember. "Oh, yes. Both my parents are Oldtimers." R'zel sees this as entirely normal, of course, and speaks as if it's no big deal. "So am I, strictly speaking: I was born in the Oldtime. I only had six turns when we came forward, though, so I don't remember a great deal about it." He grins. "I can tell you that High Reaches before the Comet was just as cold and wet as High Reaches after the Comet…" The grin fades into a frown. "I don't know if I ever went to Old Southern as a child: I've vague memories of a warm beach somewhere, but Father did take us to one or two sunny places, in the spells when he and Mother were together. It might have been Boll. Or Ista." He chuckles. "I'll have to ask him, now." This isn't ringing any bells for Amani, so she surmises she must be hearing this for the first time. "I admit, I haven't talked to Oldtimers about how things were before they jumped forward," she says, her tone contemplative. "I suppose…I've never really thought about it. So much going on in the present. But I expect it must've been a shock, coming to the now. Is it strange, having those memories but not quite knowing where they're from?" R'zel pauses to eat for a few moments before explaining, "I do have trouble piecing it together, but I don't really think about it much. And the last part - I suppose when we'd just arrived, I didn't much like thinking about it. I do have some memories of the last days before we left, and those are quite scary, but they're not very clear at all. As for being in a new time…" He trails off into thought for several long seconds. "Mother raised me with her values, which aren't those of this time. I grew up seeing the trouble she had to be promoted in her Craft - and the Harpers were better than most about it, I think. Father settled in at Telgar and made the best of it: he doesn't much like how they do things there, but he's a man and a brownrider, so it was easier for him." "I hope everyone who came forward believes it was worth it," Amani says with a shake of her head. "There are times I've thought I'd've done better in the far past, if things were so different. But then, circumstances might've played out to where I wouldn't've wound up with Zymuriath. She's worth any difficulties I've ever faced. And I'm willing to bet Oldtime riders who Impressed in the now likely think similarly." There's some consternation evident around her eyes as she focuses on R'zel again. "Why do you suppose things haven't improved more, if we've had Oldtimer ideals around for a few decades now?" She really doesn't know how long change can take, apparently. Not that it stops her from hoping. "Well, there were only a few hundred of us, and a whole planetful of people in this time." R'zel numbers himself with the Oldtimers more easily this time. "And then, it takes time for ideals to percolate, and it happens a lot more easily with the support of those who can influence opinion. Which, I'm afraid," he continues in a wry tone, "was in short supply. And then," he gestures with his fork, "think how many of the people who came ended up in Weyrs, not out and about across the planet. Even the crafters: when their Halls wouldn't recognise them, a lot came here." Amani is tempted to grumble that ideals have had plenty of time to percolate, but reminds herself that they have it relatively easy here in Southern on that count. "And some of the Weyrs wouldn't take Oldtimers, if I remember rightly. So despite our influence, a few strong voices aren't always enough to drown out the rest." Unfortunately. The Weyrwoman sighs again, smiling a bit to herself. "Well. Here's hoping all we accomplish now lays a good foundation for change. If it was better all those centuries ago, it ought to be able to get that way again, right?" "You'd think so," R'zel says, with some resignation. "But we are now seeing people go from here to elsewhere, who see things as we do here. I think it'll happen in time, but perhaps not as quickly as we'd like. There must be many places in the north that have never seen an Oldtimer still. I think the Harper Craft may be the key. Masterharper-" But what R'zel was going to say about the elderly Masterharper and his possible successors will have to wait, because at this moment the soprano steps up for another aria, and R'zel gives up the unequal struggle to speak over her powerful voice. It's time to eat, and relax for a few precious minutes, and listen to some good music. Present Plans and Ponderings of the Past has 2 comments. |
Southerns Weyrleader and Weyrwoman converse over lunch in The Treble Clef. |
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Who says Sheeps are boring? Who says Sheeps are boring?
  "I know we're a bewilderin' sight and all, boyo, but at least stop and plot yer way 'round us, aye?"  Clearing The rise from sea to Weyr is made serene by a charming road winding sand-trodden from beach below to stonecut entrance above. The path wanders among a surprisingly green valley where purple flowers bloom in charmingly unfettered profusion. The meadows themselves are often in high demand as picnic areas, for dragons are not allowed to land in the narrow valley itself. No trees nor cliff lies near to shadow the clearing, however, and the intensity of sun can be unbearable for those not familiar with the humid drench of Southern's summers. It is the fifty-fifth day of Autumn and 60 degrees. A light drizzle is all that remains of the storm. A soft breeze ripples leftover standing water. It isn't every day one finds a group of wildlings camped out in the Weyr clearing. The presence of the Erdou isn't unexpected to certain parties, at least; it's why there are Weyr guards watching from the entrance but not looking perturbed about it. It's a gathering of about a dozen among five tents, and at the moment, it looks like a meal has just been finished. Comfortable in hide and linen clothing in the cooler autumn weather, the Erdou go about cleaning and mending, chatting and tending to their horses. One sits at the outer edge of the group, facing out into the clearing - a woman with long, curly brown hair and dark eyes, dressed in a long, broad-stitched tunic of deep green and brown over soft hide pants and tall wherhide boots, currently sharpening arrowheads on a whetsone with her bow sitting close at hand. Maikah definitely doesn't count as one of the ones in the know. Certainly not about things such as wildling migrations. So there is a certain sense of habitual obliviousness as he strides past the guards with his dogs at this heels. Just another day looking for lost sheep! And he keeps on striding, until a yip from one of his collies alerts him to the fact he was about to trample all through someones cook fire. Of course the human protests would have done the same thing! Holding his hands up to indicate complete and utter helplessness (ignore the bush knife, it's for beasties). He quickly backs up and offers his sincerest apologies in a deep bass voice. Not expecting a full on campsite in the generally empty clearing has him a bit flustered. And wildlings can be prickly. "Sorry!" He offers once more, another yip alerting him to the fact he's about to wander into the arrow-sharpening chick set slightly back from the crowd. "Sorry!" PLEASE DON'T HURT HIM! These wildlings are no exception when it comes to prickliness. The Erdou, fortunately, are not the sort to react with immediate violence, even if they do get grumpy. The horses get unsettled at the proximity and yipping of the canines, prompting their owners to hop up and soothe them. The woman looks up in time to see that there's some Weyr-man (presumably) about to trip over himself and swiftly sets her arrow down, standing up and sticking out an arm to catch his shoulder, unabashed about potentially invading his space. So long as it avoids a collision. "I know we're a bewilderin' sight and all, boyo, but at least stop and plot yer way 'round us, aye?" There's sternness to her, yes, but definite amusement glinting in her brown gaze as she watches the blue-eyed man expectantly. "It's more that you're here, not that you're bewildering." Maikah answers, regaining equilibrium even as he clicks his fingers to get his pups to heel once more. There is a slight glimmer of abashed humor in his own pale blue eyes. Maikah always does better outside. "I was miles away, not paying attention." He admits, gesturing towards the bush beyond. "Might have had a few too many last night…" Not the grin is as open as it can be behind his autumn-dense beard. "That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it." Seeing as neither he or his dogs are likely to be brutally murdered he relaxes a little (just a little). "Maikah, herder journeyman." He makes his introductions now before the conversation veers into topics which are best left until after introductions are made. He does learn! The woman smirks deeply, folding her arms. She's quite used to the reactions her peoples' presence tend to draw simply for being somewhere unexpected. Which is why she started by picking on him a bit. She appreciates his humor, listening to him with a little tilt of her head and a slightly lifted brow as she stands at her ease. "A stiff drink'll do that to ye, I hear," she notes, and bobs her head at him. "Devana, daughter of the Erdou. Huntress and healer, usually." Her attention flicks curiously to his dogs. "What do ye herd, then, Journeyman Maikah?" "Sheep." Maikah answers with the appropriately reverential tone he feels the subject deserves. Sure let the flashy 'cool' guys have their runners and herdbeasts, Maikah is quite happy with his little balls of fluff thanks! "Usually they're pretty easy to herd." He admits, nodding at his dogs, who have settled now that it seems he is having a bit of a chin-wag. "Not so much at the moment." He frowns thoughtfully. "I'm about to track one down…" His brows shoot up. "I'm probably nowhere near as good as you at tracking, but if you want to go for a bit of a walk, I won't say no." It really is the reason he was heading out in the first place. Aside from you know nearly walking into a fire, and pissing a whole heap of wildlings off, this encounter seems more serendipitous than most of Maikah's encounters with the ladies. Devana nods at that. "We don't keep sheep," she says of her clan, "but I've seen 'em. Used to live somewhat near the fields a handful o' Turns ago." The wildling woman looks surprised at the invitation this man she's only traded a few sentences with thus far gives, dropping her arms with a chuckle. "Lost one, aye? Well…business bein' done for the day, why not?" She reaches down to pick up her bow along with a quiver that had been propped out of sight behind her perch. This, she affixes to her belt at her left hip, slinging the bow across her body after that. "What better way t' get t' know someone than a little friendly trackin'?" Her amusement showing upon much more than her eyes know, she gestures for the bearded herder to lead the way. "Where'd ye notice it missin'?" Maikah doesn't really do things marches to the beat of his own drums, or perhaps a tambourine. Something! "Figured you'd be better at it." He admits, still grinning, not that he's a slouch, just acknowledging that native experience is better than the ones he's gathered in his turns at Southern. "The rams get cranky and wander off a lot at this time of the turn, you may have noticed when you were living beside them." See, introductions first! Then the talking of sheep mating seasons second! He's on to it! And he's on his way, Shep and Pard resuming their pace beside him, before flowing out to where their noses tell them interesting things are. "I noticed him missing from the paddock." Up over there somewhere, he gestures. "But this one has a thing for the dunes." Perhaps it won't be a challenge after all. "I think he likes the salty grasses." Devana dips her head in gratitude when Maikah gives credit to skills he hasn't yet seen on display but that she's confident in. When he gestures toward the paddock, she steps that way a bit, eyes toward the ground, but stops when he mentions the savannah. "Have ye already been out there?" she asks, bringing up the area he mentions in her mind's eye. Not one she's traversed much, but tracking is tracking. She can adjust. Maikah winks, it is a blink and you miss it kind of thing. "Today? Nah." He answers with the brevity that means he's thinking, one eye on the dogs one eye on the wildling. "But I've been known to go walk about out beyond." Although his tone suggests the savannah isn't as beyond as he would like to wander at this time. "I'd ask if you have, but I reckon you've seen more than I have." He shrugs, one day though right? There is nothing in his manner that suggests any kind of urgency. "I'll warn you though, sheep look like free dindins for wherries…and felines…and dragons." Their search could be unsuccessful. If Devana sees that wink, she doesn't show it…though it might be hard to tell, considering the continued undercurrent of amusement that's going into her interaction with Maikah. "I reckon I probably have," she says of seeing more than he has, matter of fact. "There's a lot that looks like free…'dindins'…for all o' those," she notes, "though sheep more than most. Yet ye haven't been out to the dunes." She pauses, arching a somewhat fierce brow at him. "Are ye really all that concerned, or are ye just not wantin' to make the trek alone?" Maikah snorts, because. "I've been told I spend too much time alone, and I was heading out anyways." There is another shrug, cos he is awkward, but she agreed to come to a second location with him! "Figured may as well share the adventure." It's a little adventure, minuscule really! "I usually do this kind of thing alone." He's not a scardy cat okay? This invitation was entirely for her benefit. He pauses for a moment, before continuing. "If I knew the blighter was missing earlier, I woulda gone looking for him earlier!" And probably stepped in someones stew, rather than narrowly avoiding their fire. Hearing that Maikah is typically out wandering alone increases the curiosity in Devana's regard. His last pulls forth a laugh, and she holds up her half-gloved hands in a quick gesture of surrender. "Aye, aye, fair enough," she chuckles. "Ye know how far off the savannah is; are ye wantin' to go there now, or look somewhere else first?" She wanders back toward him, flipping the mass of dark waves back that makes up her hair back over her shoulder as she goes. Maikah frowns for a moment. "That's the question isn't it?" They're far enough away from the Erdou campsite that the ground is undisturbed (aside from the loping trails of the dogs as they follow their doggy inclinations), but there are still things to be noticed by those who have eyes. Maikah has eyes! But they're a long way from the ground, so he crouches at a likely scuff of dirt, long fingers testing the edges. "Too old." He declares definitively, a change coming over him as he actually gets to work. "We're looking for hoof prints or caught fleece. He's growing in his winter coat right now. Fat bastard." Because as much as he likes to get out of the Weyr, it's a little inconvenient to do so every other day. Squinting sunwards he paces forwards a little more. "If he's made it all the way out to the savannah, he's gone." The herder grins. "Either a meal or joining a wild herd." He crouches again to check the next potential clue. "Ought not t' be too hard to catch tracks, what with all the rain," Devana observes, crouching in turn with eyes slightly narrowed as she scans the ground and the surrounding flora. "O' course, that means there'll be tracks for everything else, too." And age is a bit hard to determine in the mud, though since it's been drier today, it's clear the print Maikah examines is, in fact, older than most. "Rams'll be heavier, carryin' more weight forward, so a deeper track…" Still crouched she moves off a way, following some seemingly disturbed dried grasses. "Here's a possibility," she calls a bit later, now bent to some cloven prints that head downhill somewhat parallel to the road. Maikah is quick to check out the print she has found, but Pard is quicker. Oh hai! The dog wags her tail furiously even as she engages in some submissive posturing. Pard is a big softy really. "Out of it!" Maikah gives a skritch and a push with rough affection. Taking in the print, before scanning the vegetation. "Yes! Look!" He points at where some of the grasses have been clipped. "Told you you're better at it!" He only tracks for his job, she tracks for her dinner right. With a piercing whistle he calls Shep closer and continues down the path. "If he's grazing he's not likely to be moving fast." This is getting better and better! Devana suddenly has a canine in her face, which catches her off guard. The Erdou don't keep canines. She might be wondering about one now, though, unable to keep herself from smiling as she watches Maikah deal with the pup. Then her attention is back to where the herder is pointing, startling momentarily when he whistles. "Let's hope you're right," she says to the idea that the ram might just be grazing, and pushes forward, following the subdued trail of teeth-clipped grasses. Maikah is a bit of an optimist! Who knew! Stretching his legs to their full stride he continues down the path to (hopefully) sheepy redemption! Shep and Pard trotting along beside with tongues lolling, Pard pausing every so often to make sure Devana is keeping up. "Fingers crossed!" Maikah is practically beaming now even as he follows the path in between two bushes. In the grassy distance lies their quarry. Except it isn't lying, it's more standing, and ripping up grass and chewing. At least it isn't bleating! It's canny enough to avoid that mistake. "Yes!" Maikah pumps a fist in triumph. Usually these searches end in woe, but not today Satan, not today! "Gitt'em! Go!" He finally allows the dogs proper release, if Devana was surprised at Pard's antics, she should prepare to be amazed at their training. The ram doesn't stand a chance. Aware that perhaps in his concentration he's allowed silence to reign far more than is polite he blurts. "I reckon you're good luck! D'you want to get a beer when I get the bastard back?" Devana can't help but grin at Maikah's enthusiasm when their efforts meet with success, though she does find herself fascinated by what the canines do next. She doesn't mind the quiet, watching the dogs in silence and contemplating how their training might've worked. She's thinking hard enough, in fact, that Maikah's sudden question has her snapping out of it with a few quick blinks. "A…beer?" Has she had one of those, even in her time at the Weyr? She glances back toward the camp, then gives a shrug. "I reckon I wouldn't mind," she replies easily, "though I might pick somethin' else." Why not? This little escape with the herder has made the afternoon interesting, after all. I'm not saying Shep and Pard are the brains of this operation… but Shep and Pard are the brains of this operation. They'll see this wayward ram home, with Shep barking his nut off, while Pard stalks silently. Their individual natures informing the training and the jobs that they have. "Beers an acquired taste." Maikah seems reluctant to admit that fact. "But I've seen these little cocktails with things in them at the 'Kitten. My shout." He nods firmly as he turns back up the track. And they'll return to the Weyr thus, with Maikah blurting out whatever crosses his mind every so often. And the afternoon will end with a beer for the bloke, and a froofy cocktail for her. Who says sheeps are boring! Who says Sheeps are boring? has 0 comments. |
Maikah heads out to look for a wayward ram, instead he pretty much tramples through a wildling encampment, picking up a Devana in the process. No sheep were harmed in the making of this log. |
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Black Rock Confidential Black Rock Confidential
  Black Rock Dockside Tavern A long, low, dimly lit space down by the waterfront, this tavern isn't hiding what it is: a place to get a drink and maybe some company. Stone floors, littered with peanut shells; raw timbers for a ceiling; wooden tables, pitted and grooved and often grimy; a long bar against the backwall with dusty bottles lining the shelves behind it - it's a dive bar, plain and simple. Glowlights here and there cast a yellowish illumination through secondhand baskets, deepening shadows. Ale, beer, whiskey, brandy hard liquor and quick drinks are easy to come by, but don't try asking the barkeep for any specialty mixed drinks. There's not much of a menu to speak of, either: just bread baked every other day and thick seafood stew, served in wooden bowls with crappy spoons. There's a kitchen behind the bar with a storeroom attached to it. A couple of side rooms are available for rent, complete with cruddy beds and locks on the doors. The place is never completely empty, a bartender and at least one waitress milling around. When the place is really hopping, it's loud and busy, full of sailors and waitstaff, and tavern girls willing to keep a man company if he needs it (and can afford it). After a storm meant that drills and PT were shortened for Ocelot that day, Alyna began to feel restless as if she had more steam to blow off than she had a chance to. After supper with her weyrmate and child, she begged D'har's forgiveness, explaining she needed to get out for a bit. And the bluerider was more than accomodating, his weyrmate's ways more than familiar after so many Turns together, just told her to be careful and have fun. The Kitten was considered a moment, but she didn't want to go to one of her usual haunts. She wanted to go somewhere different tonight. Haquith, her chartreuse hide just starting to get that bit of icandescence, secretly reaches out to a few favorite males, and invites them to come keep her busy while her lifemate gets her drink on, a certain wingsecond's bronze among them. As the green finds herself a spot to perch outside Black Rock, her rider, knotless, finds herself a perfect little dive of a dockside tavern. With a wicked smile, she heads towards the bar to order a bottle of firewhiskey and a single glass. Naturally, the customers of a tavern like this include a lot of folk from the various ships that pass through. One of them's a man who might be middle aged or elderly. He's not tall but looks fit and wiry. Greying dark hair is short, though brushed forward over a receding hairline. He has the deep tan of someone who spends his days outside. His hands are those of a workman, and they're currently holding a large mug of what passes for the best beer here. He's seated with his back to the wall, not far from the bar but with a good view of the door and the rest of the room. He appears to be alone, and his expression is rather morose. When he sees Alyna come in, his eyes rest on her for only a moment, then he looks down into his tankard. It's a a hole. Scratch that, a hole might be more appealing. Z'an isn't a wet behind the ears, fresh out of the creche little youngling, but so far in his life he's managed to avoid dive bars such as these. But Kharnith couldn't say no to such a lovely green, and Z'an couldn't say no to his dragon. Also, it doesn't feel right letting his wingleader walk into a place like this, no matter how cool and capable she is (but you won't get him saying /that/ out loud). So he's swallowed his pride, stuffed his knot in his pocket (paranoia ahoy), and ventured into the depths. They really need more light, but whatever seafood concoction they have cooking away smells not half bad. The bar turns into his personal leaning post as he waits for a gap in the clientele. Once she's got a bottle in one hand and her glass in the other, Alyna turns and practically runs into a certain wingsecond, blinking in surprise before she registers that it's really him. "Oh! Hi! What's a nice man like you doing in a place like this?" she asks him with a smirk and a tilt of her head. "If you wanted to join me, I'm going to be…." she scans the room and spies a small table nearby, not that far from where the middle-aged man is seated. "right there! But I'm off duty tonight, so…please don't give me away," she adds, dropping her voice as she leans in and locks eyes briefly with him, hoping for understanding, before she makes a dash for the table, blocking a couple of rough seacrafters from snagging it. "Sorry fellas! Too slow!" she teases as she slips into a chair and pulls the stopper from her bottle before filling her glass. The two look breifly perplexed and mildly annoyed at the little blonde woman, but decide to find somewhere else to park themselves. The group at the table beyond the solitary sailor - for sailor he appears to be: he certainly doesn't look anything like a master of the Harper Craft - call to the two seacrafters displaced by Alyna. He obligingly shifts his table over a little, beer and all, to allow them to squeeze in with their mates, and they snag the remaining chairs at his table on their way, ensuring his isolation - and his clear view of the two dragonriders. As the woman sits, he gives her a respectful nod: whatever they two of them are or are pretending to be, they look as if they're above him in Pern's pecking order! Live and in person, it's Z'an, and he hasn't managed to come up with a reason for being here yet, Alyna, give him a moment. About the only thing he can manage to do is tap a finger against his lips, a silent promise to his wingleader not to give her away. Hoping that's a promise that he can keep, he orders, and waits. Finally, with a bowl in one hand, spoon tucked behind his ear, and an ale in the other, Z'an crosses the floor to join Alyna, expression calmly blank as he sweeps his eyes over the surroundings. Those at the tables nearby get a polite ackowledgement nod of their existence as Z'an seats himself. A nod of greeting is exchanged with the man at the table next to her before Alyna downs her first shot of fire whiskey, hissing softly at the burn as she shakes her head to get through it, hoping the alcohol dulls the buzz that is starting to become just a bit more prevalent than normal along the link with her green. The sailors who make their way over to join their buddies grumble some probably unflattering things about Alyna to their buddies, thankfully not loud enough for the greenrider to hear, though the solitary sailor might be able to catch a couple things. Once Z'an joins her, Alyna is all smiles as she pours herself another drink, sniffing wearily at whatever is in his bowl. "You're a brave man, to eat in a place like this," she says as she slips off her short riding jacket to reveal a haltertop that shimmers in a soft orange material and drapes itself over her chest, leaving shoulders bared. Paired with slim cut pants, she's cutting a fine figure even this evening and it's garnering some notice. "So really… what brings you to Black Rock?" she asks Z'an then, holding her glass between her hands, hovering just below her lips as she awaits his answer. When Alyna takes off her jacket, showing that snazzy outfit, wolf-whistles erupt from the table of sailors. The man on his own hisses at them, "Keep it down, lads. Skipper won't want no trouble in here." One of the men grumbles, "Shaffit, Nat, let a man have a bit of fun. Just because you're the skipper's cousin, don't give you the right to boss us around." Which may explain why he's not actually sitting with his shipmates. Nat turns to Alyna and Z'an. "Don't mind them: they don't mean no harm." His speech, like that of the others, is that of a northern seahold. He lowers his voice to add, "We're all good lads, off the Sea Belle, but this ain't a classy place." "Broadening my horizons," is the straight faced answer that Z'an has for Alyna, before he stares at the bowl before setting it on the table. "Well, it'll be an adventure, anyway." Spoon is retrived, and set in the bowl, but left untouched. Alyna is given an admiring look (he's not blind), but Z'an quite visibly squelches his urge to retort when the wolfwhistling starts. The man on his own jumping in loosens the tense set of Z'an's shoulder, and get the mug of ale raised in his direction in a silent toast. "Always a good thing to do," Alyna replies before she downs her second shot. The wolfwhistling doesn't seem to bother the greenrider, indeed, her smirk seems to deepen by it as she places the shot glass back on the table. She smiles at the man they called Nat, and shrugs her shoulders, "I'm familiar with sailors and their ways, I take no offense. You all be careful out there. Talk of pirates getting bold again." she offers, filling her glass once more. Noting the tenseness in Z'an's shoulders, she chuckles, "Easy now. I'm a big girl, I can more than handle myself." "Aye, so we've heard." Nat raises his glass to Z'an and Alyna, and takes a hearty gulp before continuing cheefully, "None's come near the Belle so far, but I know our Captain worries, what with us carrying craft goods and traders' cargoes, like we do. We'll take good care, don't you worry." He doesn't seem to have any qualms about advertising this interesting fact: there's no attempt to moderate his voice now, and he must have been audible at surrounding tables. Doesn't he know that loose lips sink ships? There's always something coming up, and when nature calls, there's nothing else to do but answer it. With a quiet muttered apology to both Alyna and to Nat, Z'an is rising to his feet again, and vanishing outside after pausing to ask the barman for directions to the nearest latrine. His ale and stew are up for grabs for anyone who wants a free meal, since the incognito bronzerider doesn't return any time soon. Here's hoping he didn't fall in the privy. (discretion is the better part of valor, and after consideration, Z'an didn't want to be starting any fistfights about manners, as Kharnith will gleefully share.) Nodding absently as Z'an takes himself off to the little sailors' room, Alyna turns back in the direction of the loose lipped back next to her, pale eyes flashing amusement. "Are all sailors so free with their cargo?" she giggles softly before taking another drink. In some dark corner, less savoury sorts are very likely taking note of the Belle's cargo, information to be passed on to even less savory ears. "Well let me drink to a safe voyage for you and yours then," she adds, before taking yet another shot of firewhisket. In his absence, Z'an's stew is eyed, and with the fork a small piece of crustacean finds itself speared and then headed right for her mouth. "Hmmmm, not bad," she mutters to herself, helping herself to another couple bites. "Aww, there's nobody to hear but us lads of her crew." Nat sounds confident of that, even if he's in error. When Alyna drinks to their voyage, he raises his beer in response. "Thankee kindly, lady." He leans forward "We're up from Southern Weyr. The place is full of talk about a load of metal that went missing from their Smiths. They reckon pirates got the ship." Dropping his voice to a more confidential tone, he continues. "O'course, that meant they needed another carrier." He catches her eyes in a a significant gaze "Aww, there's nobody to hear but us lads of her crew." Nat sounds confident of that, even if he's in error. When Alyna drinks to their voyage, he raises his beer in response. "Thankee kindly, lady." He leans forward "We're up from Southern Weyr. The place is full of talk about a load of metal that went missing from their Smiths. They reckon pirates got the ship." Dropping his voice to a more confidential tone, he continues. "O'course, that meant they needed another carrier." He catches her eyes with a significant gaze, then gives a deep nod of the sort that often means something important has been said - or implied, and smiles rather smugly. "So, you can put marks on us being careful this trip, yes indeed." He glances towards the door. "Is your friend all right? I wouldn't trust the stew in here…" "Aye, I heard that too. Pirates…what a bunch of assholes," Alyna replies none too delicately. Understanding dawns on her as she nods a bit back in a knowing way towards the older man. "I'm not sure I'd go so far as to put marks on a safe journey, but I certainly hope that you are right about that." As for Z'an, the greenrider shrugs her shoulders with another chuckle. "I'm sure he'll be back. And don't worry about me, I have guts of steel." She demonstrates this by tapping her midsection. But she does put down the fork and takes another swig straight from the bottle this time. Pale eyes trail over the crowds, picking out a couple prospects, roguish types that catch her eye from across the room. Nathan follows where Alyna is looking, then drains his tankard. "Well, if you'll excuse me, lady, I'll leave you in peace. You enjoy your evening, now, and take care." With no more reason given for his departure, he stands and makes his way over to the bar, where he's soon involved in another conversation, maybe dropping more hints as to his ship's supposed good fortune. Black Rock Confidential has 0 comments. |
Two Ocelots and a harper, incognito in a low dive in Black Rock! |
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Jeneeva Arrives Jeneeva Arrives
Taking stock of the harper with a drop-lift of his gaze, "you really are fresh off the dragon, aren't you?" - Zefran Central Bazaar All roads in the weyr ultimately lead here, to this center of commerce. Canvas awnings jut out over time worn, sandy cobblestone, sheltering customers and wares alike from the majority of Igen's elements, and funnel scents both mouthwatering and vomit inducing through the thin streets. Almost all store fronts are open air, delineated by sandstone arches with intricately carved facades. The insides of these stone-shingled buildings act as an amplifier for the salesmens' bawled enticements, and are held up by the chipped swirls of marble pillars. It is the fifty-second day of Spring and 86 degrees. It is still pleasantly sunny, though storm clouds gather on the horizon. Ah, the bazaar, so many things to see and so much to capture the imagination. Jeneeva walks through the hustle and bustle, fanning herself against the heat as she takes in the sights, sounds and scents coalescing around her as she walks around her instruments bumping against her hip and back, held carefully in their cases. She smiles as she stops to look at the wares of a Weaver on display, looking at some light scarves. Zefran Like water dropped in a frying pan, the antics in today's bazaar have been all over: a funeral for a man's beloved draybeast (RIP Solomon), a lost child who was really asleep in a clothier's bin, free samples of a new bakery, and a fresh trip down some stairs that kind of collapsed. Still sporting a tear in his knee, a guard recruit marches up to the same weaver Jeneeva is looking over to shop for suitable patch material. "Do you play all the parts in Moreta's Ride?" Trying not to knock against any of Jeneeva's instruments. They're likely worth more than him. Jeneeva blinks in confusion for a mere instant before she realizes that the voice must be speaking to her. She turns to look over the guard recruit and gives a somewhat nervous smile. "Ummm… not all at once." She gives a slight bow of her head as she introduces herself. "I'm Jeneeva a Harper app…" she hesitates a moment before quickly correcting herself, "err journeyman. I just arrived and I thought I might take some time to take in some of the local flavor before I report in and try to find my quarters. Is it always so hot here?" The last is asked as she squints against Rukbat's bright rays and fans herself once again. Zefran beelines for the utilitarian setup of the weavers', a cooperative of more than one by their productivity and somewhat impressive inventory. "That piece there, and can you charge it to the guard barracks if it's under an eighth piece?" He'll be damned to pay more than that, even if it isn't out of his own wages. There's a concensus and Zefran will come away with the 6x6 inch square of cloth. He matches it up to the material needed for the knee. "Not always, sometimes water freezes but summer in the desert makes you think of little else. Jeneeva? Zefran," Packing the most into few words. Taking stock of the harper with a drop-lift of his gaze, "you really are fresh off the dragon, aren't you?" Jeneeva blushes, or maybe it's just the heat that has caused the flushing of her cheeks. "It's nice to meet you Zefran… is it that obvious? I only just made Jr. Journeyman and my Master decided to send me off here. He claimed that it would be good for me." she brushes a stray honey-blonde lock of hair out of her face and smiles nervously. "I'm used to Harper Hall's cooler climate I'm afraid. I may just melt here, it's hotter than Ista here." Zefran would look less imperious if he smiled more, the bazaar vendor knowing the teenager to be within an acceptable circle of those his age and ilk. "Mostly, the instruments gave it away." Stepping aside to allow a mother and passel of kids better reach of whole cloth bolts. At Jeneeva's height, Zefran has level access to meeting her eyes, albeit with a practiced squint. "Unless you're peddling them, no one would willingly bring them for a walk in the bazaar." As she hyperboles of melting, he'll try a wane grin. "You'd be surprised what you get used to." Jeneeva tries to keep smiling despite her nerves. There are so many people and so many things happening around her that she eagerly embraces the eye contact with the young guard. Her blush fades and her face pales at the mention of peddling her instruments. "I could never do that, I worked so hard on them, and how would I make sure my new compositions sounded right?" She does nod in agreement. "I grew up on Ista and I never thought I would get used to the cooler climes of Harper Hall. I guess it just took some time. I haven't really left the Hall much since becoming an apprentice, except for the occasional errand for one of the Masters." "Harper Hall… in Fort?" Zefran takes a stab at geography while lapsing into a realm of shade a vacant storefront adds to the avenue. "I hear newly-posted journeymen start off… rough sometimes." Without meaning to demean Igen, his home, there is no doubt it has its peculiar pitfalls. "My only advice would be to not venture the bazaar alone." He'll summarize obscure dangers, tenor holding more import. "I lied. My other advice would be: get a headscarf." And that concludes the welcome wagon seminar. "Yes, in Fort," the newly-minted Harper journeyman confirms, stepping into the shade as well with a look of relief painted upon her pale face. "I'm sure I'll get used to the heat eventually. Tell me though, are all Weyrs so…umm.. busy?" She nods at Zefran's advice, looking warily about the bazaar before returning her azure gaze to the guard. "I shall try to remember that, and I will look into a headscarf." Somewhere, the harper who taught Zefran is not counting their efforts as a total waste on a pupil's memory of mouldy lessons of yore. "Not every Weyr has a teeming community tucked against its bosom," adjusting his sentiments from 'leeching'. "But you won't find anything like it anywhere." Without its tenseness for being square under the sun, Zefran's face wears a subdued smirk more heavily favors the right side. Jeneeva nods slowly, "I see, well I guess that just means that there are that many more people that I can meet. It certainly does seem… unique anyway." That slight pause given as she considers how best to sum up what she has seen so far. "Not that I have had much to compare it to I'm afraid, but I am sure I will find the inspiration for many songs here." Zefran catches the unmistakeable lope of Senreda afar, another guard who happens to breathe order and exhale on those who waste it. Zefran takes a step, the first of a plan of motion to not get called out by a superior. "Then may you have Turns and Turns of them at your disposal." Bringing his arm to a right angle across his chest, he'll laud the new harper with a brief bow and last skimming glance. And hope she learns resilience (after gleaning where the latrines are built). Jeneeva Arrives has 0 comments. |
Jeneeva arrives at Igen Weyr and browses the bazaar. |
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Night(hearth) Moves Night(hearth) Moves
 "I'm glad to be your first time, Maikah,"  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. In Southern it's just cold enough to rate a trip to the nighthearth after a rainy day out in sweeps. Azraelle's black hair is drenched: the lean woman is seated by the biggest hearth in a big overstuffed chair - perched at the edge - undoing her thick braid in vain attempt to help dry the wet morass of hair she's carrying around with her. A mug of klah steams on the side table next to her, untouched in the way of a measured pause to allow for more temperate sipping later. Maikah stumps in from the living caverns with a confused look upon his face. "Not tonight then." He mumbles, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the shenanigans in the other cavern aren't in any danger of following him. Which is probably why he doesn't really notice Azraelle…or that dinky little side table with the klah not yet perfect. "Shit!" He exclaims as he bumps the table, dropping quickly to prevent DISASTER! As it is a little of the klah spills, but not to much because he put his hand in the way of danger. "Ow!" He lifts his hand to his mouth to clear off the still hot liquid. "Sorry." He does do full sentences, but between the stuff in the living caverns and his own klutz he's not quite there yet. Azraelle pauses mid- shake-out, dark eyes flipping upward to the wiry herder currently bumping into her side-table. "Well, I was planning on drinking that, but you can tell me if it's good or not," she states upwards, somewhere between flippant and waspish but more mellow than either those might seem. "Are you okay?" she inquires after, pausing with her hair now-unbound to bind it back into a thick rope of a different type, leaning over the hearthstones and squeezing the bundle together to drop splatters of water on the tiles below. Maikah's eyes widen above the hand he still has in his mouth. "Uh. I think I'll live. Thank you for your concern." SEE LOOK! Two sentences! Aware that perhaps now is the time to remove his hand before he seems weird, he does so. "And it was fine. I'd have preferred more sweetener… but I've been told I have a sweet tooth." He rumbles even more sentences in that deep voice of his. "Seeing as I'm already up, and you've got your hands full. Did you want another?" There is still plenty in the mug, but it's the least he can do right? With her hair unbound, Azraelle's a different creature than the straight-backed hellion that scours the skies: though one has to fight well, being a greenrider of Jaguar. The angular lines of her face are softened, the delicacy of wrist and ankle revealed as she pulls her socked feet out of her boots and up onto the chair-edge in front of her. Thus situated between brought-up knees and a curtain of dark hair curling behind her, it gives perfect time to procure her now-three-quarters-full mug and examine Maikah thoughtfully. "I have to watch my sweetener. A moment on the lips, as they say," she replies, tone both tired and glib. "I think I'll finish this before I go for another," a brief pause, "But thank you." A sip, and then: "I think." Maikah's hair is still quite bound, for which I'm sure we can all be grateful. "No worries." He even chances a small friendly smile. He's been practicing! Even as he turns his back and gets to making his own mug, he proves he hasn't been practicing enough. "I'm sure your hips will be fine." He's trying to make a compliment. He didn't come out and say 'nice hips', but yeah. "Maikah, herder journeyman." He introduces himself properly as he turns and finds his own seat, avoiding the puddle she has so helpfully created with her hair. It is entirely possible (probable!) he has no clue who he literally stumbled into this evening. "Azraelle," eponymous woman replies, waiting for him to be close to seating before she drops the comic hammer of her existence otherwise upon him, "Weyrsecond." It's still foreign to speak the title in association with herself, but in the interim since R'zel bestowed the knot upon her, well, she's adjusted. "Thank you," she says whilst lifting her mug again, "Though I don't believe you've seen enough of my hips to remark on them, journeyman." That's not an invitation Maikah! (poor boy.) "Zhivvyrhaelth wishes to inquire as to what beasts you herd?" is a gracious segue and long-suffering tolerance of her lifemate's nosiness. Maikah brings that scalded hand to shield his scolded eyes. Poor boy indeed! "Sheep." He answers helpfully. Back to the one word answers because those seem to get him in less trouble. "And my apologies Weyrsecond." For looking at her hips and not recognising who she was, all bedraggled in a plump green chair. However the hand soon drops and there is an air of thoughtfulness. "Should I salute? Bow? Curtsy?" That last is accompanied by the slightest glimmer of beer-bred wickedness; he's repentant, but also bolstered by his end-of-work-day visit to the 'Kitten. "I will fully accept a lady holder curtsey in lieu of any other form of grovelling," Azraelle says with a livelier air than shown up-to-now: she holds her cup out as if to say that yes, please, continue with this mythical curtsy. "And refrain from kicking your ass with these hips," reflectively, "This once." For Zhivvyrhaelth's inquiry, she has a murmur of a response without actually acknowledging that he deals with those woolly balls of chewy goodness. (that's what zhivvy says, IN CLARIFICATION.) "Oh." Maikah is flummoxed! "Uh, I don't exactly know many Lady Holders." IS ANYONE SURPRISED? "I don't know if I could do it justice." He does bob his head politely though, considering his entrance, it's probably the safest option. The bob turns into a nod however. "Probably could." Kick his ass, he's a softy, he probably would enjoy it too. Just as he enjoys woolly balls of chewy goodness, once the fluff has been removed and the chewy modified by flame. Sheep are versatile like that. Falling silent he sips from his mug, and contemplates the food on offer. "That's a lot of hair." He blurts, it's clearly been on his mind for a while now. BUT they're old friends now right? Well, she's only threatened to kick his ass, she hasn't actually kicked it yet. "Do you get out much?" Azraelle inquires in response to Maikah's hair statement — because listen, he's not WRONG, she's got a fuckton of hair — with a lift of an eyebrow. "Come on, I'll teach you," she says after a thought, settling aside her mug of klah and pointing her toes out on the far side of her boots, in the dry section not marked by the droplets from her hair. She leverages herself up to a stand, looking markedly leaner and meaner upon being upright: come hither, Maikah, and learn courtly manners from the crow of Southern. Maikah grumbles. "I get out plenty!" Although going on solo ventures into the jungles of Southern probably isn't what she meant. "Just the other month I went out." And what an adventure that was! A tale for another time as his sense of self-preservation that serves him so well on his outings prompts him to put down his mug on one of those ridiculous tables and propels him upwards with yet another protesting groan. While there is strength there is very little natural grace in his tall lanky frame. But he's standing! So that's a bonus, hopefully his beard disguises that 'well this isn't good' gulp even as he gamely tries to maintain his gaze on her lean mean eyes (Don'tlookatthehips. don'tlookatthehips! DAMMIT!) "Do you get out around people?" Azraelle's follow-up is slowly enunciated in the way that people do around people who might be a little touched in the head. She doesn't do it exaggeratedly enough for it to be a blatant diss, but, you know. She's kind of a bitch. "Come here. You're going to do a little plie first, make sure you have enough room in the knees to do this. Like so." Her bare feet fan out, first-position staggered, and she gracefully sinks down, both hands at her, er, hips. Her gaze expectantly tracks over to Maikah because SHE WANTS TO SEE THIS DAMMIT. Maikah scratches at the back of his head, where his own hair is clubbed tidily. "Uh, that'd be a… not so much." He doesn't want to sound like the complete loser he is! "A Pee-lay?" It's like she's speaking honest to Faranth Pernese, but he can't quite follow. Instead he is just going to watch her very carefully, his dark brows knitted together in equal parts confusion and concentration. "Is there a less…" One large hand gestures in her general direction. "Is that how they really do it?" It seems like waaay too much fuss for him. But he'll give it a go. PREPARE YOURSELF, Maikah is about to get his grace on. Hopefully. He has very serious concentrating face now (further confirming the liberal application of a beer or three), and takes a deep breath before trying to go down. RIIIIIIP! It's Maikah, it was practically guaranteed to happen. "Uh." "Plee-ey," Azraelle corrects, her sea-shanty voice of hoarseness and too-much-yelling husky nature strangely incongruous with the elegant word. She's watching him and his gracefulless motions when the rip is heard and it is a fucking TALENT she shows to not burst out fucking laughing in his FACE. But Azra is a veteran of embarrassing weyrling farts and other detritus of weyrlingmastering, so she doesn't even pause, other than look up to the Herder impassively: "Sounds like you need a new pair of pants, journeyman," without even commenting that it wasn't her hips that broke them, either. Elsewhere: Zhivvyrhaelth wakes herself up by how loud Azraelle's internal laughing is. Does the weyrsecond's face twitch briefly as if in consternation — or constraint? Maikah's face flushes slowly as that sound is processed in the midst of all this grace and courtesy. "I can honestly say it's the first time I've needed new pants indoors." He attempts to cover the whole debarkle with a little self-deprecating humor. Before not very surreptitiously checking the damage to the seat of his pants and his dignity (he has very little, so it's fine. THIS IS FINE!). Maikah is nothing if not resourceful, so like his grungy ancestors of old, he whips off his plaid shirt ties it about his waist. IT IS LIKE IT NEVER HAPPENED! MAGIC!~ "Plee-ay, then?" He really does appreciate her not laughing in his face even if he deserves it. And now, he has sufficient room to attempt the complicated dance step again. "I'm glad to be your first time, Maikah," Azraelle deadpans in her gravel voice, her lips curving upward in a very on-brand smirk for the woman as she flows from her simple stretch into an actual curtsey. "It's a bow and a bend of the knee together. Like this," as she sinks forward onto her now-leading leg, bowing with one graceful movement of arm going from palm-facing-body to palm-facing-outward: Azraelle's had fucking lessons on this one, there's no way she would otherwise know how to do this, daughter of a sea-wench as she is. She remarks not at all on Maikah's ingenuous shirt-shifting or the fact that HE STILL IS GAME TO GO THROUGH WITH THIS FARCE, emphasis her player's, because holy shit Maikah's in it to win it, even red-faced. Maikah does not have the social skills to recognize a farce, on account of him being pretty honest. Also the beer is reeeeeally helping here! "I'm not a virgin!" Despite the fact she's answering his initial statement, he is very quick to correct even the hint of such misinformation, or he could be returning some deadpan in kind. Sometimes it is hard to tell. Watching the whole rigmarole again he pulls his lips into an angled line. "This seems entirely… a waste of time." BUT he does grasp one of his dangling shirt tails to lend a bit of assistance to the endeavor. His attempt is a shambles, not going to lie… it resembles her grace only in the fact that some of his limbs went kinda in the same directions at hers. "Hang on!" He is quick to point out, before giving it another go. Bless him, it is a little bit better. "Kinda glad I don't have to do this actually." Ladies got it hard :( "Good job, Not A Virgin," Azraelle approves of the second time, bringing up her articulate fingers to give a similarly articulate clap: the sound's not quite mocking, but it's not quite in good faith, either. Her smirk winds upwards toward the lad despite herself, and she shakes her head before padding barefooted back to catch her cup and return to the hearth, topping it off to warm it up. "If you were born a woman, you would find there's a great many pieces that are wastes of time pressed upon womanly shoulders to make men feel better about themselves." Her dark eyes look past Maikah and then she shakes her head, returning for her seat to curl in a cascade of hair and lean lines. "Thankfully, since you were born," her cup vaguely circles in his direction to encapsulate 'awkward ass male', "You'll only ever need to give a bow if ever you run into a Lord or Lady Holder." "Hardly likely to run into one of those in the back end of beyond." Maikah points out helpfully even as he returns to his seat. The lesson is now over! Faranth defend the next Lord or Lady Holder he meets though! "And I can't say I feel better cos of what someone else does. What I do on the other hand…" But he's a lone voice in the chorus or something, and also without clout or ability to make that change. There is a wink to accompany his words, a suggestion of awareness. "I would stay and learn more of your wisdom. But I should probably see to my pants. People might get the wrong idea." I mean teaching an awkward ass male to curtsy probably isn't at the forefront of anyone's mind. "Good luck, journeyman," Azraelle affirms his path as the correct one, lifting her mug as a salute. Her hair is starting to crackle around her by now, static electricity quite a bitch for these fast-drying environments. "May your next pants-ripping be more intriguing than the one you found today." May your life be interesting is one of Zhivvyrhaelth's more vitriolic adages, and there goes Azra wishing it upon this poor lad! But he'll go on her way, and she'll find the little pot of unguent to start taming the crazy strands of her hair: and just like that the path-crossing is firmly crossed, and both of them back upon the ways they were before. (Except poor Maikah has ripped pants, now, but… he'll live. Hopefully.) At least he didn't fart! Night(hearth) Moves has 0 comments. |
Trying to avoid weirdness in the Living Caverns, Maikah creates weirdness ALL OF HIS OWN. Thankfully Azraelle is full of grace. |
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