Weyrling Barracks

Natural entropy lies restrained by sheer force of will within the chaotic spiral of Southern's weyrling-barracks. The large entry hollows out into an immense common area at the front of the barracks, where sustenance can be procured for both sides of the lifebond: tables are typically set out with at least the trimmings for sandwiches, and often carcasses lie in the hollowed pit for fresh weyrlings to carve chunks of meat for their new lifemates. Beyond, the couches are set within a U-shape around a long pool, spring-fed, large enough to bathe growing dragons.
Heavy tapestries line the stone walls towards the rear of the barracks, while space is at a premium towards the front: shelves and pegs hold leathers and tools, books and useful trinkets of the dragonriding trade. The narrow-point of the U branches into two hallways: one for the candidate barracks, and one for the weyrlingmaster's office.

It’s the middle of the flippin’ night, and that little green dragon is ‘singing’ or whatever the sound she’s emitting could be called, three couches down from V’len and Yaath’s couch, and the bronze dragonet was yanked from his own sleep to evidently start the assessment of sundry itches and hungers and need to sink to the bottom of the shared pool, so V’len seems to find himself waking up next to a large bin in which a half of a runnerbeast has been unceremoniously deposited, and he has a knife in his hand and he stares, rather uncomprehending, at the carcass, wondering how the Shard did he get //here/ and wasn’t there some … Transition from his having been asleep next to his dragon (HIS DRAGON - that still gives him a bit of a thrill) and now he’s looking at this coagulated nasty here, and an overwhelming hunger has him blinking at the mess with a discomforting …Hunger. A small bronze lizard sits on his shoulder, cheering him on. -Or, at least, trying to get him to cut a smaller piece…A firelizard-sized piece…

K’fos, like so many others in these barracks, is exhausted from lack of sleep. He tries. By Faranth, he tries! He frequently succeeds for a few candlemarks at a time, so that is something, at least. But it seems that Qasirath’s dreams are as active as his waking mindscape, invariably causing the wildling weyrling to awaken with a pounding heart and spinning head, grasping at the couch with white knuckles to force himself to recognize that he is, in fact, steady. So it goes now, with Qasirath blinking awake as well. The brawny bronzeling grimaces as he sits up, trying to clamp down on the mental link as they’ve all been learning to do this past seven with varying success. He seems to do alright on that count this time, blinking profusely before rubbing his eyes and slowly coming to his feet. After taking a moment to help his lifemate arrange his still-too-big wings on his back, he ambles toward the front where both human and draconic sustenance are set out, making for the table and drowsily seeking out a roll and some juice. Then he pauses, sighs, and moves toward a washbasin near where V’len has managed to settle. Hands plunge into the cold water and cup together, bringing some away to dash against his face. He doesn’t dry it right away, letting it trickle down his neck to his bare chest as he leans over the basin with half open eyes. Qasirath comes up behind him and butts his knees lightly, earning a gruff grunt, then a sigh as he reaches down to rub the small bronze head. Then he notices V’len and sighs again. “You too, aye?”

In V’len’s little waking dream, that Wilding person with the really big bronze dragonet has arrived, and they are talking to him and words happen and wend about him and he still has the knife and he is so so hungry and rather mechanically, he reaches to grasp the hide of the leg that is immediately available, tipping the knife to start methodically slice away the small connections between skin and flesh, as he pulls back with, at least, a very practiced ease. Then V’len blinks as some part of his slowly awakening mind realizes that those words are Real. That someone who is Actually Present, is speaking to him. He makes a great effort to shrug off the near-famine that has him actually salivating at the slightly aged flesh, and he turns his head to stare at the other. “Eh?” Brilliance, thy name is not ‘V’len’, in the midnight hour. Unsure of what K’fos actually just spoke, V’len does the best he can: He cuts off a chunk of the flesh and offers it over to K’fos, while trying to actually focus on the Wilding’s features. The bronze firelizard on his shoulder chirps his displeasure with this mode of action, and digs his claws into V’len’s shoulder. Real, actual pain has an effect. V’len actually notices first the bloody chunk of meat he’s holding out, then he brightens, “Did you want some? Ah…For him? Since I’m standing in the way. What?”

Still somewhat groggy, K’fos peers at what’s being offered his way with a squint, then blinks to clear some more haze from his vision and shakes his head. “He ate before we fell asleep; he can wait a few more minutes.” Qasirath grumbles at that, and the man’s eyes narrow a bit and go vague as he tries to parse something clearly crossing his mind’s eye. “Pretty sure ye don’t want that thicktail thing we were taught about earlier,” he rumbles aloud in response to whatever is being mentally conveyed. The little bronze huffs and sits still for the moment, save for the yellow-orange whirl of his eyes. K’fos takes the opportunity to grab a towel and tend to his dripping face, turning his attention back to V’len. “Anyway. Seems like we’re both bein’ kept up is all I was meanin’ earlier.”

“I don’t even know what day it is.” V’len admits with a half a grin and a rueful chuckle. He turns to eye the pool, which he addresses aloud rather than try to parse the mechanics of mental communication, “You need to come out for me to feed you. We’re not fouling the water with meat bits.” The chunk of meat is placed on the ground, in a spot that could be called rudimentarily clean, where it’s pounced upon by the little growing bronze, who tries to gnaw and worry free a bit. V’len turns back to the bin and hauls that limb closer again, before sliding the knife into flesh and securing a spot where tendon meets bone. Before long, he has another chunk cut off, and this time flicks a smaller piece to the lizard, whose frustration has driven him to perch back on the bin again. A second piece quickly follows the first, mollifying the little lizard. The patter of water dripping from oiled hide announces Yaath’s arrival, with the sleek dragonet deliberately pacing the distance between pool and meat bin. His mind dribbles a hunger-tinged greeting to Qasirath: Extending, mutating, evolving, shrinking borders of fluid’s gleam darkening and brightening, before becoming a still pool as he engages in managing the meat. This is helped by V’len, “Hang on buddy. I’ll cut that smaller.” The half-pieces go down easier, and Yaath’s wedge-shaped muzzle comes back quickly for another bite.

“Good thing the weyrlingmasters remind us,” K’fos counters with a deep smirk, and looks toward the pool himself as V’len addresses his currently submerged bonded. Both he and Qasirath watch with drowsy curiosity as Yaath appears, the more outgoing bronze uttering a soft rumble of greeting as his mental presence meets the fluxing waters with a silent shadow observing a target just below the surface. « You’re a subtle one, brother. I like it. » K’fos grunts in amusement. “Aye, ye better; ye need someone t’ balance ye out,” he observes under his breath before looking to V’len again. “Ye handle that knife and meat like ye’ve done it most of yer life,” he notes, turning his back to the basin and leaning against it, folding his arms upon his chest. “Do ye hunt?”

“Cotholder. We butchered our own meat, if we wanted to eat meat.” V’len returns, pragmatically. “My brother is the sort that ….” V’len considers how he might phrase the statement without implying criticism, nor opening R’mi up to that, “He would rather not eat meat, if it means ending something else’s life. He understands the need, and he’s butchered, but … Once he realized what butchering was about, hunting got less fun for me.” V’len grins then, “I’d rather hang out with my brother than hunt. He’s a great guy. And he will fish. What do you hunt?” The bronze, whose curves seem further accented by the gradients of different bronze alloys swirling and splotching over his hide, keeps his wings tucked up against the curve of his back as he tilts his muzzle to study Qasirath. The response, returned has no particular words. Rather a flush of mental imagery is proffered: Light, as if filtered through a few feet of water, dispersed and interrupted by small gay bubbles, each refracting colors that were not seen in the light source, so that the surrounding liquid seems to glow with a mild luminescence, not unlike a glow. A whispery single word emanates as if from the hiss of the bubbles or as an artifact of the motion of the liquid: «Appreciate.».

The concept of someone who doesn’t want to eat meat puzzles K’fos greatly, and it’s not something he can quite keep out of his expression. “Some of the beasties we’d rather not end the life of wouldn’t hesitate to end ours,” he points out. “The hunt isn’t somethin’ we have much choice in out in the jungle. We’re gettin’ hunted right back, usually. So I hunt…just about everything - felines, porcines, whersport, wherries, tunnelsnakes. I fish from time t’ time, too; it’s just huntin’ in the water,” he notes with a smirk. A short, rumbling grunt marks his pensiveness about the matter, however, and he gives a nod. “Family’s definitely preferable to huntin’, though; I’ll agree there. When ye have the choice.” Qasirath is fascinated by the uniqueness of Yaath’s watery mindscape; indeed, he seems fascinated with most of his clutchsiblings’ different voices. He watches those subtly scintillating bubbles with quiet wonder, the soft rumble both within and without that answers that single word conveying the impression of a smile. After a moment, his own mental imagery shifts above the water, an expansive, tranquil lake unfurling beneath cool moonlight with the distant shadows of a forest lingering far at the edges. Here, the dark mirror of the water is calm, the surface rippling subtly as those bubbles rise and glow. Being within is interesting, but he will forever prefer to study from above.

The mental ‘press’ of the fluid against consciousness levels the single argument of observation from beneath, rather than above. This malleable pressure lends a comfort, a stilling sensation that eases the frantic hunger, or the momentary panic of having lost sight of his person, or whatever currently passes as drama for baby dragons who are only now exploring this new world. The lights, as well, seem, more controllable - depth lends darkness, diffusing the gradients of light into dancing shafts, through which small, immaterial substances themselves swirl. That sense of enclosure, but with the freedom to move, or lurk, is returned as evidence underscoring the vantage of Underneath…And Within. V’len nods. “I know. And I understand. And he understands. Eat things before you are eaten by them. He’s not got… An issue with anyone else eating…Just not something he wants to do. I used to enjoy hunting.” He glances at the dragon and then grins at K’fos, “And I am looking forward to hunting with him. I overheard some riders talking about hunting wherries, on dragonback, when I was bussing tables. And the dragons don’t really waste parts, and they have to eat meat. So maybe R’mi will be alright with that.” He then switches topics, “Do you have any family here, K’fos? Did anyone come to the Hatching?”

K’fos nods at the notion of hunting while on dragonback. “It’ll be nice once they’re big enough t’ hunt for themselves,” he notes with a deep smirk. No more butchering! Not that it’s a hardship for him, but he’d rather be doing other things with Qasirath. “If ye ever want t’ hunt again, once we’re free t’ do so, ye’d be welcome t’ come along when I get out there.” Since it’s something he doesn’t intend to stop doing despite this new life he must adapt to. The change of topic earns a soft rumble of affirmation as he gives a few small nods. “I’ve family with the clan,” he replies, “and a cousin who visits the Weyr often. She was mated to a dragonman for a time. She was at the Hatching…and my family was, too, she says, though I didn’t see them. Father, mother, two brothers. I love ‘em, but…” He sighs heavily and reaches up to rub his neck. “I suspect it’ll take ‘em some time t’ reach out. The Erdou are more acceptin’ of the Weyr than most in a lot of ways, but none of us’ve Impressed. Until now.”

“I would love to go hunt again!” V’len responds. But he is Intrigued by this line of conversation about the Clan and the Weyr, V’len suggests, “If they’ve not been keen on dragonmen, then likely they’d not welcome Searchriders. Therefore, there’d be few Searched and thus, less opportunities to Impress your clan members. So with you on a dragon now, then perhaps you can Search more… But that may or may not be a help. See, we come from a cothold. Our cothold was not big - we always had to fight the jungle to keep the jungle from retaking where we’d planted, and fight the wherries and fight … Well. Things grew very easily, but once Remington and I had come of age…It’s a bit like the Major Holds - the eldest son gets the goods, and the other ones are ‘emergency backup sons’, in case something happens to the one in line to receive the land. So I’m the second son and R’mi is the third son. We did not have the funds or means to travel and get an apprenticeship in a Craft. Best bet, was that we could marry some daughter of a cotholder, who did not have a brother, and thus we’d get some land to call our own. Or we could have tried to carve another cothold out of the jungle. Getting Searched by dragonriders is vastly preferable, though. It might be, at first blush, the taking of two healthy and able bodies from the community, but now we have dragons and in due time, we may be able to bring things to them - healers or books or medicines or new seeds or food items - that never could have happened. We can help open up our community there, and maybe bring in some fresh …Uh… Well. Women that are not already related in some sense to everyone already living there. So I am thinking that in the essentials, your clan has a similar situation. They have lost an able and effective hunter and protector. But in a Turn’s time, someone there can summon you via a firelizard, and your dragon will be a formidable opponent to a feline attack, or may be able to take the handmade goods and a Crafter who made them, to a Gather, to sell those items. Perhaps if your clan can see things that way…They may be more supportive.” V’len flushes a touch at that long monologue, and murmurs, “Apologies. I did not know how to explain that…More succinctly.” He reaches to draw his fingers over the little bronze lizard, and that gesture is interrupted rather imperiously by the larger wedge-shaped head of Yaath, intercepting the caressing fingers with a ‘mrrrrrr’ing sound.

Still leaning against the basin, K’fos settles his piercing green gaze upon the younger bronzeling and keeps it there the entire time V’len speaks. His expression becomes inscrutable, save for the faint arch of one brow until the monologue is done. Even Qasirath seems to turn his attention on the lad with a little tilt of his head. There’s a very brief mental exchange - nothing aloud; success! - that leaves the man smirking. “No worries. Seems t’ be several among us needin’ t’ learn how t’ say things with less words,” he notes wryly. Processing the stream of information, he gives a little shake of his head. “Ye don’t have an understandin’ of clan dynamics, so we won’t go there just now. All the rest… Ye ask any of us who’ve lived with the jungle, all of ye who insist on fightin’ t’ ‘carve out a place’ in the midst of ‘er should quit fightin’ ‘er and go where ye’re meant. The jungle’s the one in charge, and it’s lucky she leaves a few empty spaces here and there for people t’ build. But this whole notion of ownin’ land…” He scoffs softly. “Nature gives exactly what we need, and men have the arrogance to try takin’ more. Not that I wish any ill on the people where ye’re from, but there’s a reason cotholds struggle out there.”

“And they do. Struggle out there. It’s a miserable life. Too hot and fighting the jungle all summer. Too cold and wet all winter and fighting the mud. But it’s how we were raised and that’s the way that the cotholders have tried to do it. I’m not saying it’s right.” His tones hold no sense of defense nor recrimination. “I was just thinking about what you said about your clan not liking dragonriders. The cotholders might have been upset to lose R’mi and I,” then he grins, eyes sparkling for a moment, “Or not, because we were always getting up to trouble… But we can benefit them. As dragonriders.” He nods. “I would think that the Wilding Clans really do depend on their adult members. Every one of them. So the loss of one to the dragonriders would hit harder. But perhaps they may realize some benefits. And there’s always the possibility that, given that you ride bronze, your dragon might make you Weyrleader at some point in the distant future and that might really benefit the clans - to have someone sympathetic with their way of life. That’s all. I wasn’t trying to say that cotholding in Southern Jungle is the way to live there. It never made much sense to me, but no one ever asked my opinion.” He grins again and shrugs, before returning his attention momentarily to the mesmerizing stare of those whirling eyes of Yaath, now half-lidded in contentment.

“I’d think most anywhere depends on their adults,” K’fos opines. “But the free folk,” he emphasizes carefully in correction, “do fine if one decides t’ go some other direction. Most everyone can hunt if need be. I might’ve been one dedicated to it as a profession, but I’m not the only one; the Erdou’ve already adjusted t’ me bein’ gone. As for the free folk as dragonriders bein’ a benefit…” Broad shoulders hitch upward in a light shrug. “They already exist, and change is slow.” In most cases. Impression is not one of those. “It’s likely helped some perspectives, and that change’ll be the only thing, aside from protection from Thread, that the Weyr benefits them with. Even that’s debatable; the free folk survived just fine b’fore Southern Weyr was put in place. We’ve never needed the Weyr. But the world changes, the Weyr is here, and hatin’ the fact isn’t gonna change that. We’ve gotta keep strivin’ for understandin’. And the free folk need t’ see that there’s more beyond the jungle worth protectin’.” A roundabout way of saying he’s all for seeing more of his people come to the Weyr. He moves now, coming closer to V’len in order to get at some meat for the surprisingly patient-for-the-moment Qasirath. “And by the way,” he points out wryly, “you might end up Weyrleader sometime, too, remember.”

A few seconds of thought at that last consideration. V’len had not really counted himself in for the exalted station of Weyrleader. Aren’t Weyrleaders all the Big Brawny sort? He considers R’zel, and while the current Weyrleader is tall, he’s not exactly brawny. But he has the look about him. That authoritative standing that V’len could not even manage to fake right about now. He has to finally shake his head, muttering something about ‘technically’ possible, but the chance being that of a spiderclaw on rock, amid a fair of firelizards. “Now then. That would be a thought. So why is it that you are called the ‘free’ people? And what do you call the rest, to differentiate?” Immediately, V’len considers a few possibilities: The not—free people. More dramatically, the enslaved people. Or, alternately, the expensive people. Yaath stares at V’len now, obviously intrigued by the bizarre track of unspoken thoughts.

It certainly is a thought, but such things are best not dwelt upon this early on, so K’fos leaves it be. A manageable chunk of meat is easily sliced away and handed out to Qasirath, who takes it eagerly enough that there’s a quick mental scold about watching the fingers that brings about a contrite warble before he goes about getting another. V’len’s question earns a rueful grunt as he considers. “Depends on who you ask,” he drawls. Then, more seriously, “T’ most of us, the people who’re settled are just named for what they’re from - Weyr-folk, hold-folk. Sometimes stone-bound. Stone-brained to a few. Those of the Weyr are called dragonfolk a lot, though you’ll hear ‘cursed folk’ muttered under some of the older ones’ breaths.” A few more beats of thought pass before he ends with, “That’s about all I can think of. All the more uncharitable ones can be left in the past.”

With a nod, V’len agrees with that sentiment. He returns, with the mental prodding, to feeding smaller pieces to both the little lizard and Yaath. “So the ‘free’ part of Free People refers to… Being able to move about?” Geographically untethered people? “Or ‘Free’ of a name?” Really, his demeanor is simply curious and he does not mean to offend by the questions, but his previous experience with Wildings - ‘Free People’ - has been exactly none before his arrival at the Weyr. “My brother and I were…’dismissed’ from our cothold and we did go looking for the W- Free People, to see if they would take newcomers in. We,” he grins deprecatingly, “Evidently never found any. If they were around, they likely had no desire to be found by us.” His eyes crinkle at the corner. “Or they were laughing so hard at our trying to survive in the wild that they couldn’t summon up the energy to talk to us. Or they did not want to lose their entertainment. But we were getting better at it.” Most of their weight loss and most hungry days were early on. “Do you guys eat worms?” Then, realizing that question might be taken wrong, he adds, “We ended up eating worms and feeding the lizards worms for quite a while, until we figured out how to build a fish trap.” His grin is big, again. Yaath wonders what a worm would taste like, and a flurry of exchanged mental images that do not exactly convey taste ensue, between the lizard and the dragon.

“The movin’ about, aye, but considerin’ each clan bears a name, I wouldn’t say that’s part of it,” K’fos replies. “We’re also free of the things that we see as tyin’ others down - Lords and Ladies, heads of Crafts, fields and flocks. The jungle gives all we need, and if somethin’ needs growin’, we can plant it and leave it to its own devices, come back later. We’ve clan leaders and those who know their crafts best, but they teach. They lead by doin’. Some holders’d sooner die than get dirt under their nails, seems like.” Qasirath gets some more meat…and there’s a wrinkle of the bronzeling’s nose at the question of worms. “Not if we can help it,” he answers. “Good on ye if eatin’ worms let ye survive, but ye know how t’ hunt; why didn’t ye just make a spear?” Seems common sense to him! Though it hasn’t occurred to him that some people wouldn’t know how to make such a rudimentary weapon. “If we’d seen ye, we’d’ve checked on ye and invited ye to the fire. The Erdou, that is; some other clans keep to themselves more.”

V’len laughs, a deep warm sound. “We got the boot with the clothes on our backs, my backpack with a couple tools, but not even so much as a leather thong or rope to spare. At one point, I felt like I’d give my left arm for a shovel. So making a spear was a little out of our league. We finally found a good stream - lots of fish, but we had found lots and lots of worms. So we dug a hole alongside the stream - a big wide hole. This filled up with water, of course, and we made a shallow entrance into our hole from the stream and let it finish filling. Then we let it settle and clear, and finally threw some worms in. We got a small log and when a good couple fish came in, we’d block off the exit. But then we had to get the fish out. So we ended up making a…Sort of loose basket out of woven reeds, to use to herd them up to where we got them.” He glances at the buffet sideboard. “I tell you, we couldn not have been happier when Dh’mick said we could come back with him and eat.” The grin just won’t leave; V’len enjoyed the adventure, though he and his brother both lost a lot of weight in their time adventuring. “Besides, the Candidating has been pretty easy compared to trying to feed and shelter yourself out in the middle of nowhere, with few tools and even less know-how.” He reaches for a towel to wipe off the knife, and slides it home into the sheath at his belt’s side, before laughing and kneeling next to Yaath, fingers sliding along his sleek neck in the wonder that keeps returning to him. “Coming here has been the best experience.”

K’fos listens to V’len’s explanation about the fish trip with increasing interest, an approving little nod meeting the end of it. “Aye, not too bad. Ingenuity’ll get ye a long way when ye’re out there alone. There’s a small, lopsided smile that forms for the younger bronzeling’s last, and he sighs as he looks down at Qasirath, resting a hand on his dragonet’s head. Part of him wants to be his normal contrary self and point out that it’s naive to think it’ll all be this good because Thread will probably take the shine off any silver linings some days…but he doesn’t. He’s quiet a moment instead, because in this moment, exhausted though he may be, he agrees. “Hasn’t been too bad,” he rumbles quietly, and then stifles a yawn immediately before Qasirath’s maw gapes in the same reflex. “Alright, let’s try this again.” He pushes away from the basin, stretching a bit. “We’re gonna try t’ sleep again. Good talkin’ to ye, V’len.” With that, the wildling and his lifemate shuffle back to their couch…and Qasirath even manages not to trip along the way.

“Fare you well, K’fos, Qasirath.” Yaath seems to echo the sentiment, but almost with a subsonic swell of seemingly liquid pressure that then dissipates as the others walk away. V’len shakes his head at the dragon, as the sensation leaks so easily through their link. “You want some more meat?” —And his attention, as always, returns to this new lifemate of his with that same wondering amazement that strikes deep every time he gazes at his dragon, and considers the new life that awaits them.