Training Grounds

A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall.

It is the sixteenth day of Spring and 80 degrees. It is a beautiful, sunny day marred by the overwhelming humidity.

(Kharnith) Freezing fog rises from the ground, smokey tendrils reaching out for a mostly familiar brown mind, Quaverilth. «Teacher,» comes the quiet, deep-toned rumble. «Mine would seek out yours.» Behind the fog, the frozen mountain waits patiently for an response, message passed along.

Quaverilth thinks to you, « I bespoke Kharnith with: Quaverilth's misty lake shivers a bit at the intrusion, a swirl of mist acknowledging the message before he privately confers with his rider. It doesn't take long for the response to come, Quaverilth's youthful voice resonating through to the older bronze. « Of course. You can find us at the Training Grounds. He has some time at the moment. » He signs off with the faint sound of insects buzzing lazily. »

A quiet shower of gentle and grateful snowflakes comes from Kharnith in response. «Our gratitude. Mine comes.» is the short response. From above, a bronze dragon kicks off from his ledge, turning in a tight spiral to come down for a quick and speedy landing on the training grounds, being careful to avoid any weyrlings in the airspace. The moment that his rider is down on the ground, the dragon is off upwards again, so as not to take up much space. Z'an follows the bronze with his eyes, pulling a square of fabric out of his jacket and wiping his forehead with it. Once he's composed, he follows the mental directions, heading for where he's been told he can find F'kan with a purposeful stride.

Quaverilth is easily spotted, flashy wing sails draped over him like a cloak as he lounges in a sunny patch of the training grounds. He lifts his hed with a bugle of greeting to the bronze when he appears, shifting into a bit of a more dignified posture. F'kan is nearby, working on sorting out the ropes that are going to be dipped in paint and then used in drills later that day, knotting some together in larger clumps to mix things up a bit. He's dressed sensibly for the weather, short and a light top, but the effort is already pulled a light sheen onto his skin. He stops when he gets a mental nudge and lifts his hand to shield his eyes from Rukbat's rays as he lifts his other hand in a wave, "Greeting bronzerider, what can I help you out with today?" he asks in jovial good humour.

Making his way across the training grounds, Z'an turns his head from side to side, both to take everything in, and to watch out for anyone not paying attention. Getting run over by a weyrling was not in his plans for today. Thankfully, Quaverilth is spotted easily, and the distance coverede. Z'an offers a respectful bow to the brown, and a sharp salute to F'kan. "Greetings Weyrlingmaster." and the older man hesitates for a moment. "I'd like to speak with you about one of your weyrlings."

Brushing his dusty hands off on his shorts, F'kan returns the salute with a crooked smile shot in the man's direction. "One of my weyrlings?" he echos with a interested tilt of his head, "I would argue they are the Weyr's weyrlings, but proceed." He waves him on to speak even as he hefts another piece of thick rope, severely frayed and probably something that was destined for junk anyway, and ties it with a few other bits and pieces of various sizes to make a rough web.

"Weyr's weyrlings, then," Z'an says, ruefully, and some of the stiffness drains out of his posture. "May I assist?" and he motions to the ropes. He might feel a bit less…awkward about this if he can keep busy. But, he still jumps right into it. "Brown Hovirskath's rider, Anjani. A fine pair, and a credit to your teachings here," he is hasty to add this. "She is my daughter," and the composure of the bronzerider slips into the concern of the father. "I worry that she is not dealing well with the recent losses to Thread."

"Sure, just make various sized clumps," F'kan instructs with a vague wave over the pile of bits and pieces to choose from. When he mentions a name, it takes the brownrider a little bit to place a face with it, staring off into space a little blankly for a long moment. "Oh right. I agree, a fine pair, got a few different wingleaders eyeing them with graduation just around the corner," he admits with a grin the bronzerider's direction. It's the man's next that brings F'kan to a stop, straightening with a long sigh as he puts his hands on his hips. "The first losses are always the worst. Hopefully her brown has mostly forgotten by now. How exactly do you mean not dealing well? I haven't had any reports from my assistants."

With something to keep his hands busy now, Z'an takes a length of rope, frayed at one end, and starts to weave most of the frayed ends back together, leaving a few to attach to another at an odd angle. At F'kan's words, Z'an can't help but beam a little with pride. His little girl, being headhunted. Aww. But he sobers quickly and nods. "Aye, he doesn't remember, but he knows that his rider is unhappy. And according to Kharnith, she isn't telling him /why/ she's unhappy, not wanting to upset him again." He pauses again, gathering his thoughts. " 'jani has always very good at putting duty first, and her own feelings to the side." And falling apart in private.

"Well the most concerning thing there is that she won't even open up to her dragon about it," F'kan replies, rubbing his knuckles thoughtfully over the stubble on his chin, "That's not a good sign. I do understand about putting duty first," and he's had his share of falling apart in private, "But there has to be a balance struck, and if she can't get over the first one, each subsequent one will just eat at her more. So… you came here with the hope that I would have a word with her I presume…" He guesses.

Z'an twists the rope in his hands tightly, before tying it into a large, tense knot and adding it to his already half created clump. "I hoped that you, or one of your assistants would," he admits. "It's plain that this is hurting her, and Hovirskath." He sets his rope-clump aside, and picks up another, picking at the cut end with his nails. "And if she won't talk to yourself, Weyrlingmaster, or one of the Assistants, then I will. She may say 'It's fine', but it's clearly not."

"That's fine, I can certainly do that," F'kan seems pretty amiable to the request, shrugging his shoulders before he gets back at makes some smaller, more compact clumps of knotted rope. "My question for you is, why didn't you, as her father, try to talk to her first before coming to me?" It's a simple enough question, but the brownrider looks awfully curious to hear the answer as his hands work to knot more pieces of rope together, some tightly so they stay strong on possible impact, some loose, with the possibility of flying off the main group in the right conditions.

"I have tried," and Z'an's tone is sharp, but it's a sharpness directed at himself and no one else, as his hands fall idle. "As a bronzerider of her Weyr, I have tried. As her father, I have tried. Kharnith has tried. By the First Egg, I'd bespeak her mother if I thought that would help! And all the time, even when her eyes are red from crying, she blames the cold. She blames the air. She insists that she's fine. The day that Ozriath flew, her brown called us to help, panicking because she had narrowed the bond and he couldn't understand why." The words tumble over themselves as they spill out, sharp edged and harsh. Apparently this has been building for a while. Summoned by this blizzard of /feelings/, Kharnith makes his descent again, thumping heavily to the ground, this time sticking around and wrapping his tail around Z'an. This seems to stem the flow of words, and Z'an looks rather mortified.

Holding his hands up defensively, F'kan probably wasn't expecting this type of response, misinterpreting the man's previous words into thinking that he hadn't actually talked to her yet. "Of course, sorry. I didn't think." Actually, not thinking before opening his mouth seems to be one of F'kan's specialties. But what he hears only concerns him more as the lines forming on his brow seem to suggest. "That's more than just shutting out her dragon. I'm surprised she's been able to do so well in drills. Maybe I'll see if a mind healer can come with whoever to talk to her." he considers for a long moment, eyes unfocuses as he most likely converses briefly with his bonded.

Still looking fairly mortified (he'll blame any redness on his face on the humidity), Z'an offers a bow of thanks and respect, as far as he can with a tail wrapped around him. When he's fairly sure that he has control of his words again, he adds verbally. "Thank you." His own eyes also unfocus, before he taps the tail that holds him. "Thank you for hearing me out," he repeats. "I hope that you can do what I couldn't," and that last is muttered, so low that it might not be heard. "I will leave it with you, as I am needed for wing duties. If there is anything else I can do, I will be happy to help, Clear skies, Weyrlingmaster," and Z'an bows a second time, before mounting. Kharnith, considerately, moves a good distance away before launching up into the air.