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There have been 65 scenes in the last 30 days.
Title | OOC Date | Cast | Summary | ||||||||||
Igen Visit Igen Visit
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. Mid-morning is as good a time as any to visit the Galleries. It's bound to be a little less crowded, but the heat won't be as oppressive inside. Outside? Is another matter entirely. As the midday hour approaches, the summer temperatures soar to almost unbearable highs. Most will be seeking refuge in the cooler inner caverns of the Weyr or elsewhere throughout the Bazaar. Not here, where heat remains constant. Kopriva has staked out a little area for herself on the lowest tier; a little out of the way to offer some 'privacy'. It's also a way to gain some distance from the sands, but not leave entirely. Pariisamith has taken to brooding over her clutch remarkably well, though the young gold does prefer her rider's presence for decent spans of the day. Right now, the gold is sleeping, curled in half-moon repose around one of the larger clusters of eggs … there seems little rhyme or reason to their spacing. Some are buried more than others and that tends to change on the day. Nhiuzukkath might be away hunting for more gifts … his latest one's tidied up and so mercifully there are no butt-less sheep. Faranth only knows what actually may be lurking out there? What could top a whole-ass tree or a (actually kind of pretty) boulder? For now, it's calm. Quiet. Kopriva is as comfortable as she can be, dressed in light Igen desert style with her hair braided and coiled up. There are refreshments, mostly fruit or light finger food — remnants of a late breakfast. More importantly … water. Her attention though, is on the book open on her lap. She has fully absorbed herself into the contents of that book; in fact, it looks like she's nearing the end! It must be great … storytelling … for her to be unaware of the surroundings — or time passing by. One little Southern greenrider slips from the heat of the bowl to the grounds' entrance, taking the tunnel to the wide staircase up to the galleries, while a young green may grouse about settling on the caldera's rim rather than taking a soak in the lake's cool waters. A basket's handle hanging from the crook of her arm, Kovie mounts the stairs with a squint-eyed look at all the sand — not on the Sands — not just underfoot, but on the galleries' benches… everywhere. Such an appraising look flees, however, when she spots Kopriva in the little haven she's made for herself on the lower tier. Treading the aisleways to the goldrider, she calls with a cheerful, lilting voice, "I didn't know if I'd find ya here," for she would not have Naianth inquire of Pariisamith, not whilst the queen was tending her clutch, "but here you are!" in perhaps something not totally decorous of a visiting rider when addressing a weyrwoman. However, once she is near Kopriva's station in the galleries, she does turn that pleased look towards Pariisamith, and her eggs, and inclines her head in a respectful greeting to the queen: a wordless acknowledgement, before her eyes shift back to her friend, dropping to her area, briefly noting the book. "Is now an alright time for a little visit?" Kopriva startles at first, her preoccupied mind scrambling back to reality. It takes a moment of blinking for the voice to register and recognition to follow swiftly on the heels of that — and once it does? The book is shut, not even properly bookmarked in her haste, because that is not the important matter at hand! Heat be damned, the young goldrider is quick on her feet and rushing to close the distance between herself and the visiting greenrider — no, a (very missed) friend! "Kovie!" Kopriva exclaims, all delighted with surprise and giddiness. Clearly, there is no need for decorum here; she skips over formalities in her greeting. She forgets, for a moment, that there's plenty changed between them — or maybe little has, save for distance, homes, rank and title. Maybe, maybe … none of that matters here and now, just between them? Kopriva will seek to hug Kovie, however brief because of the heat. "Of course now is alright for a visit!" That much was caught, at least! Her hands will, hug or no, perhaps come to rest lightly on Kovie's arms or hands, as though she is still assuring herself that she is here. "Is this a surprise or … oh, I hope you didn't send word and it got lost or mixed up too!" No, seriously. What has been happening lately? Then, remembering some politeness, Kopriva gestures with a wide smile, "Come and sit!" During the height of Kopriva's reaction, Pariisamith woke up, but only long enough to blink her eyes open and tilt her head inquisitively in their direction. She hums, low and long, but there is approval in it; this is fine. More than fine! She resettles her head on a foreleg, but her mind? Her mind wanders, lazy sunbeam and reflective dust motes searching, searching … perhaps finding Naianth; the touch is warm as it is gently welcoming. The Southern green is no threat, an ally by proxy through Kopriva's trust and familiarity in Kovie. The hug received and returned with enthusiasm, however brief, Kovie steps back to get a good look at Kopriva like she's a long-lost friend. Which, technically, she is — other than being lost. "I actually didn't send word ahead of time, I probably should have," she laughs, "though I did get someone else's mixed up mail, and I did bring that with me to Igen. But you," and she gives Kopriva's hand a little clasp, a little squeeze, "are my primary reason for coming. I'm sorry… I'm sorry I haven't come sooner to visit." She says all of this as she follows Kopriva to the seats she indicates, settling down on the benches and sitting the basket there between them. "Little treats and snacks from Southern's kitchens," she says of the basket. "Like rolls," though no longer warm or buttered, alas! Between! Stealing freshness! "I kind of miss packing snacks for Vassa, when she was on the Sands." So this? Visiting Kopriva when Pariisamith is Sands-bound? A little bit of happy nostalgia for Kovie, even with the heat. She leaves the basket for Kopriva to set aside or open — whichever she's inclined to do — and finally devotes proper attention to the what's visible of the clutch upon the Sands, tilting her head this way and that to try and guess the breadth and scope of the eggs. Any common colors? Can she guestimate a number? Is one larger than another? Naianth receives the welcome with a burble of spring water, a merry brook that bubbles refreshingly sweet, and serene, flowing mentally to the young queen as proper respects paid from the visiting green. Yet there is a sunlit warmth to her returned salutations, as if she has heard personally of the one attached to Pariisamith and has already decided she likes them both very much. "You don't have to apologize for not visiting," Kopriva is quick to interject on that note, clasping and squeezing Kovie's hand in turn, before she reclaims her previous seat. The book is hastily placed elsewhere and absentminded enough; a glimpse will only yield the word 'Weaver' in the title. Her smile is gentler, a little wistful, towards her friend. "I … I could have come and visited too." And never did, but their lives took turns at opposite times; it wasn't so much forgetfulness as simply just not feasible. There is no judgment and maybe only a small shred of regret. Kopriva's gaze lowers to the basket, a broader smile now at play for the reveal. Even if the rolls are no longer warm or buttered — the thoughtfulness is what really, truly matters. And despite the heat, she will (politely!) pluck a favorite from the basket, while Kovie takes a moment to observe the clutch of eggs on the Sands. "Thank you," Kopriva begins, all warmth and open honesty. The nostalgia Kovie gains is not lost on her. In the next breath, she is leaning a little towards the greenrider, amused beneath her conspiratorial hushed voice. "I've missed some of Southern's treats…" No offense meant to Igen's kitchens, of course! "Even though there is plenty of unique foods here and in the Bazaar," Kopriva amends with a lopsided smile. Nostalgia then, for the two of them! There is so much to touch upon and inquire about and for a moment the young goldrider seems at a loss. Where to even begin? Her attention is solely on Kovie, but the words stick in her throat. As for the clutch, it's a good size for a first! Counting may be a little tricky, as some are more buried than others — one remains buried entirely. Otherwise the colors vary across a broad gamut and the placement of the clutch holds no true rhyme or reasoning to it. Eventually, Kopriva finds her voice — or one thread of conversation to pursue. "How have you been?" Then neither will hold the other guilty for life's twists and turns, for here is what matters now, and now is what matters here, and Kovie will happily pick up with Kopriva as if no time has intervened — save for the major life changes, one who sits in front of them on the Sands; another who perches above, having moved from the caldera rim to come to the dragon viewing ledges to take a look for herself at the clutch below. Kovie may even point out to Naianth an egg that reminds her just a smidge of the very one her green hatched from, though she is leaning back towards Kopriva with the thought of, "I should try something from the Bazaar, then, while I am here," for unique and different sounds like a fun option before she must go home. The silence that follows is comfortable, for Kovie, and contented, until the question draws her gaze from the lovely clutch to her friend. "I'm alright, I think." Her voice may express some doubt. "Getting used to… the life of it. We like our wing, and the riders in it…" She trails off, to present Kopriva a semi-fragile smile. "It's hard to… sum it up." Make it sound neat and tidy. "I could give you some recommendations," Kopriva muses, "Depending on whether you want food, drink or both — and if you want a certain level of atmosphere or entertainment. I'd take you personally but…" She gestures with a tip of her head to the obvious in front of them. Pariisamith tolerates her leaving — in moderation. Perhaps with time, it'll ease. Or is it a little of her too, not wanting to stray too far? There is a brief frown, replaced by a small smile. "I could see if one of Oasis' riders are available? It's — the Bazaar is unique." But? She exhales, "And not without its own risks." Blessing and caution given, Kopriva keeps her gaze on Kovie until that expression of doubt; space is offered by her looking away, still listening but without pressure. That semi-fragile smile is glimpsed, echoed in the gentle half-smile on Kopriva's lips and plenty of unspoken understanding. "It really is," she agrees, wistful. "Usually all I can tell those who ask, is that I'm… adjusting. It's not a lie, really… But how else to put it?" Is there a little apology threaded in there too? For putting the question to her friend. While they talk, Pariisamith will crane her head, likely to try and spy Naianth up on the ledges; part curiosity and playful. If she does, the gold will hum a warm note. There you are~ "I'll take 'em," Kopriva's recommendations, said with a grin to the goldrider, "anything you think I should try," for Kovie is keen for new experiences, new places, new samplings. "And I wouldn't expect ya to be able to leave for something so trivial as that," she waves off the half-trailed statement, as well as the next. "And, no, don't worry over that, please — I wouldn't want any Igen riders to think a Southern rider would need such a fuss." Part pride, part mortification, she's a young enough rider to care a little too much how others from a different Weyr could possibly perceive her; and also young enough to know how insignificant she is even think it possible she have a guide. "I'll be fine." It's not false confidence, necessarily, even if it may be falsely placed: for a girl who survived the Southern jungles and the Orokee cannot fathom being any more in danger in the Bazaar, even if it would be wise for her to be a little more cautious, a little more wary, and heed Kopriva's warning. But that semi-fragile smile morphs to one of brightness, just a little, as if the potential for (mis)adventure is just what she needs to distract her from the complexities of new-rider-life she momentarily left behind. "Adjusting, though, that's a good way to put it," she seizes on Kopriva's statement, tempering her grin into agreement. "But you —" and her eyes glance to the knot, "and this — " enfolding the clutch and all it entails with a vague gesture, "this all truly does look like an adjustment." Sincerity, concern, it's one and the same, with a strong thread of curiosity woven in the look she gives to Kopriva here. "But one you look like you're handling nicely." Admiration presents itself here, a glance which softens to Pariisamith as the Sands-bound queen acknowledges the small green. Naianth trills in response, an equally playful sound, tilting her head back and forth in consideration of the queen and her clutch. "Have you found… people? People you can…" Kovie licks her lips, trying to get question out without sounding too intrusive, too forward. It has been a long time since they've seen each other! "Are you lonely, here, is what I am trying to ask." Kopriva's laugh is as light as it is brief, though no less genuine; it could be that it couldn't quite be contained for Kovie's grin and eagerness. It staves off the worse of the lingering concern in her gaze to her friend, a warring indecision playing out in her head. Eventually, she nods and relents to the suggestion of an escort guide. The only sign that there's any lingering doubt and worry (and there is plenty), is the short-lived worrying of her hands, before they resettle in her lap. "I'll share some of my favorites then, before you go." she promises, with her usual warmth. It will be a little brightness for later, when the inevitable sees them parting again. Her smile brightens further, when Kovie seizes upon her statement, only for it to slip to something far more uneasy for the breath it takes Kopriva to recollect. "It's been…" she begins, flounders for the right words to describe a nebulous riot of emtions and fails. Her exhale becomes sheepish, as does the look she casts to Kovie. Maybe the greenrider understands? "There's been ups and downs." As expected. "Some struggles." Understatement. "I have had plenty of support, though. And the other goldriders… they've all been kind. Patient." Kopriva's tone takes on a faint note of wonderment; as though the notion still surprises her, to this day. She turns her full attention to Kovie then, lips parted to say more, only to have them press tightly shut as Kovie asks that question. It has been a long time since they've seen each other! And how was she to know how it would sting? "Yes," Kopriva admits in a tightly hushed voice, as though admitting something blasphemous to Kovie. "… and no." She exhales that last, with a quiet clearing of her throat. "I'm never truly alone," There's no glance to Pariisamith, but the meaning hangs unspoken. "But I've… I never really got a chance to — to find those connections." Now her smile twists, almost a little sad. "And now it's complicated." Or she complicates it, more than necessary. "There are those I know I can go to if I need to, but —" Kopriva pauses again, distracted as she fumbles. "It's more surface level issues? There's no … I'm still trying to make friends, without this," Her hand flicks to her knot. "Potentially muddling things." There are some things so vast and deep and layered that it's difficult to give an accurate summation, or to narrow down its complexities into something easily relayed: that is what Kovie understands, and her slight lift of lips in a little, compassionate smile hopefully conveys that she does understand the challenge of wrapping neat little words in something not-so-neat. "I'm glad," she murmurs sincerely, about Kopriva finding support and kindness among the other weyrwoman, for the knot itself could potentially be isolating enough. That seems to be what Kopriva alludes to, with her admission. Here, now, a more sorrowful smile, mirroring her friend's, for while she knows — she can feel it, too — the constancy of a dragon's love and companionship, it also isn't the same. Not less: but different. But she listens to Kopriva's answer quietly, watching her friend. "I've struggled, too, after Impression," lest Kopriva think it is her issue alone: it may have been why Kovie asked it in the first place, a clue of her own lack. Her loneliness. "How is it more complicated?" she asks after a moment, curious, hopefully not prying, but spinning off on one thing Kopriva said. Her eyes drift over to Pariisamith's clutch, wondering if that is what she means, or if she has misunderstood. Kopriva's gaze lingers on her friend, expression gentle and her smile small but no less warm. The turn in their conversation is heavy, but even with the stretch of time between, the young goldrider's trust in Kovie has not lessened. Maybe it helps, to have that shared understanding or the ability to relate, even parallel. Perhaps, Kopriva simply feels safe and so she speaks a little more freely than she would around others who may press. "The knot, the rank… complicates things. At least…" Kopriva pauses, only to huff in light amusement. "It's most likely just me overthinking and worrying over 'what ifs' and other broad assumptions. I just — It'd hurt worse to find out others got close, not for me, but for the position I hold." Her lips purse for a moment, followed by a vague grimace. "Not sure I'm explaining it well." she mutters, with a little humor. It's then that she turns the conversation back to Kovie, also trying not to pry, while offering what support she can. "I'm sorry that you struggled too," soft and yet so sincere, "Was it a mix of everything?" she asks, with no weight or expectation to her tone; Kovie has the choice to elaborate as much or as little as she wishes on her own struggles. “Oh,” and Kovie’s reaction suggests an understanding dawning, a thought which had not occurred to her, even with her turns as Vassa’s assistant. She never waded into her older sister’s personal relationships, though, and what drove them. “That’d be so shitty of them, to try to use you like that.” A blunt declaration when the greenrider does not temper her words tactfully; her expression, too, sees a fading of that curiosity into something loyally displeased, not at Kopriva but on her behalf, as if she would be ready to face-off with these unnamed people. A more sedate view or approach is not yet in Kovie’s methodology. It sets the stage, though, for Kopriva’s returned question to deflate her quick-fuse ire, ebbing once more to a sad softness. “All of it. Khy and I… we aren’t anything anymore, and have you ever imagined things going one way? But then, when you get there, it’s nothing like you thought?” With sadness is the pain of disappointment, still fresh enough for her fragile smile to resurface. “I didn’t get close to anyone in our clutch, either, not really. Not when it counted. That was as much my fault as Naianth’s. She’s… I don’t know the right way to say it, but protective of us or something.” Possessive, in actuality but Kovie guards her words when her keeper watches from the rafters, so to speak. That blunt declaration draws a rather prolonged stare from Kopriva, until there's a break in the form of a slanted smile and — yes, a little bit of swallowed laughter. "It would be," she agrees, no doubt pulled from the spiral of thoughts and what-ifs by Kovie's loyalty. Her mood sobers, following in the greenrider's wake and she is quiet throughout the time she speaks. Kopriva's expression twists with understanding, and while she has not yet spoken, she may shift closer; heat be damned, she will offer her hand to Kovie, whether to lightly rest against her arm or to fold over hers. Gentle, but supportive. "I have," she softly admits, to her own nebulous experiences to that vein of disappointment and pain, of the expected and unexpected. "And I think I understand what you mean, about you and Naianth." Protective. Possessive. Not the same, but close enough in ways that she can piece a little of it together. Quieter, almost hushed, as though to cushion as much of the potential sting despite the honesty. "I'm sorry about you and Khy." Kovie's hand clasps over Kopriva's — it may not last long with the heat — but she appreciates the gesture, and the slight pressure in response hopefully communicates as much. It's enough her longtime friend met her with understanding: she doesn't press for the experiences from which Kopriva can draw that empathy she feels from her. "We'll find our way," she says, both concerning her complicated bond with Naianth and the loss of her relationship — her love — with Khy'ai. "Thank you." She would say more, probably, but a sudden swell of emotion seems to choke out those words, and she swallows against emotion's betrayal. This was, afterall, supposed to be a happy, supportive visit! Not one in which she cries over that which was long-lost. Clearing her throat, with a slight sniff to reorient her body's reaction to the bittersweet sting of Kopriva's kindness, she turns another of those smiles, saving face, to the goldrider. "I've got to look for a farmer while I'm here, for a herder I know," she asides, a swift topic change to keep the spring of tears at bay. "He owes this herder Sriella I know some marks. And then I want to have a good rummage around the Bazaar to take my mind off things," because this conversation has helped Kovie to see she might need al little distraction. Kopriva won't press beyond the 'thank you' voiced. Either plenty was said, even unspoken or she is perceptive enough in that moment not to chase that thread of conversation. "I won't keep you then," she offers one of her own smiles in turn, leaning away not to put distance between them but to give enough comfortable space in which to stand. Her hands fidget, fingers worrying one another in subtle movements as she weighs against the urge to fuss over her friend. Surely there is no need to caution too much on Igen's heat, when Southern's summers aren't terribly kind in their own way. "And I can walk with you — to the entranceway, at least." Pariisamith is preoccupied at the moment, having roused herself to begin a routine check-over of the clutch; a few eggs are given paused and tenderly adjusted by the gold. There is no rhyme or reason to it and she does not seem bothered if Naianth remains to observe. "I wish I could take you to the Bazaar myself," she wistfully remarks, as she waits to fall into step alongside Kovie. "Another time? I — will come and visit Southern, soon, too. Maybe right after the clutch hatches." It may seem sudden, her blurting out that thought. Or was it a low simmering plan? "I'll try to send word ahead, when I do. It was good to see you again, Kovie." The last is said quietly, but weighed with considerable warmth and unspoken emotion. Kopriva begins to say more, then fumbles and a 'I've missed you' turns more to a lighter: "Let me tell you where you can find some of the Bazaar's best — in my opinion," And if their walk to the entranceway seems to slow considerably, while she describes in length where to find those venues? Well, there could be cleverer ways to stall, but for Kopriva it is all based in an honest gesture to see Kovie off with plenty of options. There may even be a parting hug, if the greenrider is willing! Igen Visit has 1 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Kopriva & Pariisamith, Kovie & Naianth |
A Southern greenrider comes to visit her longtime friend while she is Sandsbound |
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Chair, Competition, Coincidence Chair, Competition, Coincidence
Ista Hold Cove The peppered sand of Ista's beaches drifts just a few feet below the water's surface, gradually shallowing upwards til it leaves the water, and becomes the main beach just below the Hold. Farther out is the main cove, filled with the activity of a full-sized seaport. To one side of the Hold is the shipping cavern, where fleets dock and undock, unloading thier goods for trade. Along the other end of the beach is the spar, thrusting far out. You can see another cavern spanning there, the home of Dolphin Hall, and the offices of Seacraft, as well as Ista's drydock. Tropical sun? Check. Rest day? Check, check. No cares? Hell yeah, baby. Ember strolls across the black sands of Ista Hold's Cove, her feet sinking into the soft, supple depths of dark grains and she luxuriates in that feeling. A color as dark as her own hair tumbling in messy strands down her back. Oh, she's long shucked her leathers for a bikini in fuscia, lavender, and dark blue and hopes to soak up some of Rukbat's light into her pasty-white skin without turning into a really terrible rendition of a red sea insect. In the crook of one arm, she carries a basket likely laden with all sorts of delectable delights and some damn alcohol. The perfect spot looms in her vision, free and clear of any other Istan beach goers as the person vacating it makes his old-wrinkly ass off of it. Already, beach vultures see this spot directly beneath a palm tree, with the best views. Ember narrows her eyes, the towel slung over her shoulder flapping as she quickens her stops. Not today, strangers, no one is going to get her spot. Chayallanth is too busy biting fishes in half and letting their bodies wash upon the shores far, far, far down the beach to care about some dumb spot beneath a dumb, curving beautiful palm tree. "Fuck that, you are not getting my spot," she mutters under her breath, all but running now. The spot even has it's own cabana chair. It's perfect. Dear, dear greenrider. Get thee away from this cabana chair, for Haverick, coming from the opposite direction as Ember, has already set his pretty blue eyes upon it as his for the afternoon. He may not rush like she does — nor any of the others — but longer legs? A solid walk? Less to carry? Check, check, check. He has just himself, in sandals and shorts and an unbuttoned button-down flapping open, no basket or bag or towel, and this may not even be the first time he's visited this beach… today. He may arrive just a heartbeat before the bikini-clad woman, unabashed in the smile he lights her way for the image she holds rushing so, and he turns to these other vultures vying for the very same spot before noting to them, magnanimously, "I heard the Holder's giving free samples of the specialty wine he just shipped in from Paradise. It's named after him." Do they believe him? Some might, and turn to go have a taste; and for the others? He has the graciousness to grin in much the same way he did to Ember, before shucking off his open shirt and laying it at the top of the chair. Is that motherfucker rushing to her chair? Not today! This interloper, this cabana chair thief is not going to get away with it. Ember arrives mere seconds after him, in time to hear how he dismisses the others and throws his shirt on her chair. Does her giant picnic basket land on a big toe? Whupsie! "This is my chair, I saw it first," Ember proclaims, throwing her arms out wide after giving the THIEF a big, fat, glare with large eyes as blue as the endless horizons she throws her towel at Haverick to throw him off the scent, and then falls onto the cabana chair, fluffing her hair. His grin? Is NOTHING to the ten thousand watt smile she levels at his still-standing face, even fluttering long, dark lashes and fluffing hair as dark as the black sands he stands on. "I was headed this way first," she ran, you see, "And I don't care who you are. You could be the Queen of Sheba, and I'm not giving up this chair. It's perfect. Look how Rukbat aligns just so — if you would kindly step to like three inches to your left, though. You're blocking the light, and I really don't want 'muscled man' as a sunburn on my belly. It's not a great look." If possible, her beaming smile WIDENS. Has she forgotten she threw herself on a chair held by his shirt? Maybe, or maybe she's being a sassy wench and just LAYING THERE, ON IT. Haverick, sadly, gets away with quite a lot: so when Ember does not back down, or flutter away airily by his smile he's used too many times for his advantage, he's almost — no, not almost — he is taken aback. "Yours," he repeats skeptically, disdainfully, sarcastically, yanking his foot out from under her basket and nudging it, surreptitiously, further away from the chair. Another retort was rearing its ugly head — lips parting not to smile but to rebuke — when her towel hits his chest and he snatches at it, holding it hostage the way she holds hostage his chair. He collects ammunition from all that she says, but she catches him off-guard (again) with one comment. "The queen of — there's no Weyr called Sheba," Haverick scoffs, narrowing a scornful look to that smile which could compete with Rukbat for its shine. "Listen, lady," his eyes refuse to drift from her smile, no matter how much he can still see how ready she looks to soak in the sun's rays, "I'm not moving an inch, unless it's to take back my chair. I was here this morning, I went to have a nap in my wagon, and some old guy has had it and it's finally free." He has her towel — which he is not relinquishing anytime soon — so he does not make a play for his shirt, yet, captured by her body, and as if plotting his next move, his eyes drift down to the basket. "Do you want to see my boobs? I can flash them for the chair if you want," Ember is absolutely not at all giving a single inch, pretty-boy smiles or not. She has her own amunition and right now? A well-endowed chest should be good for any man to wander off into the ocean for. "I don't care if you were sleeping at the old dudes wrinkled old feet like a giant muscled lap dog, you're not getting this chair." She has the audacity to stretch her legs down to her little ittiest bittiest tiny toe and throw her arms over her head to stretch all the bones and muscles and ligaments of her arms over her head, the inner points of her elbows sticking out so delicately in such a maneuver. A dragonrider's life hones her body to perfection, and nature has given her quite a few assets and being a greenrider has taught her how to use them. "If you take every word so literally, it's no wonder you find yourself too slow to have gotten to the chair first. A shirt? Means nothing. I'm laying on it right now, and claiming squatter's rights. So unless you think you're going to manhandle me off this chair, you'd better come up with something better than twinkling eyes and handsome smiles to get me moving, because that right there," a lazy, lazy sweep of her hand, "is a view to die for." She shoots a narrow-eyed look at Haverick, "Besides, who naps in a wagon in the middle of the day? What are you? Fifty? You nap in the chaaaaaaaair." The chair she CURRENTLY OCCUPIES, NEENER NEENER, PUMPKIN EATER. "Now, since you can't sit on me," but can he? "… then… shift three inches to your left." With a perfectly manicured big toe, she stretches one leg juuuuuuust far enough to jab him in the calf if he's close enough to the chair to be POKED. "I'm not fifteen," Haverick laughs outright, "and I trade for a living, so I can smell a scam when it's thrown right at me. But thank you," he'll totally misconstrue that he is the view to die for, seeing as he is still currently blocking hers of the water, and while he has no intention of letting her flash him for the rights to the chair, he also has no intention, now that she has put herself on display, of denying himself his view, her squirming most becomingly on the beach chair. He may have had something in mind for his next tactic, but that rather rude poke of her toe to his bare leg sees him looming — then leaning — over her, his hands pressed to the chair on either side of her hips, while he comes closer, long blonde hair falling in his face. Ember now can have a close-up view of those twinkling eyes and handsome smile, for he turns it all upon her as he challenges, sweetly, "What if," jutting his scruffed chin out with his enunciation, "I did?" Manhandle — not sit on — her. His voice doesn't carry past their private little battleground, no, it's low and drawled with his kind-hearted, thoughtful threat observation. "You're looking a little toasty, sweetie. You're acting like you can't really handle the heat." His teeth appear as his smile widens. "Maybe you need a little soak in the water to cool yourself down." "Coulda fooled me," Ember retorts, "Your loss, you'll never see them now," once again giving him her oh-so-bright smile. And that smile WIDENS when he takes in all the skin and shape she has on display. She absolutely knows what she's doing and gives zero fucks for messing with the beach bum's man-brain. Yet, she did not expect him to turn the tables on her, and those endlessly bright blue eyes narrow when he has the audacity of bracketing her hips with his arms and leaning in so close. "You really do not want to mess with me," Ember notes, her eyes narrowing even further. "I bite back, and if you so much as touch an inch of me," she vaguely gestures at herself, purposefully accidentally smacking him in the side of his blonde-whiskered jaw, "You'll be sorry." Is her threat real? Her expression falls into mutinous as she raises herself up on her elbows, her own chin jutting forward. "First, I'm not your sweetie, you don't even know me. Second, you wouldn't dare on a beach full of people, and I'm handling Rukbat just fine if you'd get your man-meat out of my way. You are the chair thief!" Yet for all her ire, she flips it on a dime with a thousand-watt smile which somehow bodes ill. "Don't say I didn't warn you," she sing-songs, squirming her hips as if she were setting roots in this chair, purposefully hitting the edge of his thumbs with her wiggling. Then she falls back in exaggerated drama back onto the cabana chair, making sure it's all stretched back and sighing HUGELY, as if aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh. THE CHAIR HAS BEEN CLAIMED. “Will I?” That seems what hooks Haverick’s attention, the assurance and not speculation he will be sorry for any of this, even if her threat was delivered with the smack to his cheek, his eyes blinking in surprise at it. That little, careful question comes on a low rolling tone, however, like a soft purr just as ominous as her thousand-watt smile. But her next words draw that smile back in place, a tilt of his head and a lift of his eyebrows for when he retorts, “You don’t know what I’d do on a beach full of people.” Sweetie. Can she hear it’s loud, patronizing usage in the way his smile shifts, something taunting about it. And maybe he would have taken heed — maybe he would have been wise to obey her warnings — but when she sets to her damnable squirming again, brushing her skin against his hands, the trader flinches, visibly, and grits his teeth in some cousin of irritation. Is this even about the damn chair anymore? Probably, most likely, assuredly not. But whatever it is about doesn’t cause Haverick to second-guess himself, for it’s an easy shift in stance to turn those hands over and scoop her from her lower back — he has the decency at least to avoid her rear — to himself, and to turn and swiftly carry her straight to the water’s edge, stepping around other folks sunbathing on his way there. "Oh yes. Oh very much yes." Ember, so certain of her words, leans back and watches his reaction. Never mind the way her teeth grit at his fucking patronizing tone. Oh you better beLIEVE she can hear that fucking sweetie. She does not know him from a foot corn, much less as a person! (However attractive that foot corn is, ahem.) "What? Are you in pa-" the moment his hands DARE to scoop her up, her voice rises on a squeak, "-AIN. THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!" Decency to avoid her rear doesn't mean all her bikini-clad flesh isn't now pressed up to a strange (yet built) hot man chest that — a really loud wailing sound comes from down the beach. Maiden? Or Monster? Ember gives a good few kicks, but the moment she hears THAT SOUND, she unaccountably laughs, smacking at his shoulders as if she's busting a gut in a comedy show. Oh, she could put up a good fight and will still get a good few kicks, but her voice — slightly throaty and breathy from being SNATCHED — caresses his ear in a drawwwwwwllll, "Remember how I said you'd be sorry?" oh how Ember gloats. "Lookie there, here's the consequences of your actions, comin' a'callin'!" The wailing sound comes louder, as if something very large comes their way. Does the ocean roll? Are the waves higher? Haverick ignores such threats and wiggles and laughing taunts for the moment, no matter how —good— annoying they are, the man intent upon his purpose of getting her little ass out of the chair and into the water. He does not, despite what it may seem, unceremoniously drop said ass right on the water’s edge, but he wades into the water with Ember still held to him, and it’s only when he is thigh-deep with her in the warm shallows that he finally, with a sharp frown, turns his head towards that horrible wailing sound. “What the fuck is that?” Distracted and confused, he doesn’t yet release her, but it will be easy enough for Ember to get away for in the water he does not hold her tightly to him. As annoying as it IS to be SNATCHED up like a hotdog by a man a good foot and an inch taller than she is, well… Ember's eyes dance with wicked delight and she has the AUDACITY to boop his fucking nose. "That, man-meat, is insurance." Oh, the oceans swell but only for the BEAUTIFUL and TERRIFYING visage of a very dark, cat-like green surging out of the waters from down the shore. It is from her the screams of a dying woman spill over the beach — not unlike a mountain lion's screams — as the green swoops in low across all those suddenly startled beach goers. Oh no, Ember is not going to push out of his hold for this one. Nope, she's right there to watch all of his reactions. Does he need to be poked (hard) in the soft meat where biceps muscle connects to shoulder and ribs? That soft spot where a manicured, long-nailed finger might find a VULNERABLE SPOT? "Look behind you." Chayallanth, beautiful cat-monster she is, has arisen from the waters, yes, but does not go after Haverick to rescue Ember. Nooooo, even if he might think that, no, she heads straight for that cabana chair and lifts it up and FLIES OFF WITH IT (and his shirt). Hope it wasn't a favorite. Smirking — yes smirking — Ember's sing-song tone says, "Hope you weren't attached to that chair," and her thousand-watt smile looks instead like the cat that just ate the canary while stealing the cream behind another cat's back. Do Haverick's arms momentarily tighten around Ember in realization that this beautifully terrifying creature is coming for him? — and he isn't meaning the dragon, not yet. His eyes widen, at any rate, and he only wrinkles his nose in irritation at that ill-timed, condescending nose boop. "You're a dragonrider?" It's said almost like an expletive, a curse, a disappointment. His shoulder twitches at her poke, and he does turn — half-holding her still in his dawning horror — as the green dragon spares him and instead punishes by confiscating the chair so no one shall have it. Or Ember will, eventually, depending on where her green retreats with it. There are startled, horrified sounds of surprise from the beach-goers, many rolling or crawling out of the way of the spray of sand and wind gusts from the swooping dragon, and for a split second the trader is thankful he is out in the water to avoid some of that wailing chaos on the beach. "That's crazy," lectures the man who scooped up a stranger just over a damn chair. Which does remind him she is a stranger, and he finally puts her down in the thigh-high waters. "Well." Chayallanth forced a stalemate — or would it be checkmate? — and now there's nothing more to argue over, is there? "Have a good afternoon, lady." Nice manhandling you. He turns to head back towards the beach, where his shirt most certainly isn't but Ember's towel he dropped en route to the water surely is. "What's wrong with being a dragonrider?" Ember snaps, a hint of actual anger clipping her tones — anger, but a note hurt. Damn all these men in her life making her feel like a second-class citizen. Or strange. Or weird. The chaos on shore earns nothing more than a gloat from Ember, though when Haverick lets go of her, his thigh-high water is like chest-high for her and she makes another sound. "It's no more crazy than tossing a woman in the water," but he didn't, so she amends, "or wanting to, over a chair." She splashes after him, not quite sedate, not quite not, but also wanting to get out of the water. Of course she's slower than he is, and has to fight more water than he does, but eventually she explodes from the water with a final, "My name isn't lady, it's Ember and that beautiful green you just disparaged is Chayallanth of Igen Weyr." No one curses Chaya but Ember herself, and she will… again… sometime, when she has to fish out another Dot from another unwelcoming lake, but the next time? It's not going to be with onlookers! "You could have shared the space, you know. Instead of being all smarmy and trying to claim with put-on charm." If he's going for her towel, she's not racing him. No, she gives herself a delicious little shake, the ends of dark hair wet enough to trail down her back, but as she'd intended to go swimming at some point? What's a little water? She can sunbathe on a different chair or on the sand or whatever. Here, Haverick would protest — or argue — or even mock the attribution of smarmy to him. He would sputter over the implication his charm was not true, or real; and throw back at her how she willingly used her assests to his disadvantage and made no mention of the possibility of sharing anything with him — other than her breasts. "What did you say?" No, not the part about tossing her in the water — should he have? — and not the part about her belonging to the very Weyr he currently bases himself out of. Her words have followed him up the beach, all of them, but one word in particular stops him, hooks him like she had a cane 'round his neck and has effectively, verbally, tugged. Haverick wheels around to face her, not quite up to the vacant space where an overturned basket and her rumpled towel now lies, sand-strewn, beneath that coveted curving palm. "Ember." The name, articulated, without ire: just almost laughed disbelief. "You're Ember?" How popular is that name around Pern, particularly Igen's area? How common? — for Haverick has never heard it before. A blue-eyed look drags over the siren, as if he's seeing her in a new (tropical) light. "Figures." Turning back around, he leans over to snatch up her towel, drying his waist, hips, even if the warm Istan air would've seen to that in under a few minutes. Mercurial in nature, Ember does not hold onto any one emotion so even ire fades as she wrings the tips of her hair out. Large blue eyes might widen at when he proverbially trips over her words, and not the ones she expects either. "Yeah?" Her tone suggests, initially, a 'what of it' attitude, eyes rolling as the stranger finds another reason to — to what, exactly? "That's my name, you're wearing it out," she sighs in mock exaggeration, lips pressing together slightly when he uses her towel to dry off, not amused at all the little black sand grains covering it's pretty pink and white coloring. Her favorite towel. Figures. He probably got toe-jam all in it. "Figures what, exactly? You're a very strange individual," she proclaims her judgment, feeling quite safe to do so from her perch of lofty viewpoint. Eventually, she gets tired of him using her towel and reaches to tug it out of his grip. "Now you're a towel thief," she grunts, fingers closing around the material. Does she accidentally hook his shorts? His skin? Grab an arm? Her hands are indiscriminate in their grappling. "How do you know my name?" Haverick is used to such judgments — strange, eccentric, unexpected — and it rolls right off of him like the very grains of sand he sloughed off with her towel. "Tell me something I haven't heard," he needles back, with a grin, an imperative to try again, if that is the range of insults the bikini-clad woman has to offer up. He holds his end of the towel just because he can, letting it pull taut, may even give it a little yank towards him, so that her hand could very well end up hooking to his forearm, draped by the towel and, by physics, bringing this Ember all the closer. Leveling a look to her, his eyes a bright blue, he delivers the news he has of some-Ember, any-Ember, this-Ember: "Some old sap returned your shit, but to me." He tilts his chin up the beach, towards the grounds. "I have it in my wagon," shipped all the way from Big Bay to the Island, for his temporary vacay stay here. "If you feel like you need it back." Will she hear the generosity dripping from his voice? His free hand lifts to shove his hair out of his face, his gaze still upon her. "Otherwise, it's made a nice footstool for me the past couple months." A number of adjectives spring to mind when he challenges her to try again, but rather than yield to his challenge, Ember holds her tongue, especially after finding herself suddenly closer to this stranger. Blue-to-blue, a reflection of endless color, though different in different shades, Ember stares his ass down when he explains how he knows her name. "Oh, great." The skin of her eyelids twitches a few times, but she turns her face away from him lest he get a good look at a very real measure of pain — not in relation to Haverick — and she abruptly drops the towel, the game no longer holding her interest. "Well, that's where that went," she sniffs — it's allergies; she is not shedding any tears over a no-good man — with a lift of her chin and sharp shake of her head, sending dark hair over her shoulder. "You actually have a wagon," forgive her for sounding surprised. "How do you get a wagon from Ista Island to the mainland? By boat?" A stalling tactic until he comments on how he is using her stuff as a footstool. "A footstool." She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose, and takes a deep, calming breath before leaning down and picking up her basket, the lid flaps and inside is a bottle of wine, cheese, grapes and other very delicious snacks. "Lead the way," to the wagon. Since there's no cabana chair here any longer. Not that she's apologizing for that — a bit short-sighted, but he definitely got screwed as much as she did! Chair, Competition, Coincidence has 0 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 05:00 |
A ridiculous, silly competition over a beach chair leads to another of Pern's mysterious coincidences adult themes, beach chairs, childish behavior, ridiculous competitiveness |
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The Haircut The Haircut
The Breach (Khu's weyr) A slightly curving passageway connects ledge to weyr. The rift in the rock opens abruptly, bubbling and swelling into a high-ceilinged space that echoes loudly and easily. Shelves and nooks are carved into the rock, with hooks embedded in other places that are suitable for leathers and straps to be hung. The immediate space is for the dragon-half of the equation, with a rush-filled wallow, rather than a couch. Dragoncare items occupy the left wall entirely, from straps to paddles to oil and more. The rider's leathers, too, are arranged in that space, helmet and goggles and all with their own special places. A full three-quarters of the weyr is for the dragon for reasons that are obvious to those that know the beast in question. The rest - to the right of the entrance - is cordoned off with a privacy screen of wood. On that side, there is a table and a pair of chairs; the table is oft-covered in hidework of various types, while the chairs are adorned with well-worn cushions. An old, abused wardrobe is pressed against the far wall. The bed is modestly-sized, but burdened with entirely too many pillows. A couple of braziers are available for heating and limited cooking purposes; little more than charcoal-fueled bowls of fire, elevated and with a convenient lid to snuff them out. Light is provided through a combination of glow-baskets and oil lamps, and the entire weyr smells pleasant overall, with a combination of draconic, spicy hide and something sweet, like vanilla and lavender. This is a weyr that is kept clean and neat, with places for everything - and everything in its place. The wind's not yet risen to a sand-choked shriek just yet - but it's still a little too close for comfort. Minutes will pass after their arrival on Ixzhulqvoth's ledge, after they've set foot inside, before the first spatters of wind-slung sand strike stone. Khu leads the way further inside - taking the potted plants from the ledge with her - and she wasn't lying about the weyr being well-sheltered; that curved entrance does much to provide shelter from the wind, though it plays hell with the acoustics of the place. Even footsteps sound haunting here, especially once the wind really picks up outside. Ixzhulqvoth will stake his claim out in the weyr proper, while his lifemate leads further, to the right, where the wooden divider can be tugged a little wider for ease of entry. The sitting space is comfortable, but it's clear she doesn't often keep guests; just a pair of chairs and, of them, only one seems to see regular use, for the other has a little bit of dust on it. The plants are settled on some shelves, where they'll reside until the storm has passed. Everything is nice and tidy and clean otherwise; save for a bit of dust here and there, that is. But that can't be helped: Igen is a kingdom built on sand and dust. "Sit where you would like," she provides, while she sets about lighting up a brazier and preparing some hot water. "And tell me how you like your tea, sha." She might as well make some; they're going to be sequestered for a little while. He feels nearly naked without his jacket, especially in the onslaught of a storm: this is no commentary on Khu's accommodations, for it is as she promised, well-sheltered, yet Ral rues that he didn't think to bring his jacket along with him, even if it were a race against the sands (of time). Not that he needs it — he'd be shedding it anyway, now inside — and perhaps that's what reminds him he didn't bring it, he has nothing to sling over a chair in a casual air, like the most normal thing in the world is to get a haircut during a sandstorm. And maybe he hasn't been a rider in Igen long enough to realize: it totally is. One cannot also choose openings for this sort of thing. At any rate, he passes no judgments over decor or dust, nor the sparse amount of sitting, and does choose a chair, the one which looks most unused as if for the time here, he'll change that status. R'sare's eyes, meanwhile follow Khu rather than his immediate surroundings. "Hot," first answer, rolling off a dumb smile; and more seriously: "Strong, of whatever you like for yourself." On an afternoon like this, with a storm outside and not-often-kept-company. His hands have fallen comfortably once more to lay on his thighs, without the rub of restlessness witnessed earlier at the 'Stones. No, here, he's still and quiet, watchful of Khu as mistress of her domain. And she is the mistress of it, to the bones; everything she needs is readily at hand, without the sense that she must search or dig through drawers or anything of the sort. "So shall it be," Khu intones, words edged in enigmatic tones. But the resulting tea is a variety of chai that leans into ginger and nutmeg, with the essence of clove at the back. Trellis delivers the milk - fresh from wherever it's stored - and the concoction is pulled together in what feels like no time at all and a lifetime. She functions in silence, allowing him the space to acclimate to her weyr, to breathe, to get a sense of the woman that she is behind that wooden divider, past the weyr that houses her equally enigmatic lifemate. Two cups of chai are served, his first, then hers, in matching cups of delicate china that have been painted with roses. No sugar cubes - but there's no need of them, either. The drink is flavorful enough without. She lets hers cool while she collects a two-part kit - a battered wooden box with a sturdy latch and a smaller box that rattles, filled with ceramic containers - and sets those on the table. "We shall see if you can handle what I drink after," she muses, a Cheshire curl to her lips that's there and gone if he's not quick enough to spot it. "But this is a familiar drink. Comforting on the nerves and soothing on the stomach." Truth be told, R'sare doesn't learn much right away that he doesn't already know: that Khu works with a quiet purpose, and diligence, without the distraction or dithering he's seen others fix a cup of tea with; that everything here seems as-in-order as Khu herself, collected and contained in seemingly simplicity save for those rare, enigmatic instances here and there. That cracks are no longer visible, not here in something as peaceful as her sanctuary, despite what rages outside. Inside? He cannot tell from this distance. The bronzerider sits up straighter when he's served the tea, painted roses noted but it's the scent which draws his hummed sound, pleased, though he'll wait to sip when Khu does, too. "After," he repeats amusedly, stressing the most interesting word to him, while flicking a look at the boxes, unfortunate enough to miss that curious curve of her smile so brief, for all that he's watched her so studiously since arriving. "I'll like it," he's sure, maybe referring to the chai in hand or her allusion to after — whatever may be served up and tested on his tastes. But as for comforting his nerves and soothing his stomach, he half-jests, almost sly, "What kind of haircut is this if I need something to ease my nerves you're having so much compassion upon, Khu?" No Wingleader or Dragonhealer title he typically hooks to her in their interactions: for this, off-hours, is a social call. And that was a sociable tease. Home is more than where the heart is; it's where the cracks and fissures of stress and woe can be left to mend. Once the kit is laid out, she finally sits in the other chair, hooking it close enough to R'sare that her knee comes within a hair's breadth of touching, but without making contact. Her cup is taken up in both hands, cradled and warm in the curve of palms. "Are you going to vanish the moment I am done shearing you?" Eyebrows lift just a little, her tone shaded in teasing notes. "There will be time after, yes, unless you have more pressing things to see to." A sip manages to mask her next smile, but only barely. If he doesn't sip, there will be an encouraging nudge - and maybe she'll gently nudge him anyway, because he's here and she is far more intrusive of personal space when he's in her space. The half-jest of his prompts a click of tongue and a roll of eyes that is most definitely in good humor, but she pulls off exasperation dangerously well until the smile betrays her at the end. "I do not need you twitching or trembling when you see the straight razor. You must be relaxed and you must trust me, or it will be more than just a haircut for you, yes?" One hand frees itself of the cup, but only to reach for his hair, to thread fingers through it as before. A touch of nails to scalp; a gentle slide of strands past knuckles. "And I do not wish to have to explain why I have a beheaded bronzerider in my weyr, R'sare." With the slant of her accent and lack of a title, his name is more purred than spoken; a breathy intonation smoothed over by the richness of chai. "No," lightly remarked, of R'sare's chance of vanishing and likelihood he'd have pressing things to see that he could up and leave, letting that single-syllabled answer stand in answer to both. But these arrangements are all observed, from kit to chair to nudging tease and R'sare, his cup in hand, takes the prompt wisely, willingly, lifting it to his lips for a sampled sip of the chai. He can barely swallow fast enough to try to stem the tide of her growing exasperation, an explanation almost ready, yet the reveal of the smile resolves that with a huffed exhale of humored agreement, instead. "I would like to leave here without too many nicks," he'll allow, gathering steam for further rebuttal: which is effectively silenced by Khu's reach, and subsequent touch. As if she requested it — (she didn't) — he tilts his head towards her, chasing the sensation of nails to his scalp, of his hair in her hands. His name, from her mouth, that way. And here, in the seclusion of her space, he does not shutter from his eyes a more visible reaction to such broach of personal space: how his narrowed glance may encourage a continuation of it, leaving unspoken the dare — the question — of, what if he does, in fact, want it to be more than just a haircut? What was she saying about soothing nerves? — But he swallows after a moment too long, when chai was temporarily forgotten, and on a blink he can summon a flickering smile as he says to her, lowly, "I trust you, Khu." Another blink, slow. "With a straight razor. And my nerves." Satisfaction in his responses - all of them - is a soft exhalation and a settling of her smile into something more nuanced. Complicated. There's an inscrutability to it that still carries an echo of an ache, half-remembered and then dismissed on an exhalation. Her fingers linger in his hair, as if forgotten, fingertips reaching for his scalp again as if compelled by some unknowable impulse. Or is it so unknowable? With the walls of the Weyr to shelter her, what need has she for more walls within? Lips thin for a moment, the bottom one drawn in and worried over by teeth for the span of a breath, maybe two, before the attention continues - without the pretense of preparing him for a haircut, this time. It's a slow and steady exploration, a tender raking of nails over equally tender skin, with the agonizingly slow drag of fingers through his hair to draw out the sensation all the more. She's closer now, closer than perhaps she needs to be, but the cant of her head and dip of eyelids suggests a different kind of scrutiny is at work. Does she pick up that unspoken aspect? She must. Surely she must, or her fingers wouldn't be tempting fate the way they do. And yet- "Finish your drink," soft, breathy, and unmistakably imperative; words that curl so perilously warm against his ear, "and we will begin." Loath as she is to pull her hand free from his locks, there are other preparations that will need to be seen to: warming some water, preparing a heated towel, and other things that smell nice and rich and perfectly aligned with the scents that already lace his skin. He holds perfectly still throughout, an even, leveled look upon her: approving, distantly, that she did not pull away if she had doubts or second-thoughts that she should. That she answered his bid with more freedom, more exploration. Exploration which causes, despite his relative stillness, a catch of breath, a soft exhale; a series of blinks which tell of his inner resistance against fully closing his eyes. Willing, instead, his gaze to stay weighted upon her, unwilling to miss even the slightest change of her expression, the concentration, the study. Even if he knows not, fully, the nuance, the ache, the cost. R'sare subjects himself to this, willingly, silently, wishing no words to mar whatever tension builds from Khu's hands in his hair, the chai unsipped for all his focus, concentration, sharpens to the feeling not just that, but also the air between them, how close she is. It's a brutal, delicious slow agony, all of it, and one he takes in full; his gaze, this time, not denying this proximity breach the way he might've at the Stones. His exhale comes not at her directive — no, he shivers at that, her breath to his ear, instead — but when she does, finally, pull away. Then, then he hurries his look away, with a shift to his posture, sitting up once more where he had leaned so close in response to her. Now, sipping the chai as told, he studies her quarters. Not rushed in hasty obedience, nor lazy in languid unhurriedness, the chai slowly disappears; he may very well need steadied nerves, though not perhaps for what originally dictated it. After a time, he finally gathers enough of himself to look back at her. It is good that he doesn't hasten to finish his drink, or else it might impede the rest of her preparations. It is better still that he's keen, aware, and responsive. Even as he keeps an eye on her every move, expression, and shift, so, too, is she fiercely aware of him and his presence here. Of the struggle to keep his eyes open, of the labored breath of pleasure, at the shiver- all of it is drawn in, noticed, absorbed, and returned in some sense through the methodical movements of her preparation. A towel is dampened and set aside. Another is shaken out and readied. The kit is opened, exposing steel tools that are sharp and bright and well-kept. A pot and shaving brush; a bottle of something clear. Her return to him is marked not with a touch, but the draping of fabric over his chest as the towel is put into place and clipped at the back of his neck. His hair is pulled free and soon wetted with her fingers; the warm water isn't a proper washing, no, but she only needs his hair damp enough to relax and she'll get her fingers to his scalp to make sure it's done thoroughly. Both hands, this time, with her shadow stretching over him, her head bent to observe her own work. She's quiet, here, but there's precious little room for words to breathe when a moment has its own gravity; powerful, heavy, and drawing them toward a singularity that cannot be so easily seen. Hair wetted, she goes for the comb, taking her time and measuring out the length of his hair-to-be with a touch, a gentle tug, and a quiet consideration. Perhaps it will be as he prefers it, in the end; all signs seem to trend in that direction. Is it the chai? Or the lulling ministrations Khu makes out of this haircut? For R'sare is relaxed — or does, gradually — beneath her touch, beneath the quiet, beneath all that could be said but isn't. His eyes do not go so far as to close, but there is a distanced, faraway look to them however much he continues to be aware of everything she does, even if he cannot always see, does not always look. Some spot on the cavern wall is where he hangs his gaze: unfocused. Convening with Strath, who is weathering this storm in their quiet weyr? Or removing all thoughts and perceptions save for what he can feel of Khu watering down his thick hair? He has gotten haircuts before; he can trim up his hair, himself, even, though mystery why he hasn't since Khu first made that comment at the yard— after the goldflight — all those sevens ago. But as he told her, truthfully: he trusts her with the shears and her having good sense of judgment. Of considering him, nerves or otherwise. It's not until he can feel the slight tug of his hair that in a blink his eyes shift sideways, and up, to see what he can of her in his periphery. Which might not be much. Something spurs a break of the silence, a question that finds itself willing to be asked: "Do you cut hair for riders often?" This is not vetting of her expertise or experience; an uncurling curiosity, over a dragonhealing wingleader who happens to have a hair cut kit in easy reach within her weyr. It's some manner of spellcraft, perhaps - if ever Pern housed witches, Khu would be one without a doubt. Whether the warmth of the drink, of the room, or the fingers that work through is hair is the catalyst matters not: the end result is the same - and the very effect she's sought thus far. Not compliance or complacency, but relaxation and calm. Ease. Relief. The walls of this space are full of shelves - some plants, yes but plenty of jars and bottles and jugs, glass and porcelain and clay. Dried flowers hang in profusion in one section; herbs claim another. Her work is more plainly on display here, the quiet work she does when she's not stitching wings or leading her wing or, indeed, working her strange brand of witchcraft on those troubled souls that need a calm hand and a soothing voice. The stirring of Ixzhulqvoth in the weyr betrays his presence only briefly; he rests, lapsing into a slumber and lulled there by the sounds of the sandstorm outside. In here, in this space, it's a susurration of sand and wind; a sigh, dampened to spare the senses. With his hair combed, she finally takes up the scissors and starts to work. She's unhurried in this; there is no need to rush, when this is more than just a routine cutting of hair - yet, why has it become a pampering process, prolonged and purposeful? If she has answers, they are not forthcoming. She clips away with a steady hand and a periodic hum of thought; he'll surely feel the shifting weight of hair being removed, hear it whispering to the ground. He speaks and she pauses, scissors at the ready while she considers it. The work begins again and, with it, her words come in a low, melodic cadence by virtue of her peculiar dialect: "I cut my own, mostly. I used to cut for another and he would cut for me. But those days have passed, as days do." More snipping; more silence. Then: "I will sometimes do it for riders in the infirmary, who have been there a long time." A pause. "You are the first I have taken here." R'sare might not be allowing himself to think too deeply upon it, lest he make a bid for those answers Khu hasn't quite offered up. Why hurry, though, when trapped by the sandstorm for however long it takes to spin itself out? To the soft sound of the shears and the quiet contemplation of Khu about her work, he submits himself to the process, an occasional twitch of his nose or flicker of his eyelashes when bits of hair fall from the scissors and tickles his face. But he keeps still, spine straight, hands upon his lap now that the rose-painted cup was safely placed on the table once it was emptied. What he makes of her answer? The first part receives no further prodding; it was what it was, and — as she said — has passed, no matter if a curiosity exists around it. And he could've guessed the next, that she does; but the last? Perhaps it is the hair that falls with her next snip that has caused a more fluttered blink, a more narrowed glance sharp to the side, to catch sight of her figure as she moves around him to cut his hair. But no words, no follow-up, to question that: only a soft 'mhm' to at least acknowledge, without elaboration of thoughts that might stir up from such an answer. Silence, then, stretches. Then another thought. He noted it before, and will note it again: it's a little like a sanctuary here. "My weyr is bare, compared to this." No signs of hobbies, nor decor; it's a spartan existence, his bachelor's weyr, with no flourish of life that seems to bloom with Khu's interests and side-hustles. "Strath is on me, to buy art for him." Gratitude is a secret thing, but spoken in a subtle smile that lingers at the corners of her mouth. Khu pauses briefly to brush some stray hairs to the ground, to work fingers through his hair to loosen up more, and then to run a comb through her work to see how far she's come, how much further she has to do. Does she feel even more relaxed? More at ease? With it comes an openness; questions asked will always be answered, for that's how she is and always has been - but perhaps the loosening of her mood will mark a loosening of her lips in due time. His fluttered blink - does she suspect hair or surprise? - comes just as she steps more into view, her scissors gliding along the sides of his head to shorten and neaten there. Both sides are evened out, the sides shorter than the hair on top, but there's yet more combing, more care, until she seems satisfied enough with the cut that she can set her tools aside and work her fingers through instead. "I have had a long time to fill it," she replies, fingers skimming down to his neck before she glances askance to consider the razor. Not yet, though. Not yet. Instead, she points to the mirror, a small disk of a thing, while making sure her gesture is seen in some sense - even if it's the corner of his eye; the fingers of her other hand busy themselves with styling his hair loosely. "Why haven't you given him any art?" Curious, that, though without judgment; what reasons exist, she cannot - will not - speculate. He blinks once more against the scattering of clipped hairs, giving a little shake of his head beneath Khu's hands to help aid in their freedom; but he's back to a lightness, figuratively with the topic change — weyr decor, of all things — and, now, too, with the dead ends cut away, returning him to a more well-groomed R'sare. Less disheveled than he typically presents to the wingleader, always by accident. With her hovering near, but not always directly in front of, his eyes follow her where and when they can, always watching even as her fingers stroke through his hair at the end of the cut. Unconcealing, once more, the way his lips twitch in betrayal how good it feels, her fingers on his neck, in his hair. Picking up the small mirror, he dips his chin, tilts his head, this way and that, attempting to get a thorough look at the change wrought by Khu's hands and craft. Answering, even as his fingers lift to brush away some stray hair stuck to his forehead, "Most of the stuff I've seen is — stuffy Hold stuff that I grew up with. When I've looked around at Gathers." Not that he's been to much. "Or the Bazaar's usual of — portraits and landscapes of deserts and canyons. Nice, but. I don't know…" So it is less a reticence to accommodate his bronze and more an innate pickiness, of not having found what is just right for the both of them. There is something meditative about it - running fingers through hair, slow and steady, over and over again. It's soothing - for both her and, it would seem, R'sare as well. A final sweep of fingers over the back of his neck finds her fingers slinking through his hair again, without any trace of shame - nor any pretense of doing so for any other reason, either. The gentle press and knead of fingertips adds a massage-like quality to the contact, her other hand joining the one already in his hair and giving a final, thorough, working through. "I need to clean up the back of your neck," Khu provides after a moment, chin lifting to the mirror. "Is the rest to your taste?" She'll leave him to answer matters of hair while she, in turn, ponders the artistic conundrum with a thoughtful hum. There's that meditativeness again, as stroking turns to kneading turns to a slow, deep rubbing at the back of his neck and his shoulders in a physical expression of how deeply she thinks. Eventually, "Does he like colorful things? Black and white? Single colors?" Best to start at the barest bones of preference before building up from there. If he takes time to question it, the touch without pretense, that she does it because she can — and wants to — R'sare will not risk acknowledgement of it in case, by calling attention to it, he mucks it all up. That he certainly enjoys it , and finds the sensation, the care, satisfying, will not be beyond detection, no stoicism on his part existing here. He may even try to find Khu's gaze in the mirror's reflection, however distorted or small; and while its curve of the disc cuts off the image of his lips, she may see the smile — the approval — in his eyes. "It's perfect, Khu. Exactly what I wanted: Presentable, at last." Wry, but appreciative of her work. Before he can drop the mirror, she could easily catch sight of the shift in his expression, when her contemplative kneading takes a stronger turn, but he's already fleeing from view when the mirror's replaced on the table and, unthinkingly, bending his chin to his chest in reaction to the deepening touch — and thought. Are a dragonrider's shoulders ever not tight? Is a dragonrider's neck ever not tense? For the muscles there bear the knots of strenuous labor; a body physically and frequently exerted; worked out often, and, from the way his skin even twitches beneath the tunic and towel, touched little. His eyes have closed, not holding out here: he allows himself to feel every bit of Khu's physical thought process spelled out on his muscles. "I… don't…" What are they talking about, again? "Uh," one eye squints, either in concentration or concentration, "Sunrises and sunsets. He likes the end and beginning of the days." Dusk and dawn, twinned beauties. Wasn't she supposed to do more? A shave? The tools are there and the towel, damp and warm, is ready to be applied, but her hands persist in their work of finding those knots and coaxing them loose. Her fingers are cunning and clever, experienced in the art; surgeon's hands, hers, strong and steady and canny. "Good," and she is satisfied that the hair meets his desire, her own smile perhaps caught in the curve of the mirror before he sets it down. "More than presentable," she does amend, tilting her head a little to glance at him from a different angle. "I have some waxes to try in your hair if you would like." But she's making no move to get them, not now, when she finds herself anchored to him through the dance of sinew and bone, muscle and skin. Fingers slip further, seeking entry past the barriers of cloth, to make the skin-to-skin contact that will make this easier. Burrowing deeper into her thoughts; deeper into his tensions. Deeper into the shared knowledge of the work that they do and how so very necessary these moments of relaxation and rest are. It may be that she's doing work - but it's every bit as relaxing for her as it is for him and it shows in the muted sigh that slips past scar-split lips. "Mm," is that melodic mote of thoughtfulness, tumbling a bit into a drawn out hum. "I will speak to my brother. He knows more artists than I." An offer made, the seeds of an idea planted, she moves on with a murmured, "Does the emptiness of your weyr trouble you?" "I'd like that. I like things like that." He could be accused of being, at times, a little vain or particular when it comes to his hair and they wouldn't be completely wrong, but R'sare is a guy who would appreciate more hair products, such as the wax offered. He'd say more, maybe, but silence seems a little wiser, at least until his skin acclimates to the feel of her fingers, now unimpeded by his tunic. His own exhale is not so muted, a soft, relieved sound when she works through a particularly tense spot by his shoulder blade, common for the effort it takes to sling or haul firestone sacks filled-to-brim. Lips parted, it takes him a minute to find his words to answer her question. But his eyes are open, once more, considering his answer. "It takes time to build a life, as you said. And we're new." Young, he means, and inexperienced. Untested. "Seems foolish to rush to fill something that may have to be cleaned out by someone else not much later." And while anytime, any rider could be escorted to between by Thread's help, R'sare seems to feel more keenly the likelihood could happen in the early turns of sheer inexperience. "But it's his place too," honesty unfurls, a quieter thought, Strath in his mind and heart, "and he would like some art," and so art he shall — eventually — have. "I just needed to be more resourceful," acknowledging now, Khu's connection, and her comment about it. "How old is Ixzhulqvoth?" How long has Khu had to build what he now sees? Hummed is her assent, her agreement, her reassurance that she will provide what she has suggested. Rukbat knows she has plenty of containers here; how many are dedicated to the vanity of others? She seems to use precious few - shampoos, yes; lotions and some oils… but little else. It's a little more difficult to get at the more troublesome points of the neck and shoulders, where she knows the gnarling of muscle and nerves runs tightest or, at least, are the most difficult to unravel - which finally forces her hands to retreat with a soft sound of lesser frustration. She wets her lips and draws her hands away, a final smoothing motion over his shoulders and neck - with the cloth serving as a barrier - only to move for the towel. It's aromatic, pleasantly scented, and she adjusts the folding of it while assessing R'sare's face. "You are new, yes. Fresh. But life is for the living - and living is filling your world with things that help you grow. Things that bring you joy. It is not foolish to wake up and look at a painting that gives you life - if only for another day." There's her smile again, soft and tinged bittersweet. "If not for you, then for him." Her thoughts align with his in that sense, reaffirming his words with a further bolstering of her own. "Head back, just a little. I am going to drape this over your face and neck to soften the skin and hair." Warning given, she'll do just that, holding fast to her answer until she's satisfied with her work thus far. It won't be there long - but it might feel like a long time, needing to breathe through warm, damp cloth. "It has been twelve turns and nearly a month since he gave me my name and purpose." Affection limns her words, an ache and tenderness thrumming deep - and, perhaps, some measure comes from the brown himself with a subsonic rumble resonating through stone. To the next stage of the impromptu appointment, R’sare slouches enough to tilt his head to the back of the chair, neck supported, eyes closed to receive the pleasantly warm towel with its lulling scents. It gives him time, this quiet darkness, this momentary separation, to ponder the truth in Khu’s answer, of ‘living today, for tomorrow we (could) die’. Something he has struggled with from the beginning: the emotional investment into that which may be so easily lost — no, taken. When he resurfaces with the removal of the towel, having heard the words and the ache that wrought them, he quietly recalls, “You were Khulan, before,” remembering the name written on the one he received, one of the few things he thought he could understand. "I was. As you were Ralisared once." His old name holds a different sort of melody on her tongue, more sighed than purred; still soft, soft, soft. "I like R'sare better. It breathes." The towel is set aside and the process begins with an efficiency that speaks of skill borne over turns; how often has she done this? How long has it been since last she set warmed cream to skin and a razor to it after? The blade is sharp; her hands are sure. Where there was a species of distant intimacy before - even with the partial massage, her physical distance was distinct - there is something more here, as proximity tightens and the sphere of her own scents mingles with his. Should his lips part to speak, the blade will be removed - she might have plans for how to deal with a beheaded bronzerider, but today is not the day to enact them - but, otherwise, it will do its steady work, removing stubble with care from throat and jaw and cheek. The edge is cleaned, more cream applied as necessary. Finished sections are wiped clean with a deft hand, chased with a light caress to be sure all the stubble is gone. And, all the while, she speaks in a low murmur, words for his ears alone - for Ixzhulqvoth already knows her story to the bones and sinew of his own self. "I was born to traders, the Khan. We grew and sold healing herbs and lotions, all of the things you see here. I might have become a trader here. I might have joined the Healers. I might have been lost to the Bazaar. These are all possibilities that existed once, but He chose a new one for me. I do not forget where I am from - I cannot - and those lives still guide my hand. If I die tomorrow, I can die satisfied that I have lived and lived more lifetimes than most." R'sare, does, too — like the new name, the new him, the new life far far better, despite the struggles, the adjustment. The differences. And perhaps there is more he would or could say, but silence here is as comfortable as it is necessary, and he can hold his tongue. Registering, instead, the close proximity of Khu, not just the physical nearness but the different quality it takes; and with it, the tactile sensation of the careful scrape of blade against skin, buffered by the cream. He is a captive — and captivated — audience, though, to the unfolding of Khu's biography, little known of it before now, other than the glimpsed images shared by Ixzhulqvoth, or the vague references she herself has made in the past. Still, he does not speak — he won't, until she's finished, not wishing to interrupt any of this — but watches the cavern's ceiling, or whenever Khu comes into range, her; and only a swallow might impede her progress, when his eyes flick to find hers, if only to request — beseech — a silent more when she pauses. More. More attention to his jaw, where the curve of it may make stubble stubborn to scrape away? More testing that the scruff upon his cheek has been erased away? Or more of her — her story — of how she came to the Weyr, what led a stubborn-hearted Khulan to be discarded by her trader lot and seek a new life in Igen? She has a surgeon's steady hand and those periodic swallows of his are taken in stride; barely a skip to her stride, in a figurative sense, with the blade working oh-so-effortlessly in her grip. The snag of stubborn stubble is easily felt, his wordless pleas somehow heard and answered with a barely there tip of her head in mute acknowledgement of what skin says to skin. Her thumb will tuck into that place, working over that juncture of jaw and throat; that expanse of cheek. Featherlight, but just enough; enough for the whisper of sensation to set a tingle in motion. More cream, then; another pass of the blade, for she has time to make this right and she is not a woman who works in half-measures. As more is scraped free, her fingers set to work again, seeking out the secrets that they might find; the curves and planes that a person knows are there, but which another has yet to experiences; the angles and aspects that are so easy to see, but much harder to appreciate. But is there more to tell? She's quiet for a time, eyes gone dark. What more is there to tell that doesn't reside in the oblique territory of a world so alien that it might as well be the Red Star? Lips twist a little, words stirring but not yet spilling; twisting, as if she were trying to chew her way to a beginning, only to find another ending instead. Eventually: "My parents are dead. I regret that I did not tell them that I could pay my own marriage price." Sardonic, her lips finally curl. "A single nanny caprine of breeding age. I could have trampled them with a herd of them. But, those roots are dead. My brother came to me in his grief and found his heart twice over - and I have gained a brother after a gift of forgiveness." Should he feel guilt, holding her hostage? Nevermind Khu is the one with the blade to his neck: for she met his requests without hesitation, in all ways; and R'sare benefits from it. Chai might have done its job well, or else it could be wholly attributed to Khu: for the pulse she could find beneath blade or fingers is steady, rhythmic, strong. The shaving blade has not caused him to quake, and neither does the darkness perhaps to be found in the prolonged silence, then words she chooses to finish out the rest of her more. It is not until the razor is stayed and her fingers, instead, trail across his throat, or jaw, that he risks movement, rather than words. His hand lifts, slowly enough to prevent accidental nicks — despite what he joked earlier — and slowly enough to capture her fingers, his own curling around hers. A gentle squeeze, before he seeks to thread his fingers with hers, interlocked touch without the placement of context. But as already, as if developing a particular habit, much is said without the shape and sound of words: herein, this touch, an intimacy of compassion; of solidarity in loss, or of living with a few regrets. All with the release of the fresh scent of the shave cream, what hung onto her skin now imparted to his. He skips the 'I'm sorry' he said at the Standing Stones, but his grasp grows from the same root: recognition of a painful past, of survival, of finding a way through. The work is done - or near enough to it, by now; the back of his neck needs tending, but that can wait - and, so the blade is on the way to being set aside when he finally does move. Something flickers across her face, something that casts shadows into her eyes before it passes. Her hand is caught, her fingers easily threaded through - for they seek soil of a sort to take root in and he provides that solid ground. Fingers thusly linked, she finishes the task of putting the blade away and, in taht moment, pivots just enough to make the table in front of him a perch for her to half-sit on. To face him. To study him. Subtle are the movements of fingers and eyes, of nostrils and lips as all of her senses are engaged in the absorption of those details of him. Of his actions. His reactions. The words said - and those unsaid, which might still be felt thrumming in the space between. Her free hand is not as still as the rest of her and it moves, restless, to skim up the line of his throat, to skirt his jawline, and to finally alight where her thumb can feel along his cheekbone with only the barest pretense of making sure no stubble remains. Scent and touch and presence all mingle, lines blurred between both body and mind to allow that intimacy to take root and grow, bit by bit. "What is your story?" For she's shared enough of hers - for now, for now, she's spilled enough of herself and the idea of bleeding more is too much. R’sare is not the species of man who blathers on with aimless chatter, who is prone to filling gaps in the quiet, so when he comes under Khu’s scrutiny, he does not crumble, nor flinch. Perhaps she is admiring her handiwork: for without the scruff, his sharp features look sharper; without the length, the loosely-tousled hair gifts the suggestion in another life, he could have been highborn heir of a stingy little cothold. Features which normally keep a staid composure, here, trend introspective, her question eventually bringing about an answer that isn’t necessarily reluctant to be shared, just unused to it. Straightening in the chair, he leans a little, adjusting his grip on her fingers to loosen and come, instead, to rest upon her knee, where a thumb strums a repeated, if errant, stroke as if to aid the unfolding of words. “I’m firstborn of a cothold, small but successful, that looks to Bitra’s main.” Holdborn, then, which could explain his innate reticence Khu may have noticed; the inward struggle towards flights, or lust, or intimacy. “Raised to eventually take it over, and a younger brother who got it all instead.” Rueful, his waste, how he threw his inheritance away. “It was a bet, a stupid wager, I made in anger and pride and didn’t think he intended to take it seriously, when he won. He went to our father, though, who let it stand.” A birthright traded for ego, and turns later it still smarts, his error, his folly, and what still feels like a family’s betrayal. “My mother still won’t speak to me, and I thought — for turns — wouldn’t return my letters.” His thumb, here, pressures into the muscle right about her kneecap. “The letter you found was from my brother, who told me my father burns my letters before my mother ever sees them.” It's a trait she appreciates, given her own tendencies; the quiet is preferred to prattle, for words should have purpose and weight and meaning. Khu must surely have concluded her assessment of his cheek and, yet, her hand remains, though her thumb grows still along the carved line of bone beneath skin. His hand will find a solid knee, unyielding and unbending under the weight of his touch. Freeing her hand just finds it slipping back, resting on the table to grant her a little more security and balance. There is no effort made to dislodge his hand or calm that strum of thumb; no effort made to expedite his words. They will come in their time and, when they do, she is silent and focused and intense all the while, with a slight nod here or there when it seems the words are slower in being spun. Sympathy cuts a crease in her brow, stitching between her eyebrows and finally forcing a parting of lips that, just as quickly, seal shut before a sigh or gasp might escape. Is it for his words or the pressure to that muscle at her knee? She will not say. There is no 'I am sorry' from her - the words are meaningless without action to support them - but her thumb glides over his cheek and her weight shifts, just so, to better balance his hand on her knee - to keep it right where it belongs for now. "It is admirable of you to keep trying, even when your words do not echo back. You are the better man, for taking the punishment and proving yourself in a different arena. You could have lived so many lives of misery," and perhaps he has, yes, but he's here now, a bronzerider and full of potential, "and, yet, you are here." “Here, yes,” draws quiet in R’sare’s repeat, a stray smile for he purposely misconstrues Khu’s overarching meaning — Igen — to be, here, in the middle of a sandstorm, freshly shorn and groomed and now quietly, if also purposefully, stroking the band of muscle a over her knee. “It was good, I know now, to go,” he admits, finally glancing away from whatever he sees in Khu’s eyes; instead, to tilt his chin towards her hand, a turn of his face that will see just the softest brush of his lips against her palm, a precursor to a kiss, without fully committing to it. They are only, after all, sharing stories and a haircut. Against her palm he murmurs thoughtfully, “I’d repeat all those turns of misery,” for there were, as she supposed, turns of it in the aimless, lonely in-between of Bitra and Igen, “if every time I knew I would arrive at Strath. If that is what led me to be whom he would choose, I’d do it again.” If life were a series of rolls or deals wrought, he would gamble again and in the same way. Much like, perhaps, he is gambling here, with this errant noncommittal — yes — kiss. However she may interpret the gesture, or the way he won’t quite look at her, the bronzerider gives a soft smile to her palm, before straightening out of her grasp, abruptly releasing his hold on her knee, an absence of pressure when his hand comes, instead, to snake through his hair. Resuming, presumably, this appointment. "Yes, here," and perhaps she picks up on his smile and his interpretation - or perhaps it's just a fleeting amusement for her to put herself in his shoes, to replay the events of the day and all the days leading up to now, and see how strange and ephemeral it must be. Her hand twitches a little when his chin tilts toward it, her fingers curling a touch and palm tipped a little more to receive that almost-kiss, that barely there touch of lips that feels so warm against skin that's warmer still. "As it should be," breathes she, of living all those terrible times, through that broken mirror of the past, if it meant getting to Him in the end. Before he can pull away fully from her hand, her thumb sweeps down, snake-quick, to touch just at his lips in a return gesture that might not have the same weight, but it shares an intention all the same. As he straightens, she uncoils, gaining her feet fully while he rakes fingers through his hair. Her movements are languid, dreamlike, and deliberate all at once, as she steps past and behind him, fingertips glazing over his shoulder along the way. "Head forward," she directs, fingertips briefly steepling at the back of his head in a gentle gesture, before she goes for the razor again. "You are nearly done and ready for the world again." Amusement lurks under the words, chased by a mote of gentler curiosity: "How does Weyrlife agree with you?" How did it? How does it? His Holdbred nature is no surprise, in retrospect, as she pieces those aspects together with his reticence. In that, perhaps, they come from a shared sort of origin - with wildly divergent responses. An obedient tip of his head forward has R'sare complying once more, exposing the back of his neck with the towel slipped down a little bit. Threadfall is what will await him later today, post-sandstorm, and he smiles at the thought it somehow won't appreciate Khu's work quite the same way he will. For Threadfall, of course, doesn't care how handsome you look when it's eating you to the bone. "Weyrlife," he echoes to gather his thoughts. "When I worked around here," pre-Strath, "it was — fine. I had little interactions with the 'riders, and their life. Didn't know any." Nor did he even try to. Even though weyrfolk and dragonriders live in the caldera together, it was easy for Ralisared to live seemingly separate from them. "The adjustment wasn't quite so — stark." He cannot glance to Khu, behind him, to gauge if he's making sense. But then a thought unfurls, a sideways grin, there a second before relaxing. "Of course the goldflights were — different, that first Turn. But then you get used to it, you know. It's felt like it's a different thing when you have an up-close view of a dragon's perspective on flights." A young, virile, lustful bronze one's, to boot. But there is more to Weyrlife than just flights, of course, and R'sare contemplates that. "I like the structure of the days, the purpose in them," drills and PT and sweeps and Threadfall prep and escorting queens, "and the predictability of it — the expectations, I mean — and the belonging." The job, the lifestyle, the strict requirements, the high standards. "I guess," exhaling, summing it up, "the job agrees with me." The razor works its magic up his neck - neatening the line, transmuting short hair into a subtle fade that only she and those behind him will ever truly appreciate. Sometimes, it's worth doing things just to do them, regardless of how much another might appreciate it. A final sweep of fingers, a soft sound of satisfaction for a job well done, and Khu lingers, listening; expressions on both sides go unseen, her introspective one, his slanted smile. One hand busies itself with dusting scraps of hair from his shoulders, long after the last is gone, while the other keeps hold of the razor until silence on his part - after that summary of his thoughts is given - grants her a moment in which to move. To the table again, where the blade is set aside to be cleaned and sharpened, where she can make an easy perch at the edge of it, both hands resting on the table to either side while her spine curves, serpentine, into a posture of contemplation. "The goldflights without a dragon were-" her tongue works a little, tapping at its cage of teeth on the inside "-difficult. It is more tolerable with a deeper understanding." She can sympathize. Greatly. But there's a slight nod for the rest, catching up on his words now that she can look at him fully. "The routines allow sanity to set roots and grow. To find balance. It is good that you have adapted well to the strange soil of the Weyr and found growth. Not everyone does." Fully trimmed and groomed, R'sare slowly tugs the towel from around his neck, careful to catch any hair that wasn't sufficiently (it was, though) dusted away by Khu's fingers. Leaving it on the table, he tests out the lightness to his face, his hair, by a quick sweep of fingers over and through, stopping at his chin where the backs of his fingers momentarily slide against his jaw. "Yeah?" Forehead lines appear with an arch of his eyebrows, glance turned up to Khu now in slight height advantage over him perched on her table; his forearms drop to rest on his knees, body leaned forward slightly, shoulders rounded, a little back stretch that turns into a slight slouch. He's thinking back to his first turn at the weyr, obscure in the mundanity of it, save for the slights, perhaps. A groundhog-day existence, perhaps. "I had always known of them: but feeling your first one…" Silence fills in what they both know it's like. But he's nodding, next, to her affirmation. "If it was chaos all the time," of flights or Falls without the security of knowing their place, their purpose: his blinked grin suggests he knows the adjustment — agreement — with Weyrlife would be far more troublesome. "It's the constant opportunity to die that's… that's my hang-up." One he has alluded to earlier in the haircut. Why decorate? Why fuck? Why invest — why why why. "But you." His eyes drift over her, sitting there, as if imagining a Khulan before she became Ixy's, became Khu. "Weyrlife agrees with you?" That first goldflight- it sets off a momentary cascade of memories that are, out of necessity, filtered out of Ixzhulqvoth's reach. The brown, slumbering, yet maintains enough of a connection to the world outside that dreams may still slip the ink-on-white boundaries of his mind. Khu knows this and restrains it, but her expression skews distant for a moment, two, before she shakes her head to render her into the here and now. "Perhaps that is where we differ most," she says at long last, picking up not on the chaos, but on death itself - the notion of it, hanging overhead always. "I did not fear it in my youth, because there are worse things than death." Especially for a woman, trader-born to fiercely conservative people - death is not the worst bedfellow she can have: it's just the last. The tip of her head his way allows her to observe him through lashes; any other time, she might look coy or coquettish but, here, there's an echo of distant melancholy and recollection. She draws her lower lip in and chews it, gently, before she lifts her head to look at him and continues: "Weyrlife agrees with me, yes. I came here knowing nothing of goldflights. I knew nothing of dragons or Weyrs, only that the sheltering stone would provide shade for a time until I could set roots or drift onward." The ghostly tracery of scars on her arms are most visible when she's still, memories writ in flesh; the girl-that-was had more of them, deeper and more livid. Time has scrubbed all but the most egregious away. "I did not expect it to embrace me." R'sare's not privy to what Khulan's earliest experiences at the Weyr were like: though he can see its indelible mark in the slight change in her expression, even if he knows nothing of what memories were spurred from his statement or question. But as he's proven, he can sit through a thoughtful silence without growing nervous or uncomfortable, and as much as they've done in that quiet back-and-forth pattern they've established, he waits her out until she, now, sums it up for herself. His early life, for the most part, was privileged: trials of a different kind came to his cothold's door, for in no way would he have ever — then — thought of worser things than death. Sadness, though, touches his features, a blinked look away to spare Khu from it whenever more and more of her upbringing gets brought to the light. Instead, he focuses on the latter of her statements, able to glance back at her when he finally speaks. "Embrace, I like that thought," he snags on that word choice, not for innuendo's sake — he means no doubled-meaning here — but the idea that the Weyr can be a haven, a home, for lost hearts and souls. As it is surely promises to be, for him, in time. What scars formed her, then released her, Ral has for himself not yet pursued: and even now if he could find the evidences of phantom pain left on her arms, he does not embrace — or take, rather — the opportunity Khu hasn't quite freely given him. Another lapsing silence, comfortable, though distant, with thoughts of pasts starting to close in with a heaviness. Finally: "Thank you, Khu, for — the haircut." In time, perhaps, those stories will be told - traded for more of his history, for snapshots and snippets of a life she would never lead; a life that was never even an opportunity by virtue of the accident of her birth. Khu, for now, is satisfied in the bleeding of self and the mingling of memory that, now, leaves its indelible residue over this moment and all that came before. Her smile emerges, slow and aching with something that touches her eyes to make the shadows shift, just so. "The stone is warmer than some hearts. I am grateful for it." She gives him a good looking over in that silent span, though it's more than a superficial survey of her works. It's something deeper, more assessing, more thoughtful - something that rides a line of intensity, without pushing too far into discomfort. "Thank you," trails after his words, wading in the wake of gently-cracked quiet, "for trusting me - and being trustworthy." One hand lifts from the table, reaching to tuck fingers under his chin and her thumb on it, to tip his head ever-so-slightly upward so she can better look into his eyes. "And thank you," is added with a curl of a smile at one corner of her mouth and a glance to the razor gleaming in the lamplight, "for not moving abruptly." Because cleaning up that much blood is hard and she has far better uses of her time - and it would be such a tragic, tragic waste to of a life. A sound of amusement, exhaled out, though it's neither a huff nor a full-blown laugh: but it carries all the same, that her comment caught R'sare off-guard. "I'll thank Faranth later that you've the steadiest of hands, Khu, for I like my neck and I'd like to keep my head, too." No blood spilled today. "At least through the next Threadfall." If he loses his head today, it will have not been by the brownrider's hands. He moves easily by her direction, not resisting a longer — better — look when his green eyes lift meet her dark ones. Therein, perhaps, without a trace of shadow, is a shift to a seriousness, even against her curling smile: an intention of the … and more he will not, today, verbally raise; and so the look shall not be restrained, even if R'sare himself will be. Slowly, while his eyes drift over her face to take in the woman who held, generously, his life in her careful hands, he notes, "Storm's slacking. I should go get ready for Threadfall." The thumb at his chin is restless, not content to stay where it is for long. Perhaps it's motivated by that look or something that stirs in dark, dark eyes, it's impossible to say. The facts remain that, after his last words, the pad of Khu's thumb glides over his lower lip, a featherlight touch that whispers of something similar, of intentions echoed deeper than can be seen and left to resonate in nerve and skin alike. "Mm," rises, falls and takes with it amusement to leave her with a shadow of his seriousness; a darkling mirror of the same. More and more yet lurks beneath, but no words exist to give it shape. A half-step closer draws her tighter to his proximity, piercing any remaining bubble of personal space with the same disregard that her lifemate has for others. She bends, then - slow, slow, slow - with a press of warm lips aimed for his forehead, while her free hand curls at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingernails touching the line of his spine. Words are breathed along the way, husked yet soft and firm in the same breath: "Fly well. Survive. And, Rukbat willing, return here, because I owe you a drink." A drink promised earlier, when he said he wouldn't flee immediately after - but things have taken longer than intended, haven't they? Long enough for the storm to ease, long enough for Threadfall to draw inexorably closer, and long enough for orbits to swing perilously close. His teeth come to press his lower lip where Khu's thumb lifts, testing nerves stirred by feather-touch with a deeper, distracting pressure. Though R'sare's lips part in a shallow draw of breath, when she breaches that which he so staunchly, so carefully, has tried to maintain throughout the haircut, the sandstorm. Does he exhale, ever, in the diminishing space? In the heartbeat's count as time suspends for that seemingly chaste kiss to his forehead? As he feels every slow, deliberate drag of fingernails over his skin? "Khu." There, that's the exhale: her name, a short breath; one he can't quite catch, one that tells of a restraint so threadbare it's close to shredding away. It would be so easy, barely nothing, to tilt his face up, towards her — The poor beleaguered bronzerider swallows, sharply, to finish a thought intended the entire time, or so he'd like it to seem: "Thank you." For the benediction, the torment, the nerves. Can he possibly recover? Not here; not with her, this close. "We'll drink sometime," R'sare soldiers on pathetically, a man who faces down Thread and yet, no matter how put-together Khu has made him look this afternoon, will still seem to be leaving her weyr so… disheveled. He's too out of sorts to offer up he'll bring the drink he favored in Bitra, if the impulse to do so was once there. He has other impulses to contend with, instead, and without the indignity of sliding out of the chair, he stands — slowly — taking her arms around his neck with him as he tries to gain his height and some form of internal order. There may be a moment his hands, firmly, find her hips: surely just to steady her with his rise from the chair, the two now even closer; the one now looking down to her. "I've got to go find my jacket." As if that is the most pressing errand at hand, but it's what makes him finally release her, stepping sideways to safety. A stir of wings, as the wind has let itself down; it's Strath, rumbling a greeting to the ledge's owner, in a sound that is nothing short of amused. The Haircut has 0 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Takes place right after Storms, where Ral endures a haircut |
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Moving out vig Moving out vig
Akzhan Tenement Apartments Tightly packed apartments jam together in an old adobe building that had once seen better bygone days of a different era. At the edge of the Bazaar, far away from the poshest places in the Bazaar, this three-story adobe-sandstone building has been repurposed from derelict disrepair to a place to house the poorest of Bazaar residents. Cheap accommodations lie within but boast of little creature comforts. Tenement housing operated by the Akzhan means missed payments get dealt with harshly, but repairs come months too late. Very few apartments have windows, though there are some, and more people than anyone can shake a stick at live crammed into tiny, layered apartments. Privacy is rare, as every apartment can hear what happens in the ones around, and doors are often a luxury where hanging linens are the norm in the lowest levels and cheapest accommodations. Only a fool would live here, or those hiding from secrets best not discovered. They'd been in Igen almost 7 months now, and Ryeklom didn't recognize himself anymore. The kid who used to race toy boats on the lake and enjoyed riding runners and sneaking pastries from the kitchens was no more, in its place a young man with callouses on his hands and a slight bend to his nose from one too many fights. He hadn't told his sisters he was moving out. He couldn't bear Keturah's concern and Naveah's delight to be rid of him. Or at least that's how he imagined it would be. He didn't fear a lot of things anymore, but he was afraid of that. So he snuck out, knowing it was the chickenshit way of doing things. He packed his meager belongings, made up his bed, and left. He didn't know which sister would take over his bed, but part of him was proud that he could do that for them at least. They could each have their own space with him gone. It would be much easier for two girls to share a room. Take care of your sisters. He'd known he'd be the first one to move out. He didn't want any bad choices following him home and hurting them. He was a growing boy, a young man, and sharing a room with two sisters was not something that could last very long. He'd been saving his winnings from the pool hall and the other bars, working his way quietly around the unofficial circuit. He'd hidden his marks in a plant pot in the rooftop garden that Herder had told him he could make use of. The plants had all died immediately, but it was a good hiding spot at least, and the old lady who lived there sometimes left food up there for him. Once he saw one of the other kids about to climb into one of the windows and he hauled him down and ran him off. The snacks had been a bit more regular after that. Still, that wasn't home. He needed a space to call his own, so when the old building out by the auction yards started to show activity and rumors swirled that it was going to be a new place to live, he'd started saving. He was one of the first folks to put down his marks and sign a contract for living there. He'd asked for a room on the top floor, not worried about stairs. He was more worried with neighbors, and if he was on the top floor at least he wouldn't have anyone above him to cause noise. They'd given him his key and directed him up the wobbly stairs. Up, up he climbed, to the third floor. Down tangled corridoors that were cluttered with trash and broken things - already - to his room. It was at the very end of the hallway - he walked straight up to his door. It was narrow, barely wider than the hallway itself. It looked like they had just put up a wall and a doorway at the end of the hall to make another room. He had a window at least, and one of the first things he'd need to get would be heavy curtains that would keep the sand out (sort of) when the storms kicked up. There was a tiny bed and that was it. He didn't even have a dresser, a table…nothing. He just had a bed, and the key that he hung around his neck for safe keeping. He sat on his bed, sneezing when the movement sent up a cloud of adobe dust and sand. He felt a surge of anger - old, long buried fury - at the path his life had taken. He'd been an heir, dammit. He'd had a big room, a beautiful carved bed, a soft mattress, down pillows, a clean floor… But the anger was brief, shoved down by his practicality and by the reality of his situation. He did not have any of that anymore. He was not that anymore. And he'd be dammed if he let life get the best of him. He wouldn't be here long, after all. This was just a place to start. His own space, his own room, so he could let his sisters have their own space, and so he could stretch out a bit. He was a growing boy, and living with his sisters was not sustainable. Kala appeared above him with a soft chirp and he beamed, reaching eagerly for the gold that was the joy of his life. Cradling her to his chest, he stroked her soft hide and dug into his satchel for the little tin of oil he'd bought that morning, eager to care for her. To take care of something. "This is our new home, Kala, okay? You can be here whenever you want, but if someone comes in, run away alright?" He'd tried to keep her hidden from the rest of the world, not wanting people to know he had a queen. Why, he wasn't quite sure, but it felt like a secret worth keeping. He didn't want anyone bothering him about eggs, or trying to take her from him. He didn't think anyone could steal her from him, but he wasn't positive and it was a definite worry. He sent her off and left his little room, heading into the Bazaar for the day's work. He had his own place. It was a shithole, but it was his, and he could have some pride in that. Moving out vig has 2 comments. |
17 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Time to move out. |
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You are not alone. (Vig) You are not alone. (Vig)
Rise Up by Andra Day Infirmary From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there are both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions. Issa's consciousness wavers, caught in the nebulous space between waking and dreaming, pain and relief. As her mind drifts in that nothing, it isn't the infirmary with its sterile smells and soft murmurs of healers that she finds herself in, but into a landscape vastly different. She wanders through Shabeth's mindscape, his monochrome world with its vast, open plains stretching infinitely, dotted with the occasional tumbleweed and the distant dust of unseen herds. It is quiet there, with no pain, worries, or expectations to do anything but wander and sit by the fire at night with nothing to do but to watch the stars pass by. Pictures of pain flash through her head as she sees herself in the distance, staring blankly at the ceiling, her body a map of pain and determination. Every breath is a reminder of the fight she had survived, and every movement a testament to the battles yet to come. Her leg, once strong and sure, was now a source of constant pain, wrapped in bandages that seemed as much a part of her as her own skin. "Why can't I stay here?" she asks the wind as it picks up around her, softly caressing her face and wrapping around her like an invisible hug. You know the answer to that. The wind whispered back with its richly masculine voice. Another picture erupts through the night to replay as she watches herself scream as a faceless person removes her new skin and another faceless person holds her hand. The pain is overwhelming as it washes over her in waves, threatening to pull her under into the darkness that looms at the edge of her perception, at the edge of the mindscape she finds herself in. "I am broken there," she tells the wind as she tries to push the flashing images of what is happening with her body away. Yet even as she flinches away from the memory, Shabeth's presence envelops her, his mental voice a grounding force amidst the storm of her emotions. You are not broken. It is just a part of your journey. Issa looks around, her gaze settling on the campfire that burns steady and true, the wagon nearby offering a semblance of home in this vast nothingness. It's here, in this place of vulnerability and openness, that she feels closest to Shabeth, where their bond deepens beyond the physical realm. "I know," she responds to the unseen voice, her mental voice tinged with sorrow. "But it's so hard." The landscape subtly shifts, colors beginning to bleed into the starkness. The pain from the memories doesn't disappear this time, but in Shabeth's mindscape, it becomes just another part of the narrative, a challenge to be faced and overcome. You are not alone, Shabeth's voice reassures her, as vivid and comforting as the fire that warms her against the twilight chill. We will face this together. With that, Issa feels a gentle tug, a reminder that she cannot stay any longer, and her physical body awaits her return, along with all its limitations and pains. But she also carries back with her a renewed sense of strength and purpose, a conviction that, with Shabeth by her side, they can weather any storm. As she slowly opens her eyes back in the infirmary, the memory of the campfire and the open plains lingers, a beacon of hope on her long road to recovery. You're broken down and tired And I'll rise up For you When the silence isn't quiet And I'll rise up For you All we need, all we need is hope I'll rise up And we'll rise up You are not alone. (Vig) has 0 comments. |
16 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Issa takes refuge in Shabeth's mind. threadfall injury rp |
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Full Hands Full Hands
Garden Terrace Tucked-away and bejeweled, here is a hidden treasure of Southern, beckoning and beguiling those who may tread the entrance of weyrbridge: steps cut upwards, switching back and outer-railed, to terminate in a sheltered ledge of stone. Here, greenery blooms in fragrant profusion, scenting the air and quieting the minds of those who stroll amongst the cultivated rows of cultivars. Flowers, and tiny fruit-bearing trees limn the walkways. Tables and benches scatter organic throughout the rambling concourse, providing easy rest for those who challenged the stairs… or the craft shops beyond the scrolled wooden door at the innermost part of the terraced ledge. It is the twenty-fifth day of Spring and 87 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky. The afternoon is warm, but not too warm to be out and about. Holding some sort of ice-chilled drink, Sriella walks along the terrace with a lanky puppy on a leash, letting the canine sniff her way from plant to plant. Sipping her drink, Sriella pauses to study a bush with bright purple flowers, a little smile pulling at her lips. The Herder is dressed in loose linen trousers in a rich green hue and a loose white tunic half tucked in, the laces left open at the throat with the sleeves cuffed above the elbows. Her long hair is half up, twisted braids at her temples to keep hair out of her face while still letting it cascade long and wild down her back. A cute puppy sighting normally illicits awws from passerbys that notice, but for Ilyana there's a reflexive looking over her shoulder and then a sigh of relief as she confirms none of her daughters are here to see the canine and beg for a puppy of their own. "You look like you have your hands full. Quite literally." Sriella looks over and then laughs. "Oh, hey. Looks like we both survived, then," she grins. "Yeah, she's still learning, but we're getting there." Kip wags her tail happily, tugging on the leash to get closer to the person who surely wants to give her attention, right? Ilyana holds out an arm as if for inspection. It is indeed her normal skin color, if perhaps a little tanner than a few sevendays before with the return of warmer weather and more outdoor duties. "No adverse affects. The Healers were right yet again." And while she doesn't go to pet the dog, she can't help but smile down at the puppy and that wagging tail. "Training for what? Just normal home-breaking?" Sriella sits down on a bench and pulls Kip back towards her, making the puppy sit between her feet. "Herding," she says with a quick smile. "Like, actual moving of animals. My other canine had to retire, and I was fortunate enough to get this lady from someone experimenting with different herding-type breeds up in Boll. This is Kip." Ilyana does a double take looking at the little puppy. "Hard to imagine something so little can get runners or bovines moving. But instinct and habit is a powerful thing, I guess." Sriella nods, ruffling the canine's ears with a smile. "For both ends of the equation, too. They won't want to be close to her, and she'll naturally - hopefully - want to move them along to me. But," she shrugs with a wry grin, "I've never trained a canine from scratch, before, so. It's a learning experience for both of us." "That does seem like it'd be a challenge," Ilyana nods as after a short bit of consideration. "Like even training firelizards doesn't always go smoothly." Like all that misdirected mail can attest to. "And for that, you can at least think at them and they mostly understand." Sriella visibly winces at mention of firelizards, coughing into the back of her hand. "Yes, well. I… sort of have a firelizard. He went pretty much wild a while back, soooo." Yeah she's not great with training firelizards? "I'm hoping I'm better with canines. I'm great with runners!" She's good at her job, she promises. Ilyana does blink once, twice, then schools her expression back to more neutral and nods again. "At least they are more than competent at fending for themselves pretty early on? The firelizards, I mean. Do you not ever find yourself working out in the fields alone where a firelizard would be a little reassurance?" Sriella knows, it looks BAD. "Oh, he's fine." She's not worried about her wayward brown. But then she gives the other woman a curious look. "Reassurance in…what way?" "That if something happened and help was needed?" Ilyana asks. "Things do happen. Tools break. Injuries. Weather. A firelizard can go for help immediately instead of waiting for someone to notice you're overdue to return?" Sriella ohs with a little shrug. "Yeah, well." She smiles a bit. "I'm pretty good at fending for myself, most of the time. I'm sure if I was really in need, he'd come when I called. I can sometimes bribe him to take messages." It can take an entire roast chicken, but. Details. She shrugs. "He…" How to explain it? "I wasn't in a good place for a while. That's when he left. Don't blame him, really. I wasn't paying him any attention and my brain was a mess. If I could have broken the connection I would have too," she laughs. "I do know a thing or two about being in not a good position," Ilyana and her own crappy ex situation after all. "But that is at least reassuring that he hasn't completely abandoned you. Just…. independent? Sounds like he might have learned a bit more from you than you thought." Sriella nods, giving the other woman a knowing look. Then she laughs. "No, he's still… around, sometimes. But it's like… it's like that friend that only calls when they want something, you know? They take and take and take and eventually you have to cut them off. He's very savvy. I don't blame him for cutting me off." Ilyana laughs at that as well. "In my case, that friend was my ex, but definitely. Though feeding a firelizard some scrap meats every so often doesn't sound as hard as what favors the human moochers tend to come up with. It's never just a little thing." An eyeroll there. Sriella laughs. "So you can imagine if I failed at taking care of a firelizard." Still, she amends a moment later because she's trying to be kinder to herself. "Ugh, save us all from greedy, demanding men. My ex - one of them - was the same way. Nothing was ever enough." "And that is precisely why they're exes," Ilyana points out, firmly. "We live and we learn. And hopefully we don't repeat the same mistakes." Sriella coughs. "Well." Ahem. "I've had two failed engagements with two very similar men. So. I can only hope that now I've learned? My other ex, thankfully, is my daughter's father and he's… he's not like that. He's a good man. I'm very lucky that out of the three men I've been with, he is the one I have a child with." "They do say third time's the charm but…. normally I think they expect more permanent charm effects. Though successful fellow parent even if you're not still together, sounds like it was some definite progress," Ilyana nods. Sriella nods firmly. "Yes. He is a good father and… man it's hard to co-parent. It's really, really hard, but we're figuring it out. I think. I hope! Evie seems normal enough." That's the measure, right? Happy child, good parenting? She gives the other woman a sympathetic look. "He wants to be a part of her life, so that's definitely a win." "Hey, that sounds a lot more figured out than some others have," Ilyana will definitely count that as a win for Sriella. "Jhoestros was never really that involved with the girls even when we were all under one roof. So wasn't really a shock when he's not putting in any effort now, even if a part hoped. But…" A shrug. What can one do? "I did have a shocking surprise the other day though of someone who did want to be more active in their lives. My mother. Showed up in my quarters. Unannounced. With bags." Sriella nods. "I'm… I'm very lucky." The more she sees other families, other single parents… the more she sees things outside of her own family, with her parents' picture-perfect marriage and farmhouse and seven children, the more she appreciates Daemon. "Oh?" she asks, ruffling Kip's ears and offering soft praise when the canine doesn't go after an interesting bit of trash blowing by. "Apparently I needed her," Ilyana breaks out the finger quotes for that. "And the fact I didn't respond to her letters proves I was overwhelmed. But I'm sure I never received any such letters! And that was a couple sevens ago when it seemed like everybody was getting the wrong mail. Maybe there's someone out there still waiting on their own mother to be making a visit based on letters they mistakenly received!" Sriella can't help but laugh at the absurdity of that. "Oh, that mail fiasco. I received…some interesting things, to be sure. Well, do you get along with her? Will she be a help? Or another person to take care of?" "Mooooooostly," Ilyana drawls out in an it's complicated sort of way. "She is fully capable of taking care of herself at least. Although that comes with very strong opinions on how I should also be handling things. And it would be easier if she weren't…. staying in my quarters. It was tight enough already with the four girls!" Sriella exhales a soft breath. "Shards, that sounds difficult." Again, another mark in the 'damn I'm lucky' column in her head. "I'm sorry. How long will she be staying?" "Judging by the bags she brought? I don't think she's leaving," Ilyana gives a sigh and a shake of her head. "But the girls do love her." Sriella winces. "If she's staying, she should get her own room." Ilyana nods, fullhearted agreement. "That would…. certainly make things easier. Distance can indeed make the heart grow fonder. And there is no distance in my rooms with six people in there." Sriella shakes her head, "Shards, no. Even if you have one of the larger apartments… maybe apply for a cottage. Maybe she can take your room and you and the girls move out…" What a pickle. "The cottages I thought were more for riders? At least all the ones I've seen have had wallows or barns attached…" Ilyana says, though it's certainly a topic she's been thinking of. "But getting her her own room should be doable. And will probably also come with getting some sort of official job for her as well to keep her busy and not in my hair as much." Sriella shrugs, "I don't know, maybe." She doesn't live here anymore, and her knowledge of weyr stuff was slim at best when she did. "Nanny?" she teases. "Maybe," Ilyana admits. "Run after more than just my littlest too though. She was a laundress back in Bitra. And sometimes helped the cooks, depending. So not like she isn't used to doing things." Sriella pushes to her feet, Kip bounding to all fours when she moves. "I wish you luck finding her a job and a place to stay," she says warmly. "I'd better go find my ride. Happy to run into you again, Ilyana. Maybe next time we'll bump into each other in Benden Weyr?" Since they seem to travel a lot! "Thanks, I'll probably need it," Ilyana laughs. "And probably won't be getting out to Benden anytime soon unless I need a lot of wine to deal with my mother. Safe travels!" Full Hands has 0 comments. |
15 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Sriella has her hands full with canine training. Ilyana has a full house with an unexpected guest. But both women have time to have a quick chat in passing this afternoon. |
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There and Back Again to the End There and Back Again to the End
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. Does the end loom? It's as if Nhiuzukkath knows how close the eggs come to hatching, for he is all but impossible to root out of the Hatching Caverns. Vh'iyr has resigned himself to being stuck on the ground and has temporarily sought shelter in one of the ground weyrs after his bronze has deigned to take him up to his weyr to at least pack an overnight bag. It sucks, because the ground weyr is not amazing. Not that his own environs are all that amazing, but they are at least comfortable. The bed is used either for flight fuckin' or for guests who stay a night or two at most. Yet, Nhiuzy's been awfully good — suspiciously so without even attempting to nibble on Pariisamith's oh-so-tempting tailtip. So Vh'iyr's at the lake, killing time by skipping stones and wondering just how much of their Threadfighting skills are going to be lost by the time the eggs do hatch. The one time he tried to drag Nhiuzukkath off them sands, it was such a hissing-spitting fight with claws digging into the sands itself and a lot of yowling and drama and no one — not he, not Kopriva, not Pariisamith — was happy with the result. So… eff it. "Dumbass dragons. Does he not know that I am the rider," thus the boss, "and he has to do what I say?" Vhy's muttered commentary follows another stone skipping across the waters. The end must be nigh? Bets are in full swing, even if it may feel like eternity dragging for more than a few; riders, weyrfolk and candidates alike. Pariisamith likely answers any prompting on the state of her eggs with endless pragmatism or non-answers. For her, this is merely one long (long) path to see through and not be concerned with the eventual end game and the freedom change in their lives as a result. The clutch hardens and no Candidates have run afoul of the gold's temperament — which has proven to be rather patient for a first time dam. Maybe Nhiuzukkath's continued presence (tail-tip obsession and all) has helped? It might be why Kopriva doesn't protest the bronze's lingering — and because of that one time result. She feels considerable sympathy for Vh'iyr, whether or not she voices much of it. "Feeling bold enough to say that outloud here," Kopriva muses, not far from his side. "And not back there?" And she certainly hadn't meant to sneak up on him either or even purposely seek him out. There is only so far she can go too and the day is relatively "mild" for autumn; hot, but not trying to kill you, hot. Kopriva can only handle so much of the sands and with Pariisamith being agreeable — she 'escaped' as far as she was willing to risk. Tethered to the lifemates as they are, Vh'iyr shows no surprise at Kopriva's steps, though he half-turns and gifts half-lowered lids with his shit-eating grin to her words, "I'm no fool." No one, least of all him, wants to deal with Nhiuzukkath's moods. He has little intention of getting verbally snipped at by his lifemate, especially as he's realized he really needs more small clothes. Tossing another rock sends his body in loose-boned kinetic motion, the wind ruffling over-long hair from lack of general upkeep given the fact he's spent most of his time ensuring the bronze has kept himself in something shaped like obedience. The tails of his shirt swing with the movement unbuttoned as it is to showcase the white undershirt and the gold coin strung on a chain around his neck. "I know," he says slowly, "it's not the same, and I know it's coming from him, but I feel this building anxiety. Like something's coming and it is similar to when we Stood, but not. We get to leave the sands with our lifemates, no matter what." Lips press together with this admission of disquiet, brows furrowing, but he doesn't retract it. Instead, palming another stone and sending it outward to skim the ripples of the Lake's calm waters. Rukbat catches half of his face, alighting one iris in showcase of green and gold with brown hazy in the center. "What will you do when it's all over, Priv?" "Mhm." Is all Kopriva hums to Vh'iyr's statement of being no fool. From the way she smiles, half-slanted? It's a tease, the unspoken suggestion that she doesn't quite believe it to be true. She'll turn her gaze away to watch as he tosses another rock, though her attention is still on the bronzerider; even if just peripherally. "Not quite a restlessness either," she replies in turn and not without a hint of nostalgia simmering. Memories that now seem weirdly distant, yet pivotal. "It's not unlike that 'calm before the storm', I guess?" Kopriva notes that disquiet and the admission of it, lending her usual gentle understanding and open honesty. She does slip in a little humor, just a quick curved smile. "We do have that going for us, at least." Of not having to deal with that dreaded unknown of whether or not they'll Impress! No, instead Kopriva has 101 different worries — of which she voices none at the moment. She is dressed comfortably for the season, in a longer skirt fashionable for Igen climate and in light fabric. Her hair had been braided back, but some is slipping loose; by habit she tucks a few of the strands back. When he prompts her, Kopriva turns her head away from the waters to glance fully at him. "I'm going to visit Southern," she admits, but with a firmness that is unusual for her, but suggests plenty: she's been planning. "I've been wanting to for … ages, it feels like." Not entirely a lie, though much of it dragging out was her own doing. Kopriva doesn't linger on that, instead letting a hint of a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. "Want me to put word in with Ze'ran?" It's more of another tease, light and playful than a full invitation for Vh'iyr to join her — in half-hearted official capacity. "Or… what were you thinking of doing, when we're both free at the end of this?" Her curiosity is genuine, as always. Canting his head to angle his face towards Kopriva, his smile blends humor and smirk and his tease reaches her ears with the next toss of the stone, "If our lives can be said to be calm, but yes." A beat, and then brows lift, "Southern, eh? I," he half-ass tosses the rocks in his hand so they bounce within the bowl of his palm, "have never been to Southern. As you request, my dear Priv, so shall I escort." A teasing mocking bow complete with a deflecting grin, but something true sparks within hazel-green gaze. "I can't promise I won't leave you, but then you might not want someone hovering the whole time, but." In a pinch? Vh'iyr, former guard that he is, would be there with less than a moment's notice. "I'll keep those crazy Southerners from snatching you away, but that's where you're from, eh?" For a glimmer of a memory from Candidacy sparks as he turns his gaze more fully on Kopriva, closing the distance to give her some of his perfectly round stones. "You ever skip them before?" an aside-question, not one pertinent to the conversation, but a segue nonetheless to a lesson if she's not. "I don't know," his honesty is raw in it's make, a material witness to the way he floats through life on a whim. "I should try to be respectable, I guess," but the exaggerated face he makes suggests his thoughts on that. "Return back to duties. Maybe go on a trip. Enjoy my own bed again. The ground weyrs are heinous, Priv." They're not, he's just a man-baby. "Maybe, finally, go back home." A note discordant with his demeanor, a sourness to it clashing against the ears. He half-turns and once more throws one of his stones, but his throw is too hard, too powerful, and it doesn't skip but hits the water and flies into the air before falling hard to drown in tame waters. Fitting. Laughter meets that mocking bow, with Kopriva dipping into a shallow curtsey as if to seal the deal, grin and all. Sobering just enough for an earnest reply, she tips her head. "I won't tell anyone if you happen to … hmm. Accidentally get turned around?" Truly, it happens to the best of folk, right? Getting lost, while somewhere new. She chuckles, "Yes, that's where I am from," she confirms, with a look that becomes a little thoughtful; a little fond, a little… sad. "There are a few I intend to visit, if I can. Really, it would just be nice to get away. Southern is, at least, decently familiar." Vh'iyr's approach shakes her from her thoughts, and Kopriva follows the segue after only an initial hiccup of hesitation. "I — I don't believe so?" she admits, while also cupping her hands together to claim a few of those perfect stones. "Is it tricky?" A lesson then, might be in the cards! It's not the stones that have her focus though — not for long. Kopriva is looking up again to Vh'iyr, for that raw honesty. Something she has always respected, even now. "Why not do it all? However it should fall, in whatever order." Did she just imply he not immediately go back to his own duties? "Though maybe try enjoying your own bed again first." From the way she exhales, she is about to jokingly chide on the state of the ground weyrs, but that is all swallowed back. Kopriva senses that discordant note, the sourness and is already aware that something has shifted long before Vh'iyr throws that rock and it's doomed failure to sink rather than skip. Her weight shifts, the only sign of fleeting indecision, before settling. The stones given to her are still held within her hands, though one has been plucked to worry slip between her fingers absentmindedly. "Would… going back not be pleasant?" Kopriva asks, as gently as she can manage, careful to keep any weight from her tone; he doesn't have to answer beyond a simple reply. Do it all; perhaps he ruminates on her words, chewing the cud so to speak until it slips like a lump through his thoughts. Initially, after such a terrible throw, Vh'iyr's look slants towards Kopriva in measured intensity before he inhales and shifts to answer a different question first. "It can be tricky," his tone has been rinsed free of discordant sourness, though some of his assholery always exists in the clipped way he shapes words meant to be encouraging. One cannot fight against one's nature, after all. Warm, calloused hands come to rest on Kopriva's, shaping her fingers gently so that she cups one of the stones easily between thumb and two forefingers. "Hold it gently, too tight and you'll end up doing what I just did. Too loose and it'll drop at your feet before it hits the water. Firm, but not too firm." He catches her eyes, studying her to see the moment she grasps what he's trying to say, "and then angle your body," hands leave hers to gently adjust shoulders and arms, even daring to settle on her hips to subtly shift them so. Stepping back, he takes one of his stones, and takes up his stance before flicking his arm in a sideways motion with a final twist of his wrist. The stone flies and begins skipping. "Home has never been pleasant, Priv. I haven't been back since I left to High Reaches and joined the guard." Finally, his answer comes at the end, when his eyes remain caught by the skipping stone until it finally, eventually sinks. An alegory exists in it's trajectory somewhere, but he turns to her, "Now you try." Kopriva does not react to the clipped way Vh'iyr delivers his encouragement, accepting it for the deflection it may be but also respecting it. She reacts to his guidance by dropping her gaze to her hands as his joins them to show her the proper grip. Kopriva listens closely, lifting her gaze to his and while there is understanding, there is shaky confidence at best. She reacts again, naturally, to the adjustment to her arms and shoulders; the daring touch to her hips may draw a flush of color to her cheeks but no comment. Instructions fresh in her mind and now in the proper stance, Kopriva … does not immediately throw. She observes Vh'iyr instead, but there may be more to her open look. The stone's skip across the water is vaguely registered and it's only when he turns to her, in the wake of it and of his eventual answer, that she blinks and looks away. "I'm sorry," Kopriva isn't apologizing, but rather … emphasizing. She lapses a moment, another beat of indecisive quiet while the stone is repositioned in her fingers. Like that or like this? Then she braves two things: gently prying further and making her throw. "Do you… have a choice in whether or not you go back?" Softly asked and first, before she does her best to emulate what Vh'iyr told her and demonstrated. Tricky, tricky … her stone makes it to the water but jury is out on whether or not that was ever a skip or just an artful tumble straight into the depths. Vh'iyr rolls back on his heels, watching Kopriva with a steady gaze forming his astute mien as she rolls the rock around in her fingers. Her non-apology shifts brows subtly upwards, though perhaps it's because it's difficult to discern entirely by tone alone whether a 'sorry' comes across as an apology or pity. Yet, it is a benefit of their time spent together that Vhy doesn't leap to conclusions, but rather holds his tongue until the last. Until her stone, falling into the water, becomes the punctuation to her question, with it's soft, wet slurp. Brows draw inward, a darkening of his expression but not for Kopriva, but her question or perhaps what her question insinuates, the temptation resonating within aiding gravid weight to a silence held intact by the laughter of beach goers and the like. "I could disavow them forever," words draw out like taffy, thinning in the autumn breezes the longer they linger in baritone's shifting accents. "But the past catches up to a man, eventually." A self-depreciating smirk before a quick, slight shake of his head. "The butcher's bill always comes due, Priv, even if you don't want it to." A half-assed, half-hearted smile stretches his lips but never reaches the eyes, "And I was long overdue before I came here, but… My family is… unpleasant." Lips press together as if to ward away memories of horror, but with a sudden widening of his eyes, inhalation, he nods to the water with a smile that does reach his eyes. "Almost there, try again." He even waggles his brows for emphasis, "Maybe you'll get two skips in this time." It wasn't pity from her, either. How fortunate then, that conclusions weren't leapt upon. Kopriva is clearly at a loss of what to say — or perhaps realizing there isn't much to be said that wouldn't come off as hollow or wrong-timed. She cannot keep her expression neutral, a myriad crossing her features beneath the light grimace. Hiding emotion has never been her strength and maybe she really, truly, isn't making an effort here. Her grimace draws out a little further for the mention of pasts and butcher's bills and while all is noted, she doesn't remark on that. The last remark made, along that thread of conversation is not another extension of 'sorry', but a low, faintly haunted: "Mine was unpleasant too." Offered vulnerability to say she understands without not … really knowing the depth of his past and too starkly aware that their experiences may vastly differ. Kopriva is quick, quick, quick to veer away from that vein of conversation — one she struck by her questions. Vh'iyr offers the chance, readily enough and she takes it. A huff follows his remark, her lips curving into a smile that ends in a smirk. "Why am I doubting that that is actually meant as encouragement? I think you have more faith in my fledgling skills than I do." He asked and so he'll receive, as Kopriva slips another stone between her fingers. Her stance is likely off, when she does turn to throw and she does not wait for correction. This time, the stone skips… once. Barely. Does that count? Blowing out a breath, Kopriva will turn to Vh'iyr with a look. SEE? Vulnerability is not an emotion Vh'iyr is especially comfortable with, especially as it relates to the weaker gender, the fairer gender — or at least, as his upbringing would lead him to believe. "I would never doubt you," his jest blends sarcasm and mirth, with a touch of boyish delight, for he truly, truly would doubt her. As if to underscore his terrible, playful lies, he leans back and tosses his rock with an ease of strength and flexibility. Following a path near perfect, his rock bounces once, twice, thrice, and more; for a moment, frozen in his last-pitch stance with Rukbat alighting his face and the wind ruffling his hair, he seems all the turns collected under his twenty one turns. Youthful, promising, strong, agile, until he turn to face her, his countenance somber and eyes darkened by enimga. "It is the so-called family that fucks a kid up faster than anything else," his words are bald truths, razor-edged in import, but his whole attitude shifts — drawing inward, down, into a quiet thoughtfulness so rarely seen on Vh'iyr's face. Pensive, almost, though he half-turns away as if not wanting to be caught in such introspective thought. "If I had stayed…" Another inhalation draws his chest outward, straightening his spine and broadening his shoulders as he holds his breath. Perhaps so his breath can steal his words, his truths, "… well, no matter now." Exhalation; more truths divulged in the shadow of all the candlemarks rolled into a carpet of days they've spent together. "But I'd like to see what I left behind, if only once more." This time, hazel-green eyes turn on Kopriva, and he asks, "Does visiting Southern involve heading out to the ol' homestead for you, too?" "Mmhmm." More humming from Kopriva, only this time it's heavier with her own blend of sarcasm, humor and half-hearted doubt. She does not hesitate on the temptation to let slip a muttered: "Ass." under her breath. Whether to his doubting her or his clear outstripping of skill. That rock may be long gone, but it still earns a fleeting glare that could've been better served (in play) to Vh'iyr. Yet it's only a sobered look that meets his gaze again, under Rukbat's light. Her expression tightens under a tight-lipped grimace, the only hint that Kopriva couldn't agree more with his comment on a family's influence — good and bad. Some of that tension bleeds away, replaced instead by a calmer (and uncertain) edge as Vh'iyr shares truths — or the beginnings of some. Kopriva has forgotten about the last few stones in her hand, for the time being. Her gaze is on Vh'iyr, her expression unreadable only for the mix of emotions beneath her own pensive thought. "That's understandable," Kopriva's reply is slow, as she weighs whether to expand on that or not — and decides against it. Her gaze happens to drop to the stones in her hands, as she delibrates between the two remaining ones. Maybe that is what makes her more agreeable to answer his question… and maybe it is her turn to offer a little more truth. "No," Kopriva answers far more easily than choosing a stone. It would be an obvious stall tactic, if she weren't speaking. "I parted ways with that … arrangement, not long after the tsunami that took out their cothold. Halia was never in her right mind, after her husband was never found and worsened after we relocated from the ruins of old Southern to the Weyr. Her daughter never liked me, though still grudgingly offered me a choice when rebuilding came about. I chose the Weyr." Simplified. It's too simplified. Kopriva glosses over much, gripping a stone at last and slipping into the motions to throw. Another near-immediate sinking, a quiet plop beneath the water.Kopriva glances sidelong to Vh'iyr, something too complex in her tone to be one emotion or another. "It's Nerat, I can't — I won't return to." A humored reflection in return to her commentary of 'ass' but the serious turn of their conversation prevents Vh'iyr from muddying the waters of indivisible truths with humor that could so easily be misconstrued. Instead, he listens to her recount her time in Southern, not prying with incessant questions — for that isn't in his nature, anyway, and he can execute the act of listening without commentary. With one stone remaining, he leans back and gives a loose boned toss as she tells her story, timing it to coincidence so the rock bounces on every high-point she makes. "The weyr seemed the better option," he cants a look at her, leaving in the silt of the river of conversation the understanding that without that choice she likely wouldn't be here, with him and their dragons on the eve of their first clutch hatching. Yet, it is her last that turns his attention, slowly back to the goldrider. Without rocks to throw, Vh'iyr shoves his hands into his pockets, his own expression unreadable as he seems to shuffle through a deck of words that may or may not be helpful. Stepping closer, only to halve the distance already closed once before, he pulls a hand free and settles it on her shoulder with a slight squeeze. "It's a good thing, Priv, you've got a big ass dragon that could toast Nerat to the ground if dragons could, you know, toast people, because whoever is in Nerat… can't do shit to you now." Kopriva will meet his canted look, a vague smile curving her lips the only suggestion of agreement. It was the better option and there is no regret lurking in her expression; even if it took her awhile to come to that realization. The truth of it all is there too: all paths in her life, even the bad and haunted, have led her here. Her hand wraps around the last stone left from the ones Vh'iyr shared, but she doesn't appear inclined to throw it — or perhaps her thoughts have deviated enough to be forgetful. Kopriva does not move away when he approaches or when his hand settles on her shoulder and leans a little further into proximity. His comment draws a huff of breath, half amused despite the somber tilt to their conversation. "Thank you," she murmurs, tipping her head down but not away. Honest in part, this time and perhaps not feeling so confident on the matter; but not wanting to invite that discussion. "Would you do the same to those in High Reaches?" Kopriva asks instead, in a bid for some humor regardless of the source. No one is here to overhear! What one confesses to isn't always what one would do. "Yeah, for some of them I would," his voice cascades low, humming with subtle tension. "Very little is left in High Reaches for me, but." His fingers give reflexive, gentle squeeze to her shoulder before he drops his hand. "But there's something I need to go back to get." A thing? A person? A memory? Vh'iyr doesn't elaborate, instead, choosing to stuff his hands in his pocket, the golden coin — a replica of a mark that surely is either long gone to dust or spent elsewhere — hanging around his neck glinting in Rukbat's light. "And then? I could salt the earth beneath their feet, for I will never return to the ground that birthed me." Ferocity underscores his tone, eyes captured far outward to the lake's water, rippling in autumn breezes. He inhales deeply, shoulders drawing up and causing balance to rock back on his heels. "Remember that package that was sent to me that I had to go get?" Tension of truth needs releasing, and so he shifts the topic away from touchy personal subjects. If she noticed the golden coin (and it's likely she has), Kopriva doesn't pry and neither does she seek any elaboration from Vh'iyr. She has plenty of questions, but she remains respectful and keeps to a quieter form of understanding. Especially for the ferocity in the statement of never returning. What more can be said? Nothing, it seems, but she will lift her gaze to his when he shifts the topic away. Kopriva flows with it, even if her pensive expression hasn't quite caught up. The lone stone, apparently for keeping and not throwing, is slipped absentmindedly between the fingers of her one hand. "The one you had no idea what it was?" she asks, curious but also a little wary. WAS IT WEIRD, VH'IYR? Like the wet leather she got? Too much personal contact in one day, too many heavy, weighted topics stirred up for him to want to linger, though a whole meat lies beneath all the things left unsaid. "Yeah, that one. Turns out some random chick sent me her underwear," Vh'iyr shrugs, "I don't remember her, but Nhiuzy… Back then it was a much bigger fight to keep him from ripping me apart with the flights. Anyway, it went to some chick's place and she threw them at my face," woe, WOE, feel for him Kopriva. "By sheer, dumb coincidence, it got sent to this bazaar girl I've tangled with before — and no, not that way. So…" He licks his lower lip and leans in a little closer to Kopriva as if sharing a secret. "… I signed her up for some pornographic publications." Hazel-green eyes dance a little as a shit-eating grin stirs the shadows from his smile. "A little virgin girl getting an education." Is he terrible? Does this make him terrible?! "Maybe she won't be so damn judgmental all the time." Does he think Kopriva might be more aligned with the girl than him? No, he's not thinking that far ahead, honestly. "Sometimes," quieter, thoughtful, "it sucks being judged all the time by what our dragons need to do." And his? Is damned difficult to contend with. It seems a recurring balance between them, to share a little of the heavier things before drifting from it. Kopriva was not quite prepared for the tangent and so her look turns rather comically blank as her thoughts absolutely scramble to catch up. "Who sends underwear…?" No really, is THAT what she's going to start with? It's discarded (like said underwear) in the next breath. Bewilderment only covers the surface and while she cannot keep herself from blushing, there's no pearl-clutching or scandalized gasps. She does, however, hiss one near-scoffed interruption of: ''You didn't!" between fighting back a smirk. No, no, noooo she should not be entertaining this! It IS terrible. That poor girl! Vh'iyr is terrible. Kopriva is trying to make herself feel terrible for not telling him how awful he is! "You're an ass," she repeats for the second time, cutting him a glare that holds absolutely zero heat for the effort. For emphasis, she aims to smack her free hand against him, if he doesn't evade the gesture. If not her hand, there may be a follow up of an elbow to the ribs — and a little click of her tongue that still holds no real scolding. Kopriva sobers, however, under the shift to topics of being judged and the judgemental. Her features soften, lips thinning. "It's difficult," she agrees, though her struggles are less related to her dragon and all her own. "I did," Vh'iyr mockingly holds up his hands, so her swat first lands on his biceps and then her elbow sends him careening (the biggest exaggerator here) in steps around her, as he MOANS pitiously. "Ow! Ow! Priv! Whyyyyyyyy," but when he stops with his antics, hazel-green eyes are bright and his grin cuts genuine — not at all sardonic as it usually is. "I am an ass, but that girl…" He clucks his tongue and looks askance from Kopriva, frowning. "… I don't know. Her opinion doesn't matter, but every time I run into her, it's like she lives to tell me what a shit I am." Kopriva should know Vhy well enough by now he's not the innocent baby he thinks he is and he knows it too. "Which shouldn't matter, who is she? Until I went to get this mystery package — which, by the way, was used underwear. I didn't ask for some random one post-flight-loss-stand to send me her underwear! — I didn't know this girl's name." So he retaliated by signing her up for the proverbial Pernese pornado. "For all that… I wouldn't give him up for anything. I'd take the shitty flights, the… struggles to fight him every single day, because sometimes, I feel like he's all I've got." Which is not at all what Vh'iyr meant to say, or intended to say, given by the suddent turn of attention to the far out lake, where wind ruffles his hair. Silence settles, all the while those at the lake laugh and talk, their muffled sounds of joy a backdrop to the trickier avenues of life. Kopriva twists and half-steps only to keep Vh'iyr within her line of sight for his exaggeration and there may be one last flick of her hand before the antics come to an end. It's true that she knows him well enough and she'll cut him another look. One that deepens to a form of long suffering incredulousness when he attempts to further explain and she is fighting not to burst out laughing — as it's likely more a knee-jerk reaction. Just like the way she wrinkles her nose briefly when he enlightens her on the state of those panties. "And she'll have all the reason to back up her claim if she figures out that you're behind her unwanted… subscriptions." she points out, likely needlessly and largely just to poke verbally. The last catches her off guard as well and for a moment there is only silence from her, while Vh'iyr looks out to the lake and the backdrop of laughter and distant talking filters around them. Eventually, Kopriva pulls herself from her thoughts and moves to lessen the distance between them. It's no grand gesture and there's a gentleness to it, as though she's giving Vh'iyr all the time necessary to evade. This time, it is her hand that reaches out but not to his shoulder but to rest against his lower arm — maybe even his hand, if it's not still shoved into a pocket. Kopriva says nothing, but only because she cannot find the right words — how to pack so much complexity into something that doesn't sound empty and hollow? So she goes for action, however small. Should Zasiyra realize it was he, Vh'iyr's acutely aware she'll only hold it against him, which may be what he was after. Or may be doing exactly what he thinks she expects him to do, which doesn't always align with what he wants to do. What — Vh'iyr's gaze slants to Kopriva when he feels her hand on his arm, and he does pull his hand out and take hers in a gesture of — connection. Humanity. Friendship. A turn ago, he would have scoffed at finding friendship with a woman, but… Life has a way of bending to show that not every occurance is as you expect them to be. "Priv," he starts, frowns, brows drawing together in a frown. "Thanks." Maybe Nhiuzukkath's influence comes to bear here, but he adds slowly, "For being — for putting up with us." He gives her hand a little squeeze, hazel-green eyes holding to brown, "And for being a friend." Vhy is no bleeding heart, however, but he does manage to find these words, "I didn't think we would be, but I'm glad I was wrong. I'm gonna to miss hanging out with you when the eggs are hatched." A turn ago, Kopriva might have equally scoffed over the idea of befriending a man who was an ass to her on first meeting. She has too much familiarity with how life can curve in sudden and abrupt ways — but welcomes the ones that are good, if unexpected. When he takes her hand, Kopriva holds firm and the little squeeze is later returned. She also does not immediately let go, though her hand will relax. Her gaze lifts and there is a fleeting brightness to them, chased to a small, but broadening warm smile. Vh'iyr doesn't need to be a bleeding heart, this is enough. The last brings a flicker of puzzlement, but that is brushed off with a light chuckle. "I'm hardly going to start telling you what to do with your time," she begins, trying to be equally humored as she is serious. It might be the lifeline she clings to, too to keep talking and not let her insecurities stop her. "But if you wanted to hang out, without the excuse of a clutch?" The invitation is there — a similar weightless one as her previous concerning a official-not-official escort to Southern. Kopriva is likely the bleeding heart here, but she keeps it tempered, moving on. "Thank you too, Vh'iyr." One day, she'll figure out a nickname. "For being a friend. And… honestly, you've made this memorable — both you and Nhiuzukkath." There's a pause and her smile slants. "…Even if I can go without seeing so many half-eaten sheep ever again." Maybe it's the ease of the moment which prompts a boyish half-smile from Vh'iyr, but that it does and it shaves the turns off his pensive regard to be more inline with his actual age. Young enough still to be a boy on the cusp of manhood, old enough to be a man in his own right. "I'll escort you, Priv, don't worry, and maybe even get you a little social life, ehhhhh, ehhhh?" Does he tease? Oh he actually remembers that long ago day dancing in the Cantina where her eyes feasted on a variety of offerings. "Thanks. Listen, I could go a lifetime without seeing half-eaten sheep, alas, I have no escape." He pulls his hand free, but only so he can sling a casual arm around her shoulders, in a loose-boned friendly way. "C'mon, we'd better get back. I can feel Nhiuzukkath getting frisky." And that is NOT a good sign. "It has been memorable, eh? For me too, Priv, for me too." And it's true: somehow, someway through the trials and tribulations of Nhiuzukkath as a clutchfather, a little bit of humanity might very well have sunk into Vh'iyr's demeanor. Softened him a touch so that not everything is viewed in jaded distrust. With a little pivot and steer, he slants a look at Kopriva, adding, "We can swing 'round the caverns and get snacks too. And I can tell you a story…" What story? Surely it is funny, surely it is hilarious, but always, it is Vh'iyr's life in three dimensions. And almost always involves his dragon and Nhiuzy's antics. Kopriva still has a lot of growth to do, herself and especially with the general public and those she is surrounded by on a daily basis. That will all eventually come to pass, likely not without some growing pains and setbacks. But here? She has shed some of that shell. Enough that his maybe-teasing even earns a roll of her eyes and a mock glare. That … might not be a no? "Pariisamith will wake soon too. We have time to stop at the caverns, though. Just the caverns…" With his arm casually around her shoulders, Kopriva gives all the lead to Vh'iyr to steer them back — with a detour for snacks. His offer of a story earns him a pointed sidelong look. It's too obvious she is curious about this story — and wary, in a playful way. Yet she's never protested them, no matter how they may fluster or bewilder her. Her mood is high. She is in good spirits, far better, on their return — even Nhiuzy's antics may not dampen it for the rest of that day. There and Back Again to the End has 2 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Vh'iyr takes a moment to escape the sands. Kopriva also seizes a moment to escape and joins him. Their conversation runs the gamut of easy and difficult. swearing |
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Of Words and Actions Of Words and Actions
"Bubblies? It's not even a gather day." Living Cavern Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. Dinner is, as usual, a busy time for the cooks and kitchen staff - and the candidates that have been assigned cleaning duty, for that matter. Dinner's assortment of skewers and curries and rivergrains with flatbreads and a plethora of vegetables don't make it easier, either; there's a lot of mess as a result, from sauces to crumbs to skewers tossed about all willy-nilly. Edric is present as he often is, though he lurks skulks dwells in the background with his folio open and his head bent, spectacled gaze pinned on some note or another. His periodic checks of the cavern occasionally resolve in him motioning someone over - and, like magic, food is replenished or spills are cleaned. His intervention isn't often necessary, though; the place operates - largely - like a well-oiled machine. Cleaning? Why yes, that's where Larze is. Again. KNowing that the Headman is around, the tall candidate is particularlly careful to stay out from underfoot and very very busy so as not to be in trouble. Unfortunately, he's managed to run out of floor. Ending up in the far corner, the stone gleams in a shine that you could almost eat off. That lad from Highreaches might even try it on a good dare. He sighs, looking at the wall as he eyes the walls but, he'd already attended those a day ago so… Well, that seems he's done. At least with this task. Squaring his shoulders he drops the cloth in the bucket and gingerly stands up. He casts a longing look at the food table. Particularlly the sweets but…a look over at the Headman makes him hesitate. Surely he won't get in trouble for a little break. After cleaning up his hands a'course. Satisfied by what he sees thus far, Edric finally eases out of the nook he's claimed for his supervision and steps out into the fray - such as it is. As he goes, a few candidates are tapped and sent off with a few words meant for their ears only. Dinner is coming for the ones that seem to be done with their duties and, fortunately, Larze is on that list. He'll eventually make it over to where the tall lad is standing, though he's mindful not to muck up the floor that's been freshly tended to. "You're free to take your dinner and the rest of the night off." His folio is snapped neatly shut and tucked under his arm, the last bit of his business here seemingly concluded. Larze offers a nicely practiced, though equally nervous, salute to Edric. "Sir?" He sounds puzzled. It's not usually the Headman direct who gives his nod for a permission to have the night off. "The…whole…night?" There's a small smile but it fades with a grumble of his stomach escapes him. "Yes," Edric replies, though it might not help that he's a master of Fortian deadpan. Still, the response gives him pause and he studies the young man again, a tilt of his head setting ambient light to skitter across his lenses and, for a moment, reflect Larze's face back at him. The look lingers, as does the silence, until, finally, he queries: "You haven't been working up until curfew, have you?" Larze is a master of staying out from under the eye of such authority as Edric. Something that the stern look has color draining from Larze's face and his adam's apple jerks a litle too wildly. He tries to make himself smaller, shoulders angling forward. The body language of submission. There's fear there too as he looks away, "I do not stay out over curfew. Ever." Oh goodness, all the trouble he could get into now that the headman's confident, steady look is on him, picking out all his flaws and weak spots most likely. "That is not the question I asked." Edric's words come slowly and purposefully, while he continues that pointed consideration of the candidate in front of him. That Larze's gut was audibly growling earlier is, suddenly, of no immediate consequence. "Have you been working after dinner?" The question is reframed for clarity; something he's quite well-acquainted with doing, particularly with the young and squeamish. Fortunately, the folio keeps him from folding his arms, but there is a subtle lift of his chin that fulfills the same impression. Larze closes his eyes and blows out a breath. "Yes, sir." He answers, voice full of regret. Here it is then. The crackdust hitting the fan and he's still, shomehow managed to get his tail in the trap when he'd just been doing his best. "Please, don't send me home." While Edric's chin goes up, his goes down, pressing hard to his chest. His jaw words and he closes his eyes. "You should not be. The evenings should be for relaxing and finishing any lessons the Harpers give." And, yes, there might be some chores that run later, but they're balanced with a slightly later wake-up time for the candidates in question. There is no agitation there, just Edric's naturally dry affect. With Larze already looking like a kicked canine, there's something there that he'll pry at. "I don't send anyone home for working too hard, Larze," because he knows them by name by now; it's part of his job and a part that he takes very seriously - just like everything else. "Head up. Look at me." There's no snap of fingers, but no need; his tone is clipped and sharp enough. "Did someone tell you to work that late?" Larze swings his head from side to side and he slides a hand through his wild curls. The tie that he tries to keep in place at the Weyr having worked free during his scrubbing. "I do not neglect my harper classes. I'm….quite a bit behind the group. Tunnelsnake don't have the same sort of learning." Moistening his lips, he's only glancing up now and then but otherwise giving off big 'do not harm me' vibes. Oh man, and being asked (ordered?) to look up? He bites down on his lower lip and then lifts his head and draws himself up. Though he still looks defeated, there's more defiance in his eyes, as though he's metally getting ready for some corpal punishment. "YEs sir. Sorry, Sir." There's the million mile stare. "No one told me, sir. No." He sighs and closes his eyes. "I…have an agreement…that I will cover for some of the candidates because they are….ah…struggling with their chores. I'm well used to um, sir. I don't mind. I don't have any need to go wasting time after work. N "I see." The folio is opened, pages leafed through. Edric's gaze seems to bear heavy on him all the same, though the man must surely be looking at the sheaves of paper he's flipping through. Silence presides while he listens, waiting with the patience of the dead until Larze is done. There is no raised hand; no raised voice. A tip of his head finally brings grey eyes to bear without the sheen of glass. "So, rather than turn these-" indolent lackadaisical "-lazy candidates in to myself or the Weyrlingmaster, you chose to cover for them. Is that correct?" It's rhetorical, really; the man's already had plenty of avians at his ear about similar situations. It's a tale as old as candidacy - and he's seen his share. He doesn't even wait for the answer as he continues, "It hurts the class when laziness is allowed to breed. It hurts you, by not allowing you the rest you need - and it keeps you, and others, from being able to focus on your duties that you and you alone were assigned. Do you understand?" Larze takes the gaze with a steady, unfailing posture. The silence doesn't bother him, he's got himself well braced now. It seems strange to him that there's not at least the start of a lecture, and the hard hand of 'training' that would follow. He glances at the folio and is so well guarded now that no expression shows on his face. He is well and done for. "No, sir. I am not a tattle. And…forgive me for saying but them boys there…are Lord Britan's family." Or, so they claim. "I squeal about um and then they either fix on some other candidate smaller then me and I get some visit in the night or some trip down the stairs again." He continues on, calm and quiet. "I'm not hurt, sir. I got plenty of strength and I can do it." He does no though, "Yes sir. I do not think I let any of my chores and duties fail. I'm a real hard worker, sir. And, forgive me but, I aint going to let them boys hurt anyone else in the group. Or come back to my family at Tunnelsnake. My dad would beat me bloody." "Mmhm." Dry, drier, driest. Some notes are made with a stylus that seems to come out of nowhere; Fort's lot are, in many ways, more tricksy than Bitrans. Edric replies, "They're liars, Larze." Matter-of-fact. "If they were of Lord Bitra, they wouldn't be here unless they wanted to renounce their claim." Another note - then two more. Another page is flipped and, this time, there's the distinctive gesture of something being scratched out - three times. "The Weyrlingmaster and myself exist to protect you from people like that, Larze. Dragonriders must be exemplars of society," at least, that's the party line, isn't it? "and a lazy dragonrider that abuses other dragonriders is a poor example of a person, let alone a dragonrider. The same holds true for candidates." He pauses. "Especially for candidates, because you are what we're offering to the dragons." The folio snaps shut. "Candidacy isn't about exploiting strengths. It's about strengthening weaknesses, too. You'll have more Harper lessons to get you caught up. Your chores will be balanced to reflect that. Mornings only. After lunch, you will have your lessons. If you prefer it the other way, that can be arranged." All other protests seem to fall on deaf ears, except the lattermost and his tone cools further, sharpening - but not for the boy himself: "Your father has no power here, Larze. And those three don't, either. They'll be sent back in the morning. If, by some miracle, they attempt to make good on any threats, they will be punished accordingly." "Thems said their pa' is second son of the Lord and they are two and three of that one's git…(get?)." He blows out a breath. "Might be liars, but I seen what they can do. Pardon me for saying, but if I got whinge'n about every little trouble, what sort of dragon would want /me/? ANd…don't the dragon's decide? I….I did hear though, that the dragons could impress someone out of the stands. I wouldn't want to be the cause of some dragonette being shorted….." He has no expression change about the addition of lessons, or switch of them? He's got this. "Yes, sir. Don't honestly matter, sir. Whatever works best for the weyr." He's probably got that drilled into him from back home. "Sir, what you want me to do when they come visiting me in the latrine…or in the back stairs again? I'm…no snitch, sir." "They can say their mother was Faranth herself and they were hatched from a golden egg and it would be just as truthful," Edric deadpans. He leans in just a little, just enough to better level a gaze on the lad. "And, frankly, I don't give a shit about what they say. I care about what they do or don't do." He eases back, already motioning to a passing rider to wait a moment so he can share a word. "They are not doing their chores. They are causing harm to candidates. The dragons will not suffer for lack of choice. There are more of you than there are of them and if they go to the Stands, it's very rare indeed." He draws a breath, holds it, then releases it slowly. "Understand that I have been doing this for almost twenty turns now, Larze. I have seen countless hatchings. I have sent, perhaps, hundreds home for all manner of offenses. If anything, their absence increases your odds of Impression. Dragons are often drawn to people who are principled - and who are not afraid to raise their voice when something isn't right." Is it true? His voice bears the weight of conviction. "They will be headed home by the morning. If they somehow come back, I assure you, I will be the first to know - and they will be the first to understand just how creative punishments can get here at Igen." Larze braces as the Headman leans in. Here it comes. When there's not so much as a finger-waggle, or a smack on the back of the head, he lets out the breath he's holding. He's a quiet lad and listening is one of his things. He takes in what Edric says and there's no pleasure or relief, his expression still well under wraps. He nods, just once, turning the information over. Not just about the Trio going home, but what a hatchling might be drawn to and his brows fall slightly. "I see." He looks torn. Say more? Stay safe? He shift his weight and clears his throat. "What if they…go to the Tunnelsnake? Like they said. My sisters…well, already bad enough I'm not there…" "What they say and what they do are two different things. Talk is cheap and they don't seem to be the type to have much to spend in the first place." Edric finally draws the rider in, but only to share a few brief words that are too hushed to carry. The bluerider nods and heads out, leaving Edric to face the candidate again. "If they make it to Tunnelsnake, then that's their problem. And Bitra's problem, if that's where they're actually from." He could look and check, but he won't be bothered; he's spent too many resources as it is on handling this issue. "They might find themselves exiled for their trouble or staked out for Thread if they're lucky." For a relatively quick death by Thread might be preferable to some of the alternatives that exist. "I need to speak to a few other candidates to release them for dinner," he continues after letting his words settle in. "Those three will not be your problem any more. They will be mine." And if there's a momentary grin, a flash of teeth, a sharklike quality to his regard- so be it. It passes in the blink of an eye. "Say nothing to anyone and they'll be gone by dawn, none-the-wiser." Larze's idea of wealth and Edric are very different but he's a smart lad and does not question things that the Headman would know better. It's something he'll store away though, being that information is power. The fact that they might not even be from where they claim? He would clutch his pearls if he had them, and if he wasn't doing his best 'at attention' posture right now. "Yes, sir. I'm not a gossip. And…thank you for seeing that I get more education." He cracks a small, grateful smile. He might be thanking for more than that, but he's not going to outright speak such a thing. No one should be gleeful about narking on others. "Good lad. Go, get dinner. If you wait two minutes, they'll be bringing out some fresh spiced cake and bubblies." It's an easy calculation to make for the likes of him. Edric reaches, but only to try to clap a hand on Larze's shoulder with a firm, but amiable, contact. "Take care of yourself. Learn. Expand your understanding of the world. That is the best way to thank me. Clear skies, Larze." And, with that, the Headman makes his way to the kitchens - in part to cut more candidates loose and, in part, to make sure his two minute timer is accurate. Larze's hand moves to his stomach and there's a long gurgle like a lion trapped there. "Bubblies? It's not even a gather day." He gives a full faced grin at the prospect of sweets. He doesn't even startle at the clap to his shoulder, that's how distract he is by /food/. "I will sir. Can't swear I'll sing or play an intrument but…I'll do my best. Um… evening, sir." Saluting again, he takes no time at all in making a beeline towards the serving table. Slow-like and /casual/. Yeah. Of Words and Actions has 1 comments. |
14 Mar 2024 04:00 |
In which Larze is caught and Edric takes action. |
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Acquired Tastes Acquired Tastes
"Do you have any convict costumes?" Bazaar Sidestreet No matter the time of day, the darkness here is almost absolute, adding a certain je ne sais quois that borders on the treacherous. Here and there, cobblestones have gone missing and leave holes that are perfect for snagging the feet of the unaware. The stench is also criminal, a mixture of urine, rotting meat, and other things best left unexamined in the heaps that pile up next to the back doors of certain of the bazaar establishments. Standing outside Rosie's, Sriella leans against the wall of the establishment, deep in talks with an…ahem. A nice looking man. "I know a few guys that could do that, yeah," he's saying, while Sriella nods along thoughtfully. "And what sorts of costumes do you have?" He grins. "Well, the standard one is the guard… you know, 'oh no, is our party too loud?'" Sriella winces, giving her head a firm shake. "No guards. Our father and brother were in the guard, soooo. Guards are not sexy." Ugh, no. Khy'ai was also a guard! Guards are NOT SEXY. And then a spark of an idea. "Do you have any convict costumes?" Would that be funny? Would Grace see the humor in it? "No…." "Damn." Alas, she'll never know. Rooftop adventures always end the same way: with Lokeiv needing to touch grass the ground at some point to either get food or get marks. His foray to Fort has renewed his passion for shirtlessness and he's shirtless now, though the open robes - a necessity for style, at the very least - do a fair job of masking it when he's not rushing hither and thither. He touches down just a short distance down from Rosie's, hands quick to pat himself down in search of something. He retrieves a clove cigarette from one of his many pockets, but a secondary pat-down has him grimacing. A glance further finds a man and woman in some kind of negotiations and he, with the smoke in his mouth - unlit as it is - lifts a hand in a finger-wiggle wave that's eminently amiable as he heads for the establishment itself. "Either of you got a match?" Might as well try his luck here, before he has to go inside and risk Rosie's wrath. Sriella turns to study the man approaching, giving him a quick head-to-toe assessment as she's shaking her head. "No, sorry." Her companion, though, pulls one from his pocket and strikes it against the building, holding it out to light the other man's cigarette. "I'll get back to you," he says to Sriella, giving a quick bow and then moving quickly down the street, leaving the woman to drum her fingers against the building idly. "Do you know him?" she asks thoughtfully. There's a brief moment of sadness when he strikes out on the first, but the gent's offer of a light perks Lokeiv right back up. "Owe you one, thanks." Another wiggle of fingers follows as the other guy wanders off, leaving the blond to lean against the wall in a sinuous pose of slouched relaxation that only he can manage. "Eh? That guy? Yeah, probably. I know I've seen him around," he takes a drag, holds it, and lets the smoke drift free in lazy rings. A sidelong look follows, curiosity tempered to a very mild: "Why?" Sriella eyes this new person with a tilted grin. "Think he's any good at dancing?" Dancing. Ice-blue eyes sparkle with amusement as she shifts to sit on the steps until someone chases her off of them - others will just have to go around her. "Because he said he was but I'm not sold, especially since he wouldn't give me a sample." There is no end to her amusement. It brightens her features and infuses her tone. Snrrrrrrk. That's the sound that Lokeiv makes, sending smoke through his nose before he gets caught up in a coughing fit. "Ahhh, fuck. No, no." Wheeze. "I hear he's a decent lay, but not, uh- creative. I can't imagine him figuring out how to swing his hips in a way that isn't-" cue a brief pantomime of very stiff, very mechanical hip-thrusting. Is he making squeaking sounds? MAYBE. He settles back after and eyes his cig like it's betrayed him for the last time. "What kind of dancer are you looking for?" Sriella heaves a sigh. "That's what I was worried about." WOE. "Not interested in fucking." Not what she's in the market for. "My sister," she says with a sly grin. "Is to be married. And it is my duty as her sister and her maid of honor to make sure her bachelorette party is a good one. And since it will just be the two of us, well. We need some other entertainment because I'm not all that entertaining." "Congratulations!" He hopes. There's some caution to his excitement, tempered with history. He'll sneak a dubious drag and, satisfied that he's not going to die (yet), Lokeiv relaxes again. "I don't know about that," he replies after a moment, eyeing her sidelong. "You can't be that un-entertaining," is that a thing? it's not a thing, but he'll persist, "if you're actually here and looking for a male dancer." His grin emerges and tilts a bit, lopsided and goofy. "Buuut. I have some ideas, if you want them," he'll just throw that out there, shoulders rolling some. "And if you really need a dancer, I can probably recommend a few." Sriella grins, "Thanks, I'm happy for them but I also want to needle my sister a little bit. All in good fun." She eyes him, a brow arching at his sidelong look. "There are a lot of people who do not enjoy my company," she finally says with a grin, a bit toothy. "And yes, I am actually looking for a dancer. A stripper," does she have to get that specific? "Or two, to come to a bar outside of High Reaches Hold. Travel included." Of course. Khy'ai wouldn't mind bringing a few strippers to High Reaches, right? Right?! The scoundrel is all grins about the idea, dropping Sriella a wink. "I gotcha, I gotcha. It's a pretty normal thing, you know? Getting a last bit of fun in before married life. I see it a lot." He slants a look of disbelief her way and, after another pull on his smoke, the cig is put out on the wall and stashed in his pocket again. "Just means you're an acquired taste is all. Not everyone can be sweetrolls and candy," he figures, looking away for a moment, then back at Sriella thoughtfully. "All male?" He chews some on the inside of his cheek, while the wheels in his head just turn, turn, turn. Sriella eyes him. "I'd rather people choke than get used to my taste," she finally says with a low laugh. "Mmm, all male, yes," she confirms with a nod, looking him up and down again thoughtfully. "Just something fun. My sister is a good girl and very much in love, but I… want to be mischievous." And, honestly, to see what Grace will do with strippers. He grins. "That's usually what happens anyway, in my experience." Lokeiv cants a look to Rosie's again, nose scrunched up some. "Seven Sisters has more male employees, but dancers-" he see-saws a hand with uncertainty "-they get pretty handsy, since that's how they make their marks." He's not unfamiliar with getting eyed up and down and instinct - or experience - has him pushing away from the wall to shake out his robes with a little bit of a sinuous stretch and shift of weight. "I'm not a great dancer," he concedes, "but I'm a fun one." Sriella shakes her head, "No, won't let anyone get handsy." Not with her sister. Or with her. She watches him move with a grin. "Oh yeah? Fun is what I'm after. You okay dancing for a group? It's just her and I in the party but that would be awkward as fuck so I'm thinking of paying the bartender some extra marks to let some guys come in and do their thing. Rest of the customers get the show for free, or whatever you can get from them in tips." "I've performed in front of groups before," Lokeiv replies, his lopsided grin sitting easy enough. And he can dance; he just has a bit of a boneless quality to his movements that makes him weirdly fluid. He steps into a slow spin with a little shimmy-shimmy-shake-shake of shoulders and hips before that spin turns him 'round to face Sriella. It's silly - but it's what he's got. "And I'm hands-free. It's not my kind of thing unless people want to pay for that," and plenty probably do, but they probably aren't paying for his fancy footwork. "High Reaches, though- when's the party?" Sriella shrugs, "I don't know yet," she says, watching him. "How much do you take off?" she asks, curious - and honestly not giving much clue as to where she would draw the line. "Can you pretend to be a Master Weaver, come to berate her for some report being late or something?" And then - SURPRISE, IT'S A STRIPPER. "And do you have a friend?" That's a question and Lokeiv laughs, a serpentine undulation of his body finding his robes slipping free of his shoulders and dropping to his elbows. An easy roll of hips, another shoulder-shimmy and he answers with a jovial, "As much as you want, though- ah. Underwear tends to be pretty optional." Shirts and underwear - worn only when necessary. He twists around again, languid, with a lift of his chin, toss of his hair, and a glance over his shoulder. "Sure, yeah- I can get some really fancy stuff to wear, too," he knows people. The question of a friend, though- well. "I can find one, sure." Sriella laughs. "Underwear, please. Or…something similar. Don't need to be showing your dick to an entire bar." It's all about the tease, right? "Well, assuming the timing works out, be happy to hire you for the gig. I'm Sriella." She extends a hand. "Duck-printed boxer shorts it is," is either a threat, a promise, or a tease of the highest order. With Lokeiv, it can be any combination. He pivots on a heel, stepping into a comically overblown bow for a split second before straightening and jerking his robes back up and over his shoulders. "I can't promise a ball won't slip out to say 'hello', though - but I do shave." So it'll be an aesthetically pleasing ball. Relatively speaking. Her hand is taken easily, his grip firm enough, if callused. "If it works out, yeah. If not- no skin off my ass; not like I have much to spare. I can get you some names, too, just in case." Including his own: "Lokeiv. Nice to meet you, Sriella." "Oh, well, thank Faranth for that," she says dryly, and really she could have gone her whole life without knowing the status of Lokeiv's pubes. "Names would be good, too, just in case." Schedules being what they are. "Lokeiv. Been around Igen long?" She shifts out of the way as a man departs Rosie's, stumbling down the stairs. Someone had a good afternoon. Oversharing is his superpower. It's not a great one and it benefits nobody. "My entire life," and maybe it shows a little, if only in the colors and style of his clothing, but he's also not exactly an exemplar of what one might think when they hear 'man born in Igen'. Lokeiv watches the man go for a moment, squinting after him, before turning his attention back to Sriella, "Bavrome and Huldren come to mind. They're more into each other than into the ladies," so, no handsy-ness there. "But you might need to keep them out of the whiskey until the dancing is done." He worries the inside of his cheek again. "How about you? How long have you been here?" Sriella nods, pulling a notebook out of her satchel to write those names down. "Oh, I'm not here now, but I lived here for…" how long? "A few turns, a while back. I'm a Herder. Worked for Wild Hearts for a bit, then did my own thing for a while. Didn't mind living here," she says honestly, looking around, "and when it's not the summertime I might even miss it." She grins. "Huh. Weird. My best friend's mom runs Wild Hearts." Lokeiv squints at her, as if that might spark some recognition. It doesn't, but it doesn't stop him from trying. "I guess I wouldn't have seen you there, though. I didn't really- ah. Well, I'm not exactly the runner-wrangling type." A runner would probably snap him in half if it looked at him wrong. He knows. "I tried to live away from here for a little while, but-" he shakes his head, nose scrunched up. "You can take me out of Igen, but you can't take the Igen out of me, I guess. You ever think about moving back?" Sriella looks a little surprised. "Cahia? She's in Southern now, I just saw her a few days ago." SMALL WORLD. "That is weird." She doesn't recognize him either. "Eh," she says with a shrug, looking around. "Last time I tried it didn't stick. I like the traveling too much now, I think. But. Who knows, life likes to change things up on me fairly frequently." There's a tilted grin for that. "Yeah. She's working at some shop down there. I need to go visit her at some point, once she's settled." Never mind the ghost of anxiety that always comes with dealing with dragons and riders. It'll pass and, when it does, it leaves a lopsided grin in its wake. "Life likes to do that, yeah. Everything can change, just like that," fingers snap, bright and crisp, before Lokeiv flicks a glance askance to Sriella. "At least you have somewhere to land here, right? Sometimes, just knowing that- I dunno, it helps." Sriella smiles warmly, looking around. "I have… several places I can land," she admits. And she does, too. "It helps a lot," she agrees. "It's easier to take risks when you know you have a place to go if it all goes to shit." "Exactly. And if you aren't taking risks, sometimes- is life even worth living?" Some risks are bad and he knows it- but some? Some are necessary. Some lead to growth and change and evolution. Lokeiv darts a look to Rosie's again, then finally sets into motion. "Speaking of risks, there's a new food stall in the Bazaar," because gambling with his guts is just another thing he does, "I was gonna go there, but you're welcome to come if you like to guess whether it's tunnelsnake, pork, or swamp lizard." Sriella chuckles a bit, but she has nothing to say for the moment on taking risks. She feels rather risk-adverse at the moment, but. Time will tell on that one. Then she laughs, pushing to her feet. "Yeah, sure. Always up for trying new food, speaking of risks." Habit finds him reaching a hand out to take hers - something he's done so often with Cahia that he barely thinks about it now - without a thought to the idea that she might not like that. Whether she takes it or not matters little in the end, for Lokeiv is game to lead the way regardless with a cheerful, "If it's been a while since you've been here, then there are probably a lot of new places you've never been to." The Bazaar changes food vendors as frequently as some people change underwear. "And if you like cold drinks, there's a place that does some stuff with these, uh, chewy balls…" Sriella stares at his hand and she does not take it, no. She can walk on her own, thanks, but she will still follow after him. "Do you just want to make me think about balls all the time?" she asks, expression twisting into one of mild distaste. I mean, she likes the male form as much as the next lady who likes men, but. "Nope, but I don't know what else they're called. I'm not exactly a cook." Or baker. Or anything really food-adjacent, aside from being someone who loves food. "They also have an iced klah with really sweet milk, too," and it takes him effort to not say something about how thick it is, so you're welcome Sriella. Lokeiv pulls his hand back without a second thought, realization likely hitting a few moments too late, but it's also too late for an awkward apology unless he wants to make things even weirder. Sriella puts her hands into her pockets as she follows him through the Bazaar, wondering if it's weird that she might watch the Baker whose lemon cookies she loves's best friend strip in a bar in High Reaches. Is that strange? Could she look Cahia in the eye? 'Hey, Cahia, can I order a cream puff? You know what else is creamy? Your best friend's ass.' That's weird, right? "What happened with that runner stampede? They ever figure out what the hell happened?" And he's practically an orange cat about the whole thing; no thoughts, head empty. Lokeiv steers through the streets with an occasional glance at the rooftops as if that might normally be faster but, no, not with someone else coming with him. "Nope. No clue," he replies of the stampede, his mouth pulling a bit to a side. "Lot of people got hurt, too. It's weird, but-" he shrugs "-I'm guessing no one wants to talk about it. Oh, here. Just down this way. The other way is blocked," on account of new construction, post-stampede, "and we'll be there. What did you hear about it?" Sriella shrugs, "Just that a bunch of runners ran through the Bazaar and it was horrible. Buildings down, people hurt and dying. Never heard about the runners but it seemed… callous to ask, when people were talking about dead people." Still, she wants to know. "That's about all I know, too. No one's been saying anything about it, though I'd have thought- I dunno. Someone has to know. Someone had to let them in. They weren't, like, marked or anything," so nothing of Wild Hearts, which was a relief. Lokeiv shakes his head. "Dead. Injured. I helped get someone to safety, but I wish I could have done for more." Sriella nods, "I'm sure you did everything you could." The reassurance comes quick, easy to her lips. For someone who works with animals who enjoy getting themselves into the worst possible situations, it's a common enough thing to say to people. She means it, too. "Maybe- but," he shrugs, reaching up to tug at his hair a bit. "You know how it can be, right? The doubt?" Even if he did everything, it wouldn't be enough. But, he's saved by the stall, which sells skewers of meat and is, well, deliberately vague on the nature of it. That seems to be the charm - there's no menu, just meat and some other side-dishes that are easy enough to identify. Rice, hush puppies, and a smattering of other fairly easy foods. "Anyway, people are springing back quickly." They don't have a choice. Sriella nods firmly. "Oh yes. I still. There's still cases I can't quite let go, because I think there was more I could have done." Especially when there was more she could have done. When she made an error. "I didn't doubt that they would," she murmurs, eying the meat thoughtfully. "That's some kind of lizard." She's confident. "What was the most memorable for you? If, uh. If you don't mind my asking." Lokeiv steps up to the booth - after a few more people are sent off with their skewers of mystery meat and equally mysterious sauces. "… and are you sure? It looks more like some kind of… meaty fish." Or does it? He's still ordering a few, along with a random assortment of whatever. Does he have the marks? It is a mystery. Sriella nods, "Confident enough." That she doesn't order anything, just eyes the proprietor for a long moment. "Oh," she finally says with a sigh, shaking her head. "It, from the outside, seems minor enough, but. There was a kid with a kitten one time. Had an illness I should have recognized, but I didn't. Treated it wrong. If I'd just known what it was earlier, I could have saved it. But I didn't… I just missed the symptoms. Misread them. The kid was so damn sad. That one…that one lingers." Because she fucked up. It's all on her. It's okay, he's clearly ordering enough for two - or maybe he's really hungry and really into gambling. Lokeiv does find some marks - and lint and string and a few other odds and ends - and those are handed over in exchange for his goodies (?) "Those are the ones that linger longest, though, aren't they?" he figures after she tells her tale, his mouth pulled a little to a side in sympathy. "I'm sorry. That sounds terrible for you and for him and for the kitten." Just awful all the way around, in equal measure - in his mind, at least. "Someone once told me that it's the little traumas that hurt more and hurt longer than the big ones. I don't know if it's totally true, but sometimes it feels like it." Sriella considers that. "I… I would disagree with that," she finally says, but her tone is more thoughtful than argumentative. "I can forget about that one. It's not in my thoughts most of the time. And it's a fairly simple lesson to learn. You can bet I've never misdiagnosed that disease again. Bigger traumas… it's harder to pick out the lessons, the good that comes from them." He hums, a shoulder rising and falling in a noncommittal half-shrug. His tray of treats and meats is offered over to her to see if she wants any first; Lokeiv will wait before he digs into the most-likely-lizard meat. "It's still memorable, it stands out. It's something you didn't forget," for the lessons learned, at least. "I dunno. Sometimes-" but he shakes his head as if to clear it, the topic skewing a little too serious for an empty stomach. "You're probably more right on it," or, at least, for this round; he's not one meant to argue much of anything. He's no fighter, this guy. Sriella shakes her head at his offer - no, that's some sketchy ass meat and she might be reckless but she has to draw the line somewhere. "Sometimes?" she prompts, shifting away from the crowds to sit again on the steps of some business. He'll tempt with a hush puppy - but, honestly, everything's sketchy there. When was the last time they changed the oil? Probably not since it opened. Lokeiv, a consumer of questionable comestibles, will eat it without batting an eye - but at least he'll scoot along with her and kind of crouch and lean against the wall of the building to give her free rein (or reign?) of the steps. "I dunno. The work I do- a lot of bad stuff happens." To him, usually. "And you never forget the people that do the bad stuff, but you also never forget the people that could help - but don't even try. The blind eyes. That hurts more than the bad stuff." Sriella mmmms, watching him thoughtfully. Her eyes flick down the road to where they came, and then back to him. "Yeah," she agrees quietly. "That's… that's got to be hard. All those little pieces add up, I'm sure. Especially if you're not in a position where you can stand up for yourself." She glances towards the weyr, briefly. "Death by a thousand cuts, someone told me, and it's not wrong. It sucks, but it's life." There's a shrug and Lokeiv continues to eat, his appetite seemingly unaffected. He's had time to make his peace with, well, all of it. "But I can see it your way, too. With the bigger things taking more time to get through." He sucks his teeth. "Buuut. I'm also going to remember today, because it's not every day that someone comes looking for an underwear-wearing dancer." His grin goes crooked, his gaze flicking to the Weyr when hers does. "Don't let me keep you if you need to go somewhere." "Turns," is Sriella's quiet response, more to herself than to him. "I'm sure we can agree it all sucks," she finally says, pushing to her feet. Then she laughs. "Well, good. Happy I can return the favor of entertainment." Maybe she's more fun than she thought. She sweeps a rather well constructed bow with a flourish of a hand thrown out. "Alas, I must catch my ride. I'll send word," somewhere, "when I have a date picked out." "Send it to Wild Hearts; I check in there sometimes." Even if it's just to look in Cahia's old room or, occasionally, sneak in to sleep there when the nights are rough. Lokeiv pushes to his feet to return the bow, his grin gone every shade of goofy. His bow is far more comedic, but the dramatic flourish is just part of the charm. "See you around, Sriella. Safe travels, yeah? And- you're more entertaining than you think." From one acquired taste to another. Acquired Tastes has 1 comments. |
13 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Sriella's looking for some men with a very particular set of skills. She finds Lokeiv instead. smoking, hot ball talk, discussion of sex work, questionable meat choices |
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Bazaar Cleanup Bazaar Cleanup
“A’right, more work n’ less lookin’.” 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 forty-ninth day of Summer and 101 degrees. Overnight, the temperatures plummet to a reasonable heat. Sand coats everything. It’s been a bit of time since the Wild Hearts stampede went through the Bazaar in a flurry of chaos. Injuries were numerous, and the Bazaar itself suffered quite a bit for the damage brought on by the many, many hooves of the runners. To have further delayed clean-up was a recent sandstorm, pelting already damaged storefronts and buildings that had not yet been fully repaired. It was still two steps forward despite the one step back. Today, under the watchful eye of Weyr guards, and frankly several Bazaar guards and some Family muscle also in attendance, a number of candidates have been brought out this morning to work on clean-up, repairs, and otherwise helping the Bazaar residents where they could, while it was still relatively cool for a desert summer. Tomas Haask, the youngest brother of the Haask Family has made his presence known, wearing utilitarian work clothes for once, dirty with the dust of the desert environment. Protectively, he covers his exposed skin, shemagh only worn atop his head and not daring to cover his face so everyone can say they saw that particular Family present. He picks up some of the debris that remains in the main street, leftover from a merchant’s long-destroyed stall. There might have once been a crate there, or an awning made of the canvas now in strips, but now it goes into a dumpster on wheels. Tomas wipes his hands of the dust following the recent throw, and lets out a swift exhale. Did Tomas order more dust? A few panels of cracked wood, wrapped in a shredded threshold rug, are flung from slightly too far away to land, crashing, on top of what the Face of the Haask deposited, sending new billows of sand blooming up and outward. One might mistake that all the sand has been shaken off something in Igen — and one would always be wrong. The wood-tosser is garbed in the closed overrobe of the Bazaar-led guardsmen, their presence easily distinguishable by dusty yellow uniforms alone: all of them with shemaghs pulled up over their noses, anchored within their outfits’ mandarin collars. It may look treacherous as summer heat rises through days, but anyone who’s ever had a handful of grit slip between collar, neck, and live there all day knows the preference. The guard spares no time lingering on the throw, disguising its purposefulness or not. He turns back to the mass of a collapsed roof that had unluckily managed to lose every one of its supports during the run, exposing not just its interior but the shoddy construction that had been allowed to fester until now. Seventh sons of the wealthy, second sons of the middle class, and even some retired pit fighters — ringing in the ear or torn things reforming incorrectly may make brawling deadly, but they can still heave a pile of rocks, these sentinels. They even do so alongside assigned riders. Pride for the Bazaar’s reconstruction trumps wariness over Parhelion deciding to suddenly throw its weight around. The more sore sight out — not for his garb, but his build — a short older man is amongst all involved parties. His curly brown hair streaked with gray long before it was streaked with debris. Gottfried may not be dressed for his office, but he clearly holds some kind of charge; he’s ducking between stalls and shop doors, consulting his notes on the expected value of each property alongside the quality and quantity of product likely to be found. Who knew that a surprise tax audit would be beneficial to more than the administration? Shuseran sighs. Who knew being a candidate would mean he, a journeyman starcrafter/meteorologist, would be doing menial labor? Surely his talents would be better used at his craft? He casts a doubtful eye on the destruction that is the streets of the bazaar. Broken stalls, shattered goods, general refuse and rubbish are everywhere now. And sand. Sharding frickin’ sand. Everywhere. For the first time he wonders if being at a Weyr is really worth it, if that Weyr is Igen! His idea of storms never included sandstorms. “A’right, more work n’ less lookin’,” calls one of the AWLMs overseeing the candidates drafted to help with the cleanup. Shuseran shrugs, stepping over to some broken wooden stall supports, picking them up. There, two intact still. There’s no guarantee that they’re even close to the stalls they once graced. The broken and intact are carried over to piles and sorted accordingly. Two sacks are slung on each hip, one for broken merchandise, another for whole. The starcrafter picks up a metal cup, probably once someone’s prized piece– metal isn’t cheap to come by– now flattened by runner hooves. Still, it can be unbent, but will never again be like new. Remade, perhaps. He shrugs, placing it into the sack for broken items. It seems that the candidate pool is full of Journeymen this time around because yet another Journeyman is on clean-up duty. Clad in work clothes that are quickly becoming stained with sweat and dust, Weslyn bends to pick up fragments of what might have once been some food stand. Ignoring the AWLM, the Journeyman Smith is quiet as he looks over the bits of metal and wood as his brain attempts to put together just where everything in this puzzle of wreckage just might go. Finally, he looks over to the first person that he sees, who happens to just be his fellow crafter-turned-candidate Shuseran. "I think there is enough not broken here that we can put this one back together." “I know that metal.” The quiet but aloud murmurings of Gottfried’s inventory, both in hand and head, has reached the two candidates — the quality of which the Assistant cannot vouch for, which may mean a few keen but subtle glances for anything making it into a third distribution. Right now, however, standing over — well. Standing near the two former journeymen, Gottfried squints knowingly at the expression he assesses upon Weslyn’s face. “I haven’t the slightest idea which piece means which, m’boy, but I can describe to you how it looked upright.” The dust and sand kicking up leaves Tomas coughing just a bit, respectfully hidden behind the back of his hand and as forceful as a cleared throat. It would be so much easier to have his face covered, but that would require unwrapping his shemagh and re-wrapping it, and frankly he's still new at this. Sand. With care, he wraps up the shredded canvas and it joins the pile, atop the cracked wood the guard had just thrown. "Good arm, sir," he commends. He may have directly caused him to cough, but he knows who not to offend here. With a glance, he peers over towards the two candidates looking over the metal. Scavenging? Shuseran lifts an eyebrow at the smithcrafter, then shakes his head. “I can tell you whether you’re likely to have fair weather for long enough to put it together, but I know nothing whatever about building things. I’ll leave that to you smithcrafters. Now if you just need someone to hold a board in place, I think I can manage that well enough, but you might want to clear it through our overseers first.” He nods toward the closest AWLM. “I was simply told to clean up, today. They may want us to clear out all this debris and sand before they start rebuilding.” Ignoring the others for a moment, Weslyn crouches down to closely examine the pieces scattered about the wreckage, his eyes narrowing as he mentally reconstructs the original structure. "I think it's only missing a few joints, but I'm sure we can make do with what's around," he murmurs to himself, a hint of determination in his voice. It isn't as if he is dismissing Shuseran's suggestion; it is more that he hasn't had to ask permission to work his craft in a long time, and well he is in the zone. Methodically sorting through the rubble, he begins setting aside bits of metal and wood that might serve as makeshift replacements. Finally, he calls over to Shuseran, "Hey, can you hold this piece steady for a moment?" signaling a heavy wooden beam that could serve as the main support." Then briefly acknowledging Gottfried's presence with a nod, Weslyn appreciates the older man's attempt to recall the stand's original design. "Any detail helps," he responds, his tone grateful. “Indeed.” Gottfried allows graciously of the candidate’s runaway wisdom; he shan’t so much for the attempt. Should Shuseran drift forward to obey the erstwhile Smith, Shuseran will find the older man’s palm extending to gently – but with authority – put a blocking weight on his closer shoulder. “However, your friend here is right.” The naysayer is indicated. “While I would be delighted by the Weyr’s outreach, if you were to outfit this mess into recognizable piles based on design– we should not hurry to put up a new foundation with broken things when we can take this opportunity to renew it, lest we let these unfortunate circumstances lower us.” Calm, yet gushingly sweet just beneath a thin surface of poise, Gottfried’s tone often either compels listeners to subconsciously desire to please him to break through to that, or else to find him a little distant through – perceived – lack of strong stance. Then, in almost contrast to his final explanation, Gottfried does lower; though, billowing robes easily picking up any nearby spatter, as he produces a stick. Such that he can sketch out in the abundant sand what would be a rather strikingly accurate image of the decimated stall, if it were not for the comparatively dicey nature of its medium. Tomas’ focus on the supports littering the ground left him not paying attention so much to the metals under discussion. “Too bad, that, sirs,” he states with a frown on his face. He steps over, dusting his hands off with a few brief claps. “Speaking of, do we know how this all came to be, sir?” The question is pointed at Gottfried, for the white knots are unlikely to definitively know despite the chance of juicy gossip to contribute. Perhaps that’s why the comment is kept to open air rather than behind closed doors. “Last I knew, Wild Hearts had just entered into a contract with the Akzhan for protection, and I strongly doubt the contract had already ended.” A small tsk drops from his lips. Such a shame, really. Being quite new to the Igen area, Shuseran knows nothing of contracts, Akzhan or Wild Hearts. He does know he was quite firmly, if gently, kept from helping his fellow candidate in the smithcrafter’s endeavour to recreate the stall. He glances at the hand on his shoulder, following it up to the face attached to its owner. He studies the other man for a moment, then suggests to his fellow white knot, “Apparently these weren’t all that well crafted, to have taken this much damage whatever the cause. Perhaps instead of rebuilding now, you could put your smithcraft knowledge to suggesting design improvements?” He looks at Gottfried to see what reaction that will garner. Gottfried's words have the Journeyman turned candidate pausing in his work as Weslyn drops the pole back to the ground. "Hmm… yes," he says with a huff. It was not a disrespectful huff, but it was more like he was trying to convince his hands and mind to stop. "Very well, sorting it is," he acknowledges, glancing between Shuseran and Gottfried. After a moment, he steps back from the wreckage to stand next to Shuseran. "Thanks, man," is directed softly to the other crafter, "It helps sometimes if I am redirected." Sometimes… and sometimes, there is no stopping his brain. Weslyn's attention shifts momentarily to Tomas's remarks about the Wild Hearts and Akzhan, but he keeps quiet on the matter. “Do you?” A gamely, close-mouthed smile on Gottfried as he plays Tomas’ words back to him, splicing the two men from each other as sources. “For that would be best brought up with the administration. Or any closest man in yellow robe.” A hand drifts down his own front, in indication of the dress, although he is not in the noted color. Not satisfied but clearly ready enough to be done, the older man rises. He stares squintingly at the little sand drawing, subtly annoyed at its shoddy representation for his own standards, but, well. Here, and with Weyr denizens, is nowhere to be wasting materials. As such, the Assistant’s rather late to bother glancing at Shuseran, and his expression is completely mild for the second before he’s settled on Weslyn. “Your peer’s humors aside, just the sorting, good fellow. Most kind.” Spoken aloud, it sounds as though for the candidate’s benefit – even if he has a companion who jokes too soon, and on the very steps of the tragedy. A distant rise in noise recalls Gottfried’s attention; he turns over his shoulder, though not quite looking, to peripherally acknowledge some new arrivals – heavily masked men, in blends of white and red. Among them, a tall youth, his curly dark hair pulled into a small bun near the top of his head, although many strands do not make it. He’s clasping the hand of a woman present in front of the devastation that were months of labor and materials, meant to be sold. Now dust. Gottfried glances aside at the candidates and Tomas. “One might humbly suggest the craft of discretion. If one were inclined to the halls at all– Aha! Not me, of course.” A broad grin is all, grateful and a touch energetic over polite, and then Gottfried carefully steps over his sandy recreation and sweeps off into the more occupied, less candidate, areas. Tomas swiftly replies with a respectful and serious, “But of course, of course.” Ultimately, he seeks the talking, however, passing rumors and information like a currency around, for no one, not in his line of hearing, has settled in on the blame for the event. As Gottfried removes himself to tend to the colors of Steen, the Haask’s brows furrow in –frustration– seriousness - this is a serious matter. Idly to the other men present, despite them not having been directly involved in the discussion, he comments, “The Akzhan are going to bring down the Bazaar at this rate.” Concern lines every word the young man says. “First they create abysmal, substandard housing that the Weyr is likely embarrassed to contain within their caldera, and then they fail to protect a business they have sworn to protect.” He picks up another one of the pieces of metal affected by the stampede, and offers it over towards Weslyn, who seems to know what to do with the potentially recoverable pieces. “And all these other businesses and peoples’ lives are ruined by their cheapness.” Shuseran looks from one man to another, then glances at Weslyn. What has he gotten himself into? Time to keep his mouth shut and his hands and feet busy. There’s obviously more to the people here than he has any inkling of. He gives the slightest shrug to his fellow candidate and a subtle nod of his head to indicate that the smith might follow him a bit away from the men, should he want to chat more openly. He busies himself picking up more debris, but steadily works his way away from the verbal-blade wielding men. If words could wound, those two would be well bloodied. Weslyn takes the offered metal and gives it a long look over before setting it down in the right pile before acknowledging Shuseran’s subtle cue to move. Giving the fellow candidate a slight, understanding nod, he follows the Starcrafter’s lead and moves to a quieter spot. The shift away from Tomas’s talking allows him to refocus on the task at hand, the immediate need to clear and salvage what they can from the destruction, but the Haask’s words aren’t completely forgotten but stored for later review. Not that Wes knows anything about Bazaar politics, but if he was going to be living here for a bit, it might be important to know who hates who. As now even the candidates move on to another area, devoid of gossipy commentary, Tomas is left there with a fairly sour expression he’s not afraid to leave publicly visible. Do they not care? People died. A blue firelizard sweeps down to rest upon his shoulder, affectionately headbutting the Haask brother’s jaw out of concern for the peace of mind for his person. Yes, the candidates are rarely in the Bazaar anyway outside of when they are assigned to be, and frankly hanging around them at his age may invite a simple white knot thrown in his direction, something he cannot entertain amidst this. Glancing back at the red and white of the Steen’s colors, Tomas sets his jaw and takes Gottfried’s advice: find a yellow robe. With the clean-up active, there’s bound to be one close, and sharing his —rumors— concerns is time sensitive. He steps away for a moment, another gentleman a few strides away in purple and dark teal following behind as a shadow. He’ll be back, there’s more cleanup to do. Optics are important. Shuseran drifts further away from anyone before finally turning to Weslyn. “What goes on here? What was behind those words? I’m getting the feeling I need to figure out who stands what ground around here before I step foot on quicksand. I’m too new to have a feel for politics here.” He looks to Weslyn hopefully. If his fellow candidate doesn’t know, he may ask his senior journeyman. He’s quite sure Alsha would know. Weslyn lowers his head close to Shuseran keeping his own voice low, “I am not sure. I have only been here a month or so, but if it is anything like Hall politics, I am sure it is going to get messy pretty fast.” He doesn’t know about the Starcraft but the Smithcraft could get pretty competitive at times. “I think, at the moment, watching and keeping an ear out might be the best course of action.” After all, if he doesn’t impress there is no purpose to pissing off the wrong person here. What a wonderful citizen, tending to his civic duty by reporting his concerns to the officials. Tomas knows there’s certain ways to describe certain unofficial arrangements as above-board-”official”, meaning remaining intact. The powers that be know how the Bazaar works, and the outlining of the Akzhan’s arrangement that ousted the Haask’s arrangement as economically wasteful and clearly in bad faith, particularly in light of the tragic events… Well, that was only the latest in what appeared to be a lot of Akzhan mis-steps to the young Haask. Clearly this line of events needs to be seen as increasingly worrying, because for all they know, another fire could happen. That property was Akzhan, too, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was about the insurance marks considering how fast they rebuilt. The gent who is taking down Tomas’ statement appears to be taking it all seriously, but that might be to just get it over with and appease the Haask. Respectful as he has been, he still invoked a manager. Shuseran nods and says quietly, “I was hoping you’d been here a while and knew the ins and outs. I think you’re right and probably the more working and the less talking we do, the better, lest someone think we’re talking about the wrong thing.” For all he knows, they *are*. He focuses on his duties for a while, though he does try to keep a discreet eye on Tomas to see where he’s going and what he’s doing. "Sorry," Weslyn mutters with a slight shrug, "Not sure you can talk about the wrong thing. Not talking about typical things doesn't lead to anything productive." Despite his words, there's an understanding in his tone, an acknowledgment of the fine line they walk as newcomers entangled in the complexities of Bazaar life. He gives a discreet glance over his shoulder towards Tomas. But then, heeding his own advice about discretion, Weslyn deliberately turns his back on the scene, giving the “impression” of disinterest. With a deep breath, he refocuses on the debris before them, sorting through the remains with his normal meticulousness. This goes in that pile; that one goes in that one, and so on and so forth. Even with all that, Tomas’s words linger in his mind. That talk with the administrators was productive, or so it felt like. Tomas returns to the area of work, his house shadow behind him in those dark Haask colors that really should not be worn in the desert three seasons out of the Turn. Spotting the two young men with their stark white knots, he diverts his movement again, because what better is there to do than to harass dragon candidates? “Please, dear sirs, pardon my intrusion earlier with my rant. This is a rather sensitive situation and I hate to have put you both in the middle of it. Did either of you have family affected by the stampede?” he asks, bending down to gather some clay shards into a larger broken vase. Shuseran pauses mid reach and straightens up to face Tomas, the ripped cloth– blanket? Awning?— left lying for the moment. He shakes his head. “I’m very new to Igen and have no family hereabouts. I confess to knowing very little at all about my new home or this… Formerly fine? Bazaar. I wish I’d had more time to explore it before this tragedy, instead of getting to know it intimately by this misfortune.” There then. Let’s see what that net brings in. "No family involved on my end," Wes responds after a brief pause, his voice maintaining a neutral tone as he meets Tomas's gaze. "Just trying to help where we can, same as everyone else here." Of course, he was also assigned to this task, so it's not like he "couldn't" be helping out. "Though it seems like some carelessness on someone's part happened to have a whole herd of runners suddenly come through the middle of the marketplace." He muses to himself. “I am glad you all were spared the heartbreak, as I know many weren’t,” Tomas replies with a somber nod. He sets the vase off to the side, should someone wish to do something a little decorative with the broken shards. “And yes, the carelessness was precisely my concern. I worry that this won’t be the last…” A small blue firelizard cuts Tomas off, complete with rolled up hide in hand. Unfurling it, he looks over the details of the missive. “Hmm, I hate to leave, but I have some urgent matters to attend to. I’ll return tomorrow to continue the rebuild.” The Haask are a generous, selfless lot, of course. With that, exit stage left. Shuseran watches Tomas go thoughtfully, looking at Wes to see if he’s thinking the same thing: Apparently there’s much to learn about their new home! Bazaar Cleanup has 1 comments. |
03 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Shortly after the massive stampede, candidates and bazaarfolk assist with cleanup. Backdated. |
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Those Who Teach Those Who Teach
"It's part of the foundation we're building with them." Weyrling Training Grounds Here, a wide and spacious field, devoid of all but more of the glare of ubiquitous, fine white sand of Igen: not even a blade of grass dares lift its head against centuries of clumsy draconic antics. To one side, ever-present firestone bins are set, kept supplied by many a hand, while agenothree tanks line the curving angle just outside the barracks, primed and ready for use. Very often, a glimpse of classes in session or dragonets at play may be caught under the open sky under the watchful eye of diligent Weyrlingmasters and older dragons. While the eggs continue to harden upon Igen's sands, the candidates are still subject to their daily chores, tasks, and PT- lucky, lucky them. R'xim is clad in his Weyrlingmaster uniform this afternoon while he stands in the center of the training grounds and watches a group of candidates run a few warm-up laps. A sandstorm has come and gone, leaving behind a coating of sand over everything and dust is still wafting in the air, which explains why everyone is wearing face wraps. Including Rix. "Come on thirty-six, hurry it up." he calls out to one of the smaller candidates. "It's not supposed to be easy." Multitasking is an artform, as is time management, and so a few back-to-back meetings are lined up during this candlemark to help with his hectic schedule. The first is about to start should a certain bluerider show up on time. And he will show up on time, because there are some things that Q'dir does not gamble on - and one of those things is the patience of the Weyrlingmaster. Haqisardith's attendance is probably optional, but the blue is present and observing, intrigue glittering in the depths of slow-wheeling blue-green eyes. No doubt he's making his own bets on which candidates will Impress, much as his rider surely will be, but at least he keeps the rhythmic clatter of rolling dice to the space of his own mind. As for Q'dir, he's in his leathers, though it's the nicer set - not exactly formal, but they're definitely not the ones he wears into Threadfall. Blue and silver accents align him with his lifemate's coloration and he, too, has a light scarf of sorts to cover his face if the dust gets rowdy. He waits until the herd of candidates passes before he cuts across to where R'xim is, a sharp salute snapped off. "Weyrlingmaster- you asked to see me?" R'xim returns the salute in greeting when Q'dir approaches and then glances in the candidates' direction as they run the length of the training grounds, giving a bit of privacy for the next handful of minutes atleast until they circle back. His attention returns to the bluerider soon after. "I requested additional aid for the next class of weyrlings and your name was on a list that crossed my desk." Not one to make small talk or dance around any subject, he's direct in his approach. "And based on that alone, I asked you here to see if you'd discuss the prospect of joining my team as an assistant weyrlingmaster." It's a good thing Q'dir's perfected his poker face. Haqisardith might be heard chuckling - or as near to the sound as dragons can make - in the background. For the bluerider, he'll take a long moment under the guise of serious contemplation, with a pensive pinch between his eyebrows. "Well, I'm not quite sure what they," whatever nebulous 'they' it is that dispenses names, that is, "said, but- ah. I'd be willing to discuss that." He looks at R'xim more fully now, a half-smile carving the scar in his cheek even deeper. "I'm not afraid to try new things, if you're the kind of Weyrlingmaster that likes to experiment with new mental exercises and obstacle courses and all of that." Used to seeing shock, dismay, and the occasional poker face with his direct approach, R'xim folds his arms across his chest while listening to what Q'dir has to say. Since he doesn't decline the conversation, it continues with a nod from the older rider. "That's fine. I expect members of my team to navigate new lessons alongside the weyrlings. More often than not, we show them by doing, so if there's a new mental exercise or obstacle course, it means we're working with them." Rix pivots to regard the jogging candidates once again. "Have you worked with a weyrling class before? Or mentored newly graduated riders?" "That makes sense," because of course it does and Q'dir internally kicks himself for uttering such an obvious statement. Fortunately, he recovers quickly and, after glancing to watch the candidates continue in their circuit, he slants a look to R'xim again. "I haven't, no- not officially, anyway. I've done a little bit here and there with those that have questions and I've helped some with newer members of Arroyo. It's always a little different, working the new blood in with the old. There's only so much weyrling training can do to prepare them for actually flying with a wing that isn't just… all of them." R'xim flicks his attention from the candidates back to Q'dir again, assessing him with a slight furrowing of dark brows. Another nod follows as he considers the bluerider. "That's true. We do our very best to give them a solid foundation before they graduate and it's up to them to lean on their training. Instinct also has an influence on whether or not newly fledged riders fly or die." Haqisardith is on the receiving end of a glance and Rix nods in the dragon's direction. "Do you think he'd work well with dragonets? What sort of mentor do you think he would be." "The training, when I went through it, was very good. But I'm also biased," seeing as it's the only weyrling training he'll ever know. Still, it warrants a tilted grin from Q'dir, his amusement shining despite the seriousness of the conversation. "Fresh blood means fresh perspectives, too. And I'm someone that knows a little bit about going from fighting instinct to working with it. The worst issues I've seen, I think, are when they try to fight their instincts too hard. I'm sure you've seen a lot of that, too." He tracks after Rix's gaze and looks to Haqisardith - who, in turn, is hunkered down and watching the candidates through the veil of one set of eyelids, as if he doesn't want to appear too interested. "He loves them," comes quickly enough. "He loves their potential, what they can be. He's more of a gambler at heart than I am." For good or ill. "Give him enough time and he'll know exactly what buttons to push to get them to do what they're supposed to do." The candidates round the corner of the training grounds and R'xim at least has the courtesy to wait until Q'dir is finished speaking to yell. Not at him, but at the candidates who look like they need a change of pace from their current cadence. "Walk one lap and then stretch." he instructs. "Good job, thirty-six. Get some water." The young lad perks up and Rix tries his best to suppress a grin by clearing his throat- it's all the dust in the air, surely. "A fresh perspective would be good for the team." he agrees. "It'll be your job to know which buttons to push and when. There are times when Shalnth gets a little too enthusiastic with the dragonets that I have to remind them that they're not a hundred Turns old like he is." The light tone of his voice suggests Rix is exaggerating with the bronze's age. "There will be a learning curve for the both of you if you decide this is what you want to do. I run a tight wing and I leave little room for bad judgment, and I expect you to discipline as needed. Doing so may save a life. It's part of the foundation we're building with them- they need to understand what being part of a wing means. What the life of a dragonrider means." His gaze meets Q'dir's as that glint of assessment still remains. "If he's a hundred, then you're looking mighty good for a hundred and fifteen." Q'dir can't quite help himself with the quip, that half-smile popping up in spite of himself. He moves on quickly enough with a nodded, "We're good at that, definitely. It's a matter of incentives, knowing what people want and how to use that. And it's knowing what they're capable of, too-" but that's another matter entirely, something that will just have to be seen when the weyrlings are real and not merely hypotheticals waiting to exist. Seriousness finally sinks in and he straightens, shoulders squaring up some while he watches the candidates start off on their final lap - of walking, this time - and thirty-six going off to get himself some water. "I will, Sir. I'm fully expecting it'll be a hard thing to do - not just because of the hours," which will suck and he knows it, "but because it is life or death at the end of the day. I won't hesitate to set them straight if they need it, but I'm also glad for the chance to teach them how to tilt the odds in their favor up there." "Well, you know what they say. The older the violin, the sweeter the music." R'xim seems to know a thing or two about being one of the more vintage riders at Igen. He might even reveal a hint of a smirk at the banter, which only seems to confirm his decision in the moment. "Alright. I think I've heard enough. You can pick up your knot in my office tomorrow morning if you decide to commit the position. We have a team meeting scheduled thirty minutes after the morning meal, which will be a good opportunity to get introductions and all that out of the way. We can go over more details then." For now, he's got to put these candidates through their paces. "Appreciate you coming over to talk." he adds with an easy salute and a dismissal at that. There's a firm nod for that, the seriousness melting away to allow another smile - if he's not poker-faced, he's grinning, because life is good despite all the other trials and tribulations. Q'dir snaps another salute to R'xim, chased with a resolute, "Yes, Sir. I'll see you tomorrow morning." No 'ifs', 'ands', or 'buts' about it - he's as serious as Threadfall. Haqisardith approves, marking the moment with a brief bugling of his own before he pushes to his feet. "Thank you for giving me the opportunity, Sir. Clear skies." And he's soon off to spend the last free evening he has doing Faranth knows what before he has to pass for some kind of respectable adult figure - and, for once, the idea isn't terrifying. Those Who Teach has 1 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 04:00 |
The weyrlingstaff grows by one. |
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Ambition {vig} Ambition {vig}
The Hall of Obsidian Mirrors Not all is as it seems; all is what it is. « We need to have a little chat. » V'iss was grateful for the warning. Usually, the bronze just drowned his thoughts in smoke to pull his attention inward, to the hall of black glass mirrors that reflected him into eternity. This time, he could set the pace of his descent. » What is it. « He didn't bother carving the words into a question; Vuzjavalasith already knew the real question that lurked on V'iss's tongue. « You have been keeping secrets. » But there was no immediate reply. V'iss had learned much - perhaps too much - and he let his silence guide the shape of the conversation instead. It didn't startle the bronze. It didn't surprise him. It just pleased him further. « I know what you did the last time I chased gold. » » Your wing twitched. « V'iss remembered that much, remembered the way the bronze faltered. because he pulled the chain His reflections in that hall of obsidian began to twist and shift, transmuting him into a monster that hulked and stomped and roared. « You're a terrible liar. » » I know - but I'm not lying. Your wing twitched. « A technicality. V'iss's reflections altered again, while Vuzjavalasith's mind stirred, swirling like smoke to find a new vantage point somewhere else in the impossible depths of his mind. « You tugged on something. Something I did not know was there. » The smoke insinuated itself into his nostrils, suffused his skin, his bones. « Perhaps I have taught you too well. » Satisfaction carved a grim smile across the mirrors; Vuzjavalasith's image echoed across his rider's form, bullish and brazen and strange as it always was in the mindscape. V'iss's thoughts knotted a bit and he snorted. » I learned. You didn't have to teach me anything. « « Is that so? » His thoughts pulled back, exposed the bones beneath; Vuzjavalasith's thoughts writhed with amusement. « All of this is a give and take, my heart of fire. Teaching and learning, back and forth, until we no longer have these… damnable seams between us. » V'iss wrinkled his nose slightly; his reflections grew more distorted. He could feel them, though. The spaces where man and dragon still hadn't fused. The places where he'd pick at stitches in utter refusal to let those wounds heal. The places where he didn't want to lose himself. The places where he didn't want to lose control. But that wasn't right, was it? « That isn't right, is it? » The smokey purr pulled him out of his innermost thoughts and he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing at the spectral images that danced and wavered before him. « No, no. You keep picking at the places where we are most alike, my heart of fire. You dread to think you are at all like me. But I know you. I know the beat of your heart. I know every breath you take. I know the things that thrill your blood and make your heart sing for more. » Smoke swirled around him, a warm embrace that smelled of burning wood and spice and everything that bridged the gap between his life in the wild and his life now. V'iss repressed a shiver, but the bronze had already won. « I know you would have killed Ruslan," was a conspiratorial whisper between minds, a sinful utterance that skirted into blasphemy. « I know you would have taken control yourself, if you could. Were it not for me, you would have ruled the Orokee - but not with an iron fist. » Visions shifted across obsidian walls, of a people who would thrive; familiar faces and unfamiliar, all drawn from the same well of thought and memory. They would have thrived. They would have done well. Would they have done as well as the Lithattu? His thoughts strayed to what he would have done. What he had, in his deepest of dreems and most quiet of thoughts, planned. « I know what you would have done. What you could have done. I have turned your plans over in my mind and found them… satisfactory. » Adequate. Sufficient. It was high enough praise from the bronze and V'iss took it, bittersweet though it was. But if he had- what would his life have been? He wouldn't have had Jezebel. He wouldn't have had Vuzjavalasith. He would have been married to a woman he probably wouldn't have loved. Had children. Been forced to keep moving. Would he have been driven to a similar kind of madness? Would his hatred of dragons swelled to the feverishness that Ruslan suffered? He didn't think so. And yet- « You are not a man meant to dwell in the shadows, mine. We are not meant to dwell under the thumb of others. We are greater than what you could have been. » » You're the one that got yourself banned from chasing the Senior. « V'iss already knew the angle and slant of Vuzjavalasith's thoughts; here, there was no need to ask what the bronze was after. He knew. He'd had a taste of siring offspring; seeking more was the next, natural step. « The Senior here, yes. » Chastisement sounded a lot like the click of teeth; it burned acrid in his nose. Of course he knew better. Of course. « I will chase the next Senior that rises and you, my heart of fire, will not stop me. Not this time. You will grant me the dignity of unfettered flight. Do you understand? » » Yes. « « Because we aren't so different at all, V'iss. Ambition burns in your bones and blisters your heart. The only thing getting in the way of what you can become is yourself. All I can do is keep stripping the scales from your eyes to blind you with truth. You can be more. We can be more. You are not some headstrong teenager with delusions of grandeur. Nor are you a stripling in your twenties, still feeling out your strength and purpose. You are a man who craves control over your own destiny. A man who hungers for a legacy. » V'iss started to open his mouth in protest, but there was no protest to be had. He was right. He had always been right. V'iss's skin tingled. Something shifted. « Progeny is a natural desire, » Vuzjavalasith mused, smoke and embers prickling against the man's skin. « If not now, then one day, yes. » Another time, perhaps. Perhaps. He pushed the thought out of his mind. It wasn't the time. But the seed had been planted - or, more accurately, unearthed. Dug up from the depths he'd fought so hard to bury those aspects of himself in. How long had he resisted his own nature? How long had he fought against himself under the guise of fighting against his lifemate? How long… « Everyone sees what you appear to be, V'iss. Few experience what you really are. » Smoke swirled tighter and thicker; incense smoke and silk swept sensually around him until the contact finally broke. « And no one will know you better than I will. Let your mistakes be of ambition and not sloth. » His audience ended as abruptly as it began and V'iss sat at the edge of his bed, scrubbing at his face with both hands. His ribs no longer ached as much as they had in days past and the pair were cleared to return to Southern Weyr - but he knew it would be a fight to get Vuzjavalasith to get back without giving him what he wanted. What they wanted. A sky red from the blood And murder is a potion of love A kingdom that belies the internal I feel the war paint on my face And all I see is war path ahead of me So know this is that armageddon coming That creature of the deep that leaves a pit inside your stomach And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun A self once masked by these stains Look into a face that has changed And I am not a part of a game I am what the weak can't obtain And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun Behold a pale horse in my gaze Ain't no one command I behave On the precipice of slaughter is the Lord Hatred without focus make the eager man fall But future is beholden to the present moment cast Bloodshed to that order like a flower to a thorn And I feel like I've got a gun And I feel like I've got a gun Ambition {vig} has 3 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 04:00 |
In which the seams are undone. |
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V Save Me from the Dark V Save Me from the Dark
Today, she will live, but forever be changed. Infirmary From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there are both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions. After a Fall like the one at the Cothold there is no wonder that the yard is full of dragons and riders in various stages of hurt from annoying pain to life and death injuries, and the infirmary isn’t much better. Just inside, Issa lies semi-conscious on a hastily arranged cot, surrounded by the urgent movements and tense expressions of the Healers. The severity of her injuries is evident in the stark, grim lines etched on the faces around her, particularly focused on her badly mangled leg that's barely recognizable under the blood-soaked bandages. A Master Healer, with steady, experienced hands, works meticulously, assessing the extent of the damage while Issa's shallow, labored breathing and occasional screams echo off the walls. The grim possibility of Issa losing her leg hangs heavy in the air, but no one voices it, focusing instead on the urgent need to stabilize her condition, because if they aren’t careful, the loss of a leg won’t matter if they lose the rider. Just outside the chaotic infirmary, Shabeth stands, his large frame marred by the vicious scoring along his upper side, a grim mirror to Issa's own injuries. One of the Dragonhealers applies a liberal amounts of numbweed to his wounds; his swift, practice motions doing little to ease the brown’s agitation. The brown’s eyes whirl in distress but despite his own considerable pain, Shabeth's focus remains inward to his bond with Issa. « You will stay with me. » He repeats over and over. Each word punctuated in red among the monotone landscape of his mind. He will not lose his Issa today, no matter how much his lifemate wants the pain to go away. In the overwhelming silence of her own pain, Issa’s consciousness begins to wane, teetering on the edge of reality and the dark abyss of nothingness. Her body begins to tremble uncontrollably while her face becomes ashen and slick with a cold sweat. But in the abyss, Shabeth’s words echo, a beacon of light and lifeline for her to hold on to as her breathing becomes more erratic; a telltale sign of her spiraling into shock. Still it is the insistent repeating of those red words that grounds her, even as darkness pulls at the edge of her vision. “I will stay,” she screams out as she finally passes into the oblivion of unconsciousness; her mind and will hold tight to Shabeth’s urgent commands and his life for her. Today, she will live, but forever be changed. V Save Me from the Dark has 2 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 05:00 |
traumatic threadfall injury |
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Storms
Standing Stones It is perhaps a pity that the Standing Stones lie in quiet isolation, half-forgotten in the Weyr's easternmost corner. Or perhaps it is inevitable: the grandiose beauty of these red rocks is ill-suited to Igen's coarse grit, and maybe only their loneliness allows them to survive unmarred. Whatever the reason, it cannot be denied that the Standing Stones, a lonely jumble of ancient boulders, have a glory about them. The tumbled field of pillars and arches has been shaped by eons of wind and water into strange shapes, twisted and rutted. The going is treacherous: only the Weyr's half-feral herd of caprines navigates the terrain with any ease. To the northwest, the lakeshore glimmers; to the east, rough-carved steps lead towards another ancient pile of rocks - though the Star Stones are less haphazardly placed than their Standing cousins. There is no sandstorm yet - it lurks on the horizon, a wordless threat that will surely sweep in to take its due soon enough - and Khu is here, with drills done and some hours yet before Threadfall rears its ugly head. Ixzhulqvoth lurks near some caprines, the brown gone still enough that the animals are starting to use him as if he were another feature of the landscape. So, too, is Khu still - quiet, standing, and looking off into the distant horizon as if the mere act of staring at that storm will keep it at bay for as long as she wants it to stay away. The wind is starting to pick up, plucking at curls and the loose, flowing material of her trousers and short-sleeved blouse. A scarf around her neck - meant to mask her nose and mouth should the grit grow too intense - trails dusty yellows and oranges and browns as it flutters. How long has it been, since the mix-up and swift exchange of notes? Sometimes, time gets away in the recurring cycle of Threadfall, sweeps, drills, and duties. R'sare hadn't intended to stay away, is what is meant; hadn't intended to let the curious swap-out of misdirected letters go so long without commenting over it to her. But it wasn't ever the right time, really, if he'd pass Khu in the bowl, or the caverns, or randomly in the dragonhealer yard. Yet the calm before the storm — sand and Thread — has afforded the Oasis rider a sliver of time, after having seen her and Ixzhulqvoth leading drills that morning. Strath is at the lakeside, the direction Ral comes, and with a glance at Ixzhulqvoth-boulder easily spotted amongst the caprines, he skirts around another boulder or two before picking Khu out from the landscape. He's dressed the same as he was for Oasis drills and might not even change before Threadfall: a simple red tunic worn beneath the rider jacket he'll don before fighting Thread, and his typical dark and heavy trousers, ode to a working dragonrider, oil smears still on the pant leg. He always seems to come to Khu disheveled. "Wingleader," bids for her attention, when he winds around a boulder, the man not quite apologetic for breaking her serene reverie. Time has a habit of slipping through fingers like so much sand - and Igen has plenty of sand to sift through, in that sense. Plenty of ways to lose track, to get sucked under, to get crushed. Ixzhulqvoth does not stir when he's made aware of the man's passage, but there's no doubt he's relayed his presence already; the brown is canny like that, a savvy operator despite his bulk and hulking mannerisms. As for Khu, she bides her time and weighs it wisely; some time is good, some is bad, and sometimes there's no helping when a thing will happen - in the end, everything happens when it's meant to, for good or ill. And when a bronzerider comes to break a moment's peace, she is unbothered by it. "Rukbat's graces to you, sha-R'sare," emerges as ever, lilting and light, curved to ride the breeze just so; hers is a voice meant for the wind to carry. "Come, come." A crook of fingers in invitation - the perch she's chosen to stand on is large enough for two, if just barely. "Sit." For she will, but only if he'll join her. Perhaps this is what she was meant to wait for and not the roiling storm on the horizon. Perhaps. He bid for her, and her bid in return — to come, to sit — is met with compliance, R'sare stirring up dust along with the breeze as boots scrape the rough ground. Pivoting, he settles on the section not taken up by Khu's perch, though his eyes try not to trail — for too long, that is — up the length of her legs to where she momentarily stands over him, overshadowing him, the flowing trousers moving in the wind. His glance shifts away, to take in the view she had found, albeit his shortened where he sits instead of stands. And for a time, for many heartbeats, he's quiet, the silence weighted only by the breeze as if it waits to carry once more Khu's light and lilting voice. It stirs Ral's hair, in the meantime, for something to do: tousled and long, still, for the bronzerider never cashed in his haircut ticket with the wingleader, nor took scissors to his locks himself. Finally, dragging his palms along his thighs to spur the conversation's beginning, he slants to her — whether she's seated by now or still standing over him — "Thanks for giving me back that tattered piece of hide." He'll go first, his side; his mix-up; his loss. She sits after he does, easing down with a fluidity that verges on preternatural. Khu tucks a leg under, the other hanging over the edge. The view that awaits is vast in its right, an expanse of sand and stone and twisted shapes where Rukbat's light gleams golden - and blinding, at some angles. Mica scatters stars on the earth; distant, distant, a storm threatens to smother the Weyr in more. Her quiet persists for it's her nature, the man caught sidelong in her regard but even that askance consideration is no less intense. And she listens - for that, too, is her nature, and his seeming restlessness draws a flick of the eye to his hands at his thighs, then to the hair that's tugged and tossed by the erratic fingers of wind. "Mm," rises and falls, a familiar melody of thoughtfulness. "It was not right for me to keep it - nor to feed it to the middens." Perhaps that's the fate it should have had - but it had a name. A meaning. Weight. "Thank you, sha, for returning what was meant for my eyes. It took a few days longer than expected, but young roots are testing the soil of the Weyr." Will it suit them? Will they be blown away to the desert that birthed them? It is too early to tell. An elbow untucks from her side, edged outward to nudge at his instead. "How old was it?" The missive of his; the one found, tattered, weathered, and worn. He would say he's been meaning for turns to toss it, to break its hold over him. That it should be destined for the midden piles along with the leash that keeps it tethered to his possession. He would say: but doesn't. Yet Khu is adept in reading what isn't overtly spelled out for her, and that she knew to keep it — and not throw it away like any other scrap of lost hides — might reflect what R'sare thinks of that in a narrowed, brief glance to her, for her explanation. There and gone, and back to the view of a thousand miniscule stars of thrown light on grains of sand. It really is beautiful. Every intention to ask after the outcome of her note — did it spoil something? ruin plans? — her slight nudge to his side, with his palms still resting on his trousered thighs, redirects his thoughts for a moment. A soft murmur, and he dips his head to look back at her: "Five turns, the note. Sent by my brother." She didn't ask, yet he feels compelled to tell her, to impart some small reasoning for holding onto something which carried no hope, no encouragement, no prospect. "The roots? Your — family?" He did not understand the strange note he received by mistake: names, or locations, a map? Drawings, that much he knew. "Where did they come from?" "Did you answer it?" The words might be little more than a sigh, something that nearly doesn't make it past barely parted lips. And maybe it's rhetorical; she read the note, after all. She might well be able to stitch some of the missing aspects together into a greater whole - but it's not her place to make assumptions, either. Not her place to construct an ending to a story she had no hand in writing. The touch of elbow transmutes soon enough into the slow snake of a hand to curl, loose, over the back of his nearest hand. Not quite a pat-pat of attention, but a necessary contact of skin-to-skin - smooth-but-callused fingertips ghosting over knuckles is a specter of reassurance that will haunt the nerves. His question coils elsewhere in her thoughts, though it's answered in due time while her eyes pin themselves on land glazed gold and bronze. "My niece and nephew. Winter-born." A soft exhalation follows, lips pressing flat as she considers her next words. "Just like my brother, Kh'an. We blew in from the desert, away from our pasts and salted soil. Our sister is still out there, but her roots are-" a stitch of breath, a hesitation, an uncertainty that she can't quite skip over with the ease she'd prefer "-weakening." "I did not, not his." R'sare yields the truth without protest. Perhaps it loosens free after the ghosting of her touch, the slow-crawl of her fingertips over his hand, which in a secondary response to that, flips over to let her track with touch, instead, his calloused palm, open, fingers splayed, resting on his thigh. Acknowledgement of this goes without a word, a glance, yet the appeal is there in the man's stillness, in allowing the haunting to continue if Khu wills it. "She won't join her children?" Mistake it not for judgment, his quiet question; just a bronzerider piecing together a note and a past — Khu's — just as clouded as the sandstorm-horizon to him, for all its unknowns. For despite his curiosity — nosiness, he fessed to in the note back to Khu sevens ago — there is a gentleness there, that hesitation in her breath caught, for he's close enough to hear it before the wind claims Khu's words for its own devices. "How are they adjusting to the Weyr?" That's the natural jump, next, from one thought to the next, though since Khu's touch, Ral himself is no longer jumpy— restless. A nod follows, wordless, while her fingers shift from spiriting over his knuckles to drift along the lines of his offered palm instead. Calluses are traced with the faintest rake of fingernails as if to test their construction. This, too, goes without comment, without even a look to observe what one hand visits upon the other. Does she will it? Or is it just another thing that is meant to be? Another spinning of ink on brightgloom in her lifemate's mind? Another gust of wind that they have no control over? "The soil of their birth is now soaked in her blood," she explains in her way, the tip of her tongue snaking out for a moment to wet lips gone too dry, too quickly. A slight shake of her head yields clarification, but no gleam of tears in her eyes: "She will die soon. Her other children will thrive where she falls." Matter-of-fact, but sighed all the same. Her fingers go still before retreating to the center of his palm with a tremor that is only evident when they stop moving. "It is too early to tell if they will thrive here; all I can do is provide water and shelter when Rukbat burns too hot." R'sare's fingers curl subtly to that testing rake, his instinctive response without impeding Khu's data-gathering of the make-up of a man's hand only two or so turns into dragonriding, firestone-tossing, leather-sewing, dragon-scrubbing. No look after it — or her — for the conclusions she may subconsciously draw; though there's a flicker in his gaze, a slow blink, shielded from detection perhaps the way his focus still seems intent upon the landscape, the sky looming and the boulders stalwart in defiance to be bowed low by a mere sandstorm's approach. The fate of the unnamed sister, though, motivates a change in his look, his stance, his direction, a turning towards her by a twist of shoulders, waist, boots dragging while his weight shifts to lean, slowly, to her; and fingers opened, now curling, while hand slides, to cup her trembling one, his other joining to encase her hand between his. "Khu," and here his gaze levels to her, brow drawn down in the seriousness of what she has confided, "I'm so sorry." He hopes not to blunder here, by being so direct — he does not have Khu's way of speaking, cloaked meanings in metaphors, but neither will he be silent at her impending loss. "You have found your place, here," for to R'sare, Khu is as much a part of Igen as these Standing Stones, "and your brother, too," he aware of the Arroyo rider though never having interacted with him directly, "and I'll hope the same for your niece and nephew." May Igen's sands soak up their grief the way it does water and blood. It's only when her hand is caught and cradled, when his seated stance opens to her that Khu finally shuts her eyes. A slow breath is drawn in through the nose and soundlessly expelled past her lips, but it's not yet enough to stabilize the fractures that are finally starting to be formed. Worse, fractures that are visible, for she can hide the worst of them for a time; the ones that lie underneath, that crack her heart and soul. It's the frustrating tremble of her lip that she can't get under control and that frustration spirals outward in Ixzhulqvoth's mind, a broken wheel of black on white that tilts toward Strath as if to reassure the bronze that his rider will be fine, that all will be well. And Khu? Khu tilts toward R'sare, spine sagging a little as her other hand claims some paltry form of domination by stacking atop his. "There is nothing to apologize for," sounds more watery than she'd like and she swallows, hard, to try to find solid ground again. "Her lot was cast before she was born. I was too stubborn to be of value." Too hard-headed. Too difficult. It's served her well in the turns since. The rest is heard and appreciated and absorbed, all drawn in to water the parts of herself that yet remain parched. She's quiet, quiet, quiet, as she tries to rein in her breathing, the threat of tears in her eyes, and the difficult clench of her throat. He'll no doubt find some dampness on his shoulder where her cheek rests, hear the sniff and rasp of her fighting for control, and know the tightening of her hands in and against his, as fingers hunt for something to latch onto. "Thank you, R'sare." Not titles here, not when her tongue fights to gain every word. "It will be okay," is as much reassurance as promise and a distraction of sorts, a way to shift focus away from her lesser tragedy and elsewhere, anywhere, but here. His hands overlapped with hers, R'sare can't — or won't — break that hold to trace the visible cracks in Khu's stoicism there on her cheek, in the form of trembling lip or silent tears: despite the impulse to. That is what he reins in, resolving it instead by the recurrent sweep of his thumb to the skin of her hand, steady as a heartbeat. A steadiness mirrored in Strath's lapping waters back to Ixzhulqvoth: a reassurance, wordless, that even if she were not to be fine for the next little while, all will be well in that, as well. No alarm sounds, no panic rises, from either young bronze or his rider. Just a quiet stillness, an acceptance, of whatever may lie beneath the fractures Khu seems so loathe to expose to others; whatever the brownrider — wingleader — dragonhealer — woman seems so intent to reseal. What R'sare does, though, in lieu of a caress to her cheek, is tilt his to hers, a soft pressure of scruff and skin that's an anchoring touch stronger than the breeze that whips around them. There, to steady if not comfort; and to murmur, "And what they," — not even certain whom he refers to, just having enough to guess — "deemed un-valuable has placed you in a position to help her children, now," through her own survival, her own path carved here at the Weyr. "And that must be a comfort to her." He can hope. He has lost, and lost much; but in a way different from the gulf of separation brought about by a death, and for him, too, there's an indistinct clench in his chest, in time with his name. The muscles in his cheek move, slightly, a wry smile upon his lips. "That's what we tell ourselves at least, isn't it?" Of what will or will not be okay: when sometimes okay simply means what pain and loss a person learns to live with, in time. "I know He'll help." Ixzhulqvoth, he's referring to, that strong presence of a ghost in Khu's very make-up. Her lifemate's certainty is borne of her own; their bond is one that courses deep and strange, charting paths through territory that might make the hearts of others quail. Ixzhulqvoth reaffirms, grateful in his way that the young bronze understands - for him, an ice-rimed rose, birthed of thorns and mist. A promise of future wellness, even if the now is full of pain. Images rise and fall on the brightgloom of his mind, charcoal visions scripting out snapshot visions of a past that he knows, but has no connection to. Desert. Plants. Scars. The shearing of hair. Blood. A rapidfire flickering of ideas, of notions, of things that make sense to him, but will need time and patience to pull into something more. Khu is surely aware; there's a brief stiffening of her body until, eventually, she relaxes again, an initial wave of defensiveness allowed to pass through like wind through a hollow stone. She scoots incrementally closer until she's tucked up tight to R'sare's side, her silence filling in whatever gaps yet remain. Her breathing steadies. The tears are blinked away. A final sniff finds her back to rights again, the cracks sealed - or, if not sealed, then sufficiently buried for her to find and tend to later. "Thank you," is solid now, as if her feet are once again on rock rather than shifting sand. "I will hope that it is a comfort to her." But can it be? Could it ever be? She cannot speculate; she has only her sister's notes to piece together. "They will have what we did not when we first came and I can only hope it will be enough." And, if not, then the children may find another way - perhaps a craft, a holder's life, something else… Her mouth hitches to a side and she lifts hert head just enough to nudge her head against his, a gentle headbutt that comes with the awareness of his scruff, his hair, his scent. "He always does," says she of the brown and he does, in his way, even if his way can sometime be painful. "But you are helping, too." Shades of embarrassment yet reside beneath the words, though even that fades by the time she adds, "Even if you are still in need of a shave and haircut, sha." Surely those are relayed, in parcels, to R'sare, from brown to bronze to man in gusts of dragon-formed images without the attached emotions, so he cannot fully, fully place each puzzle piece into a picture-perfect understanding. Someday, perhaps, they will be translated by Khu: but with her momentary stiffening against him, he knows enough to not nudge around those past places right now. But he will not toss them like chaff, to be taken by the wind of forgetfulness, yet like so much else in this brief exchange he also doesn't assure her of that, not verbally. When she tucks closer to him, though, he frees his hands from hers, bringing one arm to curve around her body as if to shield from a sandstorm that has already passed over and through: too late, now, even if the gesture was borne of resistance which gradually eroded more than a hasty, ill-timed afterthought. His hand rests against her back, a twitch of his fingers betraying another impulse, to soothe with strokes. He knows nothing of parenting by proxy, or in any form; a nod must suffice instead of words, for what opportunities these children will find or not here. That they will have Khu and her brother, and that will be more than enough to set a better foundation that had they to start off alone, like he is realizing Khu once did. He grins at her gentle nudge, the smile deepening at it and the little rebuke of his upkeep — or lack of. "You're in demand, Dragonhealer," he chides gently in return, keeping his jaw turned towards her, with that pesky scruff, and smile, and the persistent scent of a no-frills, sea-scent oil that Strath has grown into preferring. "I'm still waiting for my appointment." Maybe, maybe, maybe there will a time for it. Maybe the moment will pass and those memories will be allowed to fritter off into the ether. For Khu, they still cleave to the bone and their awakening leaves its mark in her. But that is past, even now, and as R'sare hooks an arm around her, there's a deeper sort of stillness that slides in along her bones and settles deep into the tissues of her form. The shelter isn't needed, not now; nor did she ever need it, in truth, for she's weathered worse and come through on the other side whole, but not unscathed. A faint, feline arch of her back puts pressure on his indecisive fingers, goading them to a response - one way, or another. It comes with the further lift of her head, enough to ghost lips just past his stubbled jaw and allow her breath - anise-sweet - to curl warm against skin. "I am, sha. But I can make time. That is a gift I have that others do not share." A soft click of her tongue, a hooking of fingers in his, a muted laugh that gusts along his jaw. Her past can stay where it belongs for now - even down to the children that are near to her present - as she replies, "The sandstorm is coming and my weyr is sheltered. I keep my kit there." A squeeze of fingers follows. "Unless you prefer your weyr for the work to be done." That lovely movement beneath his fingers — and, too, that near-tease to his jaw — motivates a response, as intended, a hand which takes a bolder approach to come find her hipbone, feel out its curve beneath the waist of the flowy trousers. R'sare's other hand snagged once more by her, his fingers interweave to use the hold against her, to raise her to her feet with both hands, until she is on solid — and not just proverbially so — ground. Another acceptance of what she offers. "I'll come to you," as he did, here, initially. His hand at her hip releases, lifts, and before he steps away from her, his fingers do stir her curls, less playfully, and more in impulse evoked by the sound of her soft laugh still ringing in his ears. To cover the forwardness, he next tousles his own hair, already unkempt, measuring out with his first two fingers how much she'll have to cut to make him as presentable as he usually tries to be. Realizing her work is cut out for her, with a wry look narrowing in on her, he clips amusedly, "Thanks for working me in," for it's a loaded day for both of them, or will be, even if the sandstorm is gifting them a buffer from the demands of the day. She is light and lithe, but solid; in another life, she'd have made a fine dancer if the Healers didn't snap her up first. There's a responsive twitch of skin under his touch, some mote of rare, deep pleasure at such basic contact that skitters down her spine. On her feet again, Khu is once again composed and secure, her chin lifted that necessary bit to meet his eyes. Neutrality might typically stake its claim on her visage, but his words and his touch, the tangling of fingers in curls, seem to crack that mask in a smile that's all for him. Her hair is silky smooth, well-kept, and smells like jasmine and lavender, though autumn's spice will eventually replace the vestiges of summer. His fowardness is forgiven with some of her own; when he demonstrates the length of his hair and where it ought to be cut, she reaches up to thread fingers through it, nails seeking his scalp. "We shall see, sha," but it's not a question of whether he'll come or not, for that seems signed and sealed and delivered; it's a gauge of just what she might do with his hair, instead. How long? How short? Her hand slips free, fingertips set to skim along his jaw before she eases back a half-step and turns to start down the rock. "It will be a pleasure," says she of working him in to a schedule that's already stretched to the seams. "Come, come. The winds are picking up." And, yes, the day will be a heavy one, as strange as any can be against the backdrop of howling wind and screaming sands that offer a reprieve from other expectations. R'sare, too, shall see what's in store for him with this haircut, the scrape of her nails foretelling the attention to detail he kind of hopes Khu will take with him. That, and her smile, makes him blind to the way the shadows, too, have crept upon them, thrown by clouds looming and now, subsuming, the intimacies of deeper pain and loss shared unexpectedly here. The wind might even be driving them away, to seek shelter, no longer an interloper but instigator, moving the dragonriders to the rest of their day for they — the sand's sting will soon tell — have tarried too long here. Storms has 0 comments. |
12 Mar 2024 05:00 |
R'sare seeks Khu out to talk over the mismatched notes |
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Cleaning Chaos: Dragon Edition Cleaning Chaos: Dragon Edition
"I don't think that dragon cared about their father…" 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. As the sun falls, sunset coloring the desert sky, the candidates come out to 'play'. Well, some might have been told this was a game of sorts. Even if this is work, there's refreshing lake water and the excuse to get up and personal with the dragons. THe dragons in question have also heard there are baths to be had, with and without their riders, under the watchful eye of other dragonriders so there's no silliness. Larze comes along with his usual shuffle-step, shoulders bowed with weariness but there's a small, secret smile all for himself. Someone's suffered a debilitating flight loss - and that means a mud bath of epic proportions. After getting his wallow on, Ixzhulqvoth emerges from the muck and mud at the lake's short like a creature reborn and composed entirely of, well, mud. Given the hue of his hide, though, one would be forgiven for thinking he's merely wet. Khu's yet to make an appearance - those in the know would be aware she's doing her dragonhealering duties in the wake of her lifemate's frustrations - and the brown is, thus, unsupervised as he lumbers toward the likely victims cleaners. At the other end of the spectrum is Zheraszth - she's perfectly composed, far from flight-afflicted… and not even a quarter as filthy as Ixzhulqvoth. The green's in need of a bath, though, and her rider's still unable to do it - Yaszha's equipped with a sling for her arm and a crutch to keep her moving, with a broken arm and leg - on the same side, no less - rendering this task especially difficult. Still, the kit's out there to be used and there are plenty of candidate hands at the ready, so she might as well avail herself of the help while it's there, right? The sun falls, and yet — Zekaraiya is up, herded along with the others to the lake and dragons to be scrubbed. A new task to him, and one he seems both nonplussed by and a bit apprehensive; after all, one doesn't ordinarily volunteer for such duty. Quyen is also relatively new to the whole dragon-washing business, but she comes prepared with a tub of sweet sand and an extra long scrub brush to set with the other supplies. There's a bit of a gulp as she takes in the muddy mess that is Ixzhulqvoth and gives a salute to the nearest rider, Yaszha. "Were you…. needing help, rider?" She may even have completely overlooked poor Zheraszth over there and just assumed the dirtiest dragon was the one with a rider nearby. "I wanna wash a bronze!" Comes the annoyingly arrogant voice of Brit. "I gotta learn what it's like, after all." He is flanked with Thad and Thorne (like usual). "Yeah, gots tah." Echoes Thorne. "Aw, there's so many greens…." Laments Thad. THe group move towards the brown. That's better in their eyes. Weslyn joins the other candidates by the lake, which promises a change of scenery, a welcome break from the barracks, and less pleasant chores. Getting up and personal with the dragons is going to be a fairly new experience as well, as he had only been a dragon aback once in his life. Among the assembled dragons, his gaze naturally settles on Ixzhulqvoth. If he was going to get all up and personal with some dragon, he figured it should be the one that searched him. Besides, he and the brown seem to share the same interest in pyrotechnics. He approaches the brown with a mixture of anticipation and a burgeoning sense of duty. "Hey, you want a scrub?" he asked. "I can use any help I can get, candidate. She's in rough shape," Yaszha replies to Quyen while tipping her head to the green that looks as if she could probably go another sevenday or two without a bath. Her smile is wry and maybe it's a reassurance that it's the green she's indicating first and not the brown. "Though, that one does look like he's in worse condition. I think." She squints at the brown that's wandered closer to the candidates. "I guess it's your call which one you want to lay hands on." There are definitely other dragons here in need of a wash, after all! For his part, Ixzhulqvoth seems to like the attention, though he whuffs audibly at Brit and his buddies before swinging his head away to sneeze audibly. Mud falls off him in thick clumps and, when he shakes his head, the stuff sprays everywhere. Sorry, Weslyn, but there's a fan of the stuff going his way, too. His attention swings back to the lad he Searched and his head lowers, aligning his regard with the young man's face as best he can. There's a low, low, low sound that reverberates through the earth - but it sounds agreeable enough. She? There's a look of clear relief on Quyen's face as Yaszha motions to the green and not the mud monster masquerading as a dragon. Especially given those sneezes he's doling out. "He… looks like he went through a lot of trouble to get that muddy. Besides, could probably scrub her at least three times over in the amount of time it'll take to do him." There's definitely some efficiencies in being a green rider with less dragon hide to scrub! Zekaraiya goes still, eyeing Brit, Thorne, and Thad with something like disgust before turning away with a roll of his eyes at their theatrics. Seeing them all converging on the brown at once, the long lad turns toward Yaszha inquiringly, offering the injured rider a salute. "Rider, " The wildling says politely (maybe hoping to impress such behavior on the arrogant trio, "Shall I help wash your dragon?" Larze comes along with the others, but seems a little…unsure. As the other candidates move forward with more sure steps towards various dragons, he seems less confident. A wave goes to Zekaraiya and then he's moving as far away from the Terrible Trio as he can. "HOw did that one get so…dirty?" "She tells me that he's prone to that kind of thing," Yaszha observes to Quyen - and Larze, as he comes along, though she doesn't hesitate to turn slightly away from the brown that is almost offensively filthy at this point. "She's a lot easier - and I can help." A little. With one hand. But let her have her pride. As another comes nigh, she motions Zekaraiya over. "Yes, please. You can get on her other side and-" Larze is roped in as well "-if you want to get on her back when she's in the water, that'll be great. Zheraszth is… understanding of the situation," which means the green won't be a difficult one to bathe. Thank Faranth for small things. Weslyn can't help but snort at Ixzhulqvoth, even with the wave of mud coming his way. There's no point worrying about a bit of mud when you're going to get all wet already. "Didn't like what you smelled?" he asks the brown as he picks up the scrub brush out of his bucket. "Nice to see you again," he continues. His mama always taught him to be polite. There's a dart-flick of his forked tongue at Weslyn, serpentine despite the fact that dragons can't actually taste the air. Ixzhulqvoth is a curious one and he knows it. He offers a nosing to Weslyn's torso before he jerks his head in an eerily human manner toward the water. The trio of other candidates will merely be expected to follow - and if he has an answer for Weslyn's question, it's not offered. Instead, there's another of those low rumbles, a subsonic vibration that will follow him into the shallows. He leaves a trail of filth in his wake, which means Weslyn and the others are going to have their hands very full in getting him scrubbed down. "I heard some weaver journeymen talking about a stall that sells mud masks to help with irritated skin. Maybe he decided to one up the mask to full body," Quyen says with a shrug for Laarze. But a nod as Yaszha explains the plan for who will be cleaning where on the green. And even though her entire shirt will surely be getting soaked through very soon, the miner-turned-candidate starts rolling up her sleeves. "Not sure I wanna know, Zekaraiya mumbles to Larze, offering the other candidate a slow smile of amusement as he ranges alongside the green at Yaszha's direction, brush in hand. Eyeing Larze - oh look, he isn't the only beanpole here! - he whispers, "Too bad they don't step on people." Oh, how he wishes the Terrible Trio would get squished, just a little. "Filthy animal," Brit teases with his friends. "Hey! Lard'o, you go wash a green." Thorne bumps Larze with his shoulder as they breeze past him and go hooting and shouting as they splash into the water after one muddy brown dragon. Zheraszth noses gently at her rider, mindful not to accidentally knock the woman over, and it's her turn to step into the water - a little deeper than the shallows, but enough to make it easy for someone to get up on her back… and not have too far to fall, if they're clumsy. Yaszha motions the green onward and crutch-hobbles her way to the trailing end of her lifemate - that is, the tail. It's the only bit she'll be able to get at with the long-handled brush she has, but it'll have to do. "Message received," the Journeyman Smith mutters as he picks up his waterproof soap-sand bag and heads into the water after the brown. The trio is ignored as he looks over Ixzhulqvoth and ponders the best way to tackle all the mud. "Sorry, rider ma'am," he half-way turns to look at the greenrider. Do we just scrub him down like you would a runner, or is there something special we are suppose to do?" Larze doesn't pay much mind to the trio, not even when they're trying to bowl him over on their way to the water. He rolls his eyes so hard, it might give him a headache. He gives a nod of understanding to Quyen "Better idea than what I was thinking. My sisters like to make mudpies but…do dragons…play in the mud?" He doesn't care what color the dragon is. Being close to a dragon is just a bucket list item for him and all his friends back at the cothold. "What stories I'm going to tell when I go home." He reaches Zekaraiya abd murmurs. "I'm sure a dragon could step on someone. You know, careful-like? I mean…nah, you're probably right…." "Pretty much like washing a runnerbeast," Yaszha chimes in for Weslyn's benefit. "I usually start at the head and work top down, front to back," she even motions as if to indicate the 'best' way to get it done. "Hopefully he'll know to rinse off in the water and not go right back to the mud, though." Ixzhulqvoth utters a snort and slants something of a side-eye to the greenrider. Then his head ducks and he dunks it in the water. Look, see? He's helping. At least on that end. Pay no mind to his tail, which is wiggling like a water snake. Or the fact that his wings are flexing a little, as if to ward off the other three as they get in the water. Or maybe he's just that clumsy? Or itchy? What a mystery. "Like a runner…" Quyen nods like she's ever actually had cause to scrub a runner before. But she has scrubbed floors. How much different can it be? Though going a bit gentler seeing as the surface needing the cleaning has actual nerve endings to take into account. "And there's gotta be some dragons that play in the mud. They can't just sit on their ledges all day, every day when not fighting Thread or drilling or flying sweeps or whatever." Zekaraiya isn't laughing, just ignore that sudden fit of coughing he's got going on there. Eyes gleaming, he gives Larze a wink. "We can hope, right?" He'd seen the way they tried to push past his fellow long Boi. "Shards, they're useless. We sure the dragon always knows?" But look, Yaszha is giving directions on how to wash a dragon, which is a new one on him. Got it, front to back it is, but before he starts in on Ixzhulqvoth, Weslyn leans forward and whispers to the brown, "Don't worry, I tend to get dirty too when I work. It is a sign of being productive." Standing back up, he holds out his brush. "Going to start with your head," he states as he starts knocking off some of the mud that has come loose in the water. Shifting into "commanding apprentices" mode, he calls out to any of the nearby candidates, "Go ahead and start on the neck. It looks like he got a lot of cake in-between those ridges." Even if she's 'dirty' - and that's questionable, compared to Ixzhulqvoth - Zheraszth still smells nice. Dragon-spicy, but with a hint of prickly pear and cactus. Refreshing. But definitely spicy. She stretches out some in the water, head low, wings outstretched, but curved so the candidates are in the shelter of her 'sails. Yaszha remains at the green's tail, scrubbing away with care and the voices of Healers echoing in the back of her head. This time, the low sound sets ripples through the water. Ixzhulqvoth leaves his head low for Weslyn to get at… but his nostrils are under the water, which allows him to make a bit of bubbly burbling. It's probably better than his tailforks getting all bubbly, but- can dragons even fart on command? This is probably not the best time to consider that. So, yes, he's going to blow bubbles in the water while Weslyn does his thing. His thoughts momentarily reach toward the young man, bringing with it a scrim of mist and ice; a touch, then gone, as if to reassure him that, yes, he is listening. As for the mud between his neckridges, well- it looks like he's turned dinosaur with a sail of muck between the ridges themselves. It's gross. Like a runner indeed. Larze's eyes run up and up the dragon and gives a small shake of his head. "Not to argue but..ain't no runner this size." Still, he's all about getting into the water. "They're…expectional. Execptionally full of themselves. Here's hoping the dragon will change them to become regular people. Yes?" The Usual Suspects don't hear Larze. It's Brit that gives Weslyn a cool up-down look. "Excuse me, who do you think you are to boss us about? C'mon boys, we'll take up this side." Glaring at Weslyn, Thad moves away. "Someone needs a tunnelsnake in their bed me thinks, boys." "Exceptionally dense," Zekaraiya muses thoughtfully, eyeing the green with bemused gaze. "Definitely not a runner." Buuut, he'll begin gently scrubbing at her neck anyway, lip curling in annoyed contempt for the trio's obnoxious behavior. "Mm, maybe we'll see if they end up with a bed full of something unpleasant, like chore lists." Quyen gives a look over her shoulder back at Brit and Co and gives a shrug to Zekaraiya. "If I were betting, I'd put more on learning a lesson on not to count one's wherries before they hatch. Besides, think they also forgetting that once weyrlings, hear the weyrlingmasters take shears to everybody's heads. Shave it all off, so everybody looks the same. And cause you don't have time for hair." Scrub-scrub-scrub along with the exagerated weyrling-rumors. Oh. Are they angling for that side of him? Ixzhulqvoth's haunches shift, taking him into a sly side-step that carries him a little further away from the trio. Weslyn remains largely sheltered by the brown's bulk, which will be very important in just a matter of moments. The brown's tail ail coils and promptly thrashes in the water, fanning filthy water at Brit, Thad, and Thorne in foam-laced waves of water that stinks of the runoff near the pens. #sorrynotsorry In a stark contrast to Ixzhulqvoth and his splashing, Zheraszth is downright placid, patient to a fault through the process. She trills softly in gratitude, shifting her bulk and angling herself from time to time to help them get at parts that might be hard for inexperienced hands to reach. Yaszha watches and listens for a moment longer before she intones a conspiratorially cool, "I can always drop a word to the Headman, if they're giving you that much grief." Scrubby scrubby; scrubby scrubby. The green's tail is sparkling now - well, sparkling with suds, but it still counts. Larze gatheres up some sand like he's seen another of the candidate's do and sets to rubbing it carefully against the green hide. "They don't actually do their chores." %n admits to Zekaraiya in a quiet, secret voice. "But, so long as they don't think I was involved, I'm all for collecting something…interesting….for a sleeping companion. " Overhearing Quyen talking about head shaving, he blanches and tries to hide behind his curls by hanging his head. Oh dear…what if people can actually /see/ him. "Shards and shells…that sounds horrible." Weslyn stops scrubbing for a second to look at Brit and Thad. "Oh, he caught that last bit. Giving them a long look, he finally bends down to whisper to the brown again. "I think someone needs a sparkle paint bomb to go off in their trunk next time they open it." Oh, he hasn't had to deal with barrack warfare since he got his Journeyman knot, but he was a master of it when he was a kid. When Ixzhulqvoth seems to take his own command of the situation, he snorts again. If he could give the brown a high five, he would. "No one is cutting my hair." Brit drawls. "Our father will have a word or two to say about …urk!!" The wave of filthy water ends up in Thad's mouth as the wave overtakes him. Brit is also taken unaware and he lets out a girlish scream before he two is sucked under the mucky water. Only Thorne doesn't get a mouth of gunk but he's swept into the waves all the same. hardcore. "I don't think that dragon cared about their father…" Quyen quips with a snort as Ixzhulqvoth dunks a few candidates, even as she keeps giving Zheraszth the proper scrubbing the not-so-dirty-green deserves. He'll not turn down the idea of sparkles, either; Ixzhulqvoth utters a soft, resonant rumble at the suggestion, which is just for him and Weslyn to know. It just sounds like a brown dragon that's enjoying his scrubdown. Or the idea that he's thoroughly soaked three lads. Or all of it, really, because he's a complicated and nuanced entity with a complex sense of humor. As yet, there's no sign of Khu to step in and rein in his worst impulses, so he doesn't bother feigning innocence. He knows what he did and he'll do it again. "Makes me think they're gonna get nothin'," Zekaraiya seems to take an absolute delight in Quyen's suggestions, offering her a maliciously sparkling grin. A short time of scrubbing later, he muses, "Huh. Think they'll squeal like the kids do when they get baths?" He's puzzled, though: Larze seems to want to hide behind his hair — as much as the wildling wants to reassure him, he has no idea how. Instead, he'll pounce on the most informative bit. "You're right, they don't- " Did Yaszhe just offer to… report them? "Hmm. They don't bother me, at all." Maybe it's his size, maybe they just hadn't noticed him yet, who knows. The sight of Brit being engulfed in bilge water startles a guffaw out of him before he can stop himself. "Or their lovely lady hair." Larze looks more than a little paniced at the prospect of the trio being reported. "They'll do something worse if someone finds out." Sighing, he pushes his hair back and out of his eyes, just in time to see the misshap with the trio. He gulps back his laugh and turns his back to them. "Oh, that was brilliant." Finding a friend in Zekaraiya, he flashes a small grin. Zheraszth turns her attention briefly to the chaos over there, but the brown's at least thoughtful enough to bodyblock the water, so none of it gets to her side of the lake. She warbles again, delighted, and shifts in the water again as the washing continues. She's getting quite clean, quite quickly, but it doesn't hurt that she's, well, a green - and she's compliant. "Mmhm," Yaszha utters a thoughtful hum, flicking a look to the candidates before she provides a rather bland, "If you don't take care of the problem, he can and will." Somehow, the words come out deadpan; neutral, even, despite the heretical slant of the words themselves. She will claim plausible deniability if there is a riot in the candidate ranks, of course. "And there's not much they can do if he solves the problem. They'll go home." "You gotta grow a bit of spine or you're gonna get walked on forever," Quyen mutters as she keeps scrubbing. "Why do you take what they say over what others say? Over what a rider says?" A point to Yaszha right there, with possible encouragement of prank wars and/or headman reporting. Now that Ixzhulqvoth's head is clean, he moves on to that neckridge that the two troublemakers avoided, and if some of the dinosaur ridge of mud happens to fall on the pair, well, that is what they get for not listening. Apparently, it is going to be "mess with the idiots" along with bathtime, and Weslyn is all in. After all, who is he to try to curb his favorite dragon's impulses? "True enough," Zekaraiya sighs, and steps back to admire Zheraszith's hide with head cocked. "We'll get 'em settled, one way or another." He turns to give Yaszha a long, thoughtful look. "Can't say we'd be sorry to see the back of 'em, but I suspect that one -" meaning the stinky, muddy brown, "Might be getting 'em together." Too bad Zeke can't just walk up to Brit and just… nudge him deeper into the water. Poor Larze is getting the raw end of the deal. "Larze… Quyen's right. Easier said than done, I know, but I'll back you, you know. Even if it means I go home." Larze peers around the green dragon to blink-blink at Yaszha. But it's Quyen's comment that draws the words from his lips. "I have a sharding spine. But I can take it." He grinds his teeth but his care of the dragon's hide is very careful as he listens to Zekaraiya, jaw set. "What happens if they get sent hom and some dragon goes without a rider?" It looks gross - but it's oh-so-satisfying, too; a whole chunk of mud just sliiides out from between Ixzhulqvoth's neckridges and goes *sploosh* in the water. It elicits an equally satisfied rumble from the brown, as one set of eyelids finally drop into place. It's not just protection from splashing but, also, a way to articulate his pleasure - both at the great work Weslyn's doing and at the opportunity to prank the trio in the water. Another, deeper, swish of his tail sets up a little bit of an undercurrent, but it's not enough to keep them under the water. But, maybe they're really bad swimmers. Not his problem at the end of the day. "Oh -yuuuuck-!" Whines Brit as he is splatted with mud on his glorious hair. And he hasn't been able to get all the grit out of his mouth. "This is all Weslyn's fault!" Thorne decides as he too ends up with some mud on him. It's Thad who's got some sense to try to move to Weslyn. He's going to try for some comeback by an attempt to dunk the other candidate. "It's very, very rare that that happens," Yaszha points out. "They're more likely to find someone in the Stands than not find anyone at all. But, there's at least two candidates to each egg," maybe closer to two and a half, really, but talking about half candidates is probably not wise, "so the dragons have a lot to pick from in the first place." With Zheraszth's tail finally clean, the greenrider takes a few hobble-steps back and settles into a chair that she brought out for the purpose of getting a rest. "And look at you! You've almost got her all done. I have her back end all finished," well, the tail part, but it's fine. As for the green? She trills a bit with encouragement to the candidates near her - or maybe it's gratitude? Or both? Probably both. Apparently, it is time to reach into his history and pull out some of the tricks he learned. As Thad comes around to his side of the brown and makes a pay for him, Weslyn does a little side "swim" and tosses the kid over his shoulder. He may not be the tallest of the bunch, but his turns of jumping out of the way from danger have given him some killer reflexes. "Oh, sorry, man," he sheepishly tells the boy before turning away, moving on to the next clump, and pulling down on the boy before he can recover. How does he have this much mud on him? Ixzhulqvoth is probably a mud magnet, defying all laws of physics or known reality or… something. Doesn't matter. What does matter is that there's enough mud to go 'round until Weslyn knocks off the worst of it. At least his tail is getting incidentally clean, with all the thrashing it's doing in the water. So, that's a good thing! But the rest of him? The mud is slowly starting to dry out in some places where it's particularly thin, making him look like he's growing scales in some spots. For now, he leaves Weslyn to handle himself here - but the brown is, no doubt, scheming somewhere in his mind. Quyen gives Larze an if-you-say-so sort of shrug before she resumes scrubbing until well… she runs out of green flank to scrub. "That was quicker than I'd imagine it'd take." But that happens when you have four-ish people scrubbing together on a smaller dragon. "And who's to say any of that trio is gonna Impress?" Zekaraiya counters, pointing the brush at Larze gently. "It ain't guaranteed, you know." Look at him, confidence personified. He has no idea, not really; he gives Yaszha a questioning look to confirm that, and she does, maybe, by mentioning the two-to-one odds. "Besides, the lady rider says they can pick from the Stands, too. You ain't gotta put up with 'em." A pause, then, as an all-out war of mud, water, and dragon tail breaks out, and it's Zeke's hope that the Trio With One Cell Betwixt them come out much the worse for wear. "'Come, man, look at them. Don't even know they're outmatched, there." Thad is no lightweight, being one half the muscle behing the trio. It's probably why Thad is shocked into silence as he's 'tossed' so. Face blazing with anger, the big candidate surges up from the water, murder in his eyes. And it's probably not fair for Weslyn that the other two hold brats are looking at him with real spite in their eyes. "You best watch yourself 'round them dark corners. Lard'o is pretty accident prone. You don't wanna be like that." Brit warns in low tones. Forgetting that the dragon might inform with his rider …. or…just arrogant enough to think the dragon will take his side. "Mmhm. She goes quicker than some," Yaszha opines with a nod to Quyen. "But she's also a fan of soaking in the water as much as she loves sunbathing. So, she doesn't really get that dirty," even if the greenrider might jokingly suggest otherwise. "She'll need a good oiling, but I'll leave that for some other candidates to do after she dries off. It looks like that one will need some helping hands," for at least half of him, anyway; the other half appears to be pretty clean. "Thank you, all of you, for helping out with her. If she could re-Search you all in thanks, she absolutely would." The greenrider glances to Zekaraiya and nods, adding as an aside, "No, there is no guarantee of Impression; some people Stand until they age out." Larze nods his head, seeming relieved at the news that some baby dragonette might still find a rider if the pickings are slim. "That would be neat. Maybe it'd happen for my sister. She'd make a real good rider." He gets that far off look on his face before blinking back to the conversation. He nods and scowls as he watches the antics. "Wish they'd just get sent home. I'm just…I ain't no snitch." He looks at the work in front of him. "Should we go help with the brown? Might take ALL of us." Because the trio sure ain't helping. There's a problem in certain assumptions - and assuming Ixzhulqvoth will choose any side is a huge mistake. The brown doesn't trumpet or bellow; in fact, aside from his rumbles, he's eerily quiet - but his rider needs none of that to manifest. Ichor and blood alike stain her hands as Khu makes her way to the lake, her apron smeared and grotesque, but indicative of how recently her work has been abandoned. Her hands lift and clap together sharply, meant to draw attention. "Enough." For candidates? Her lifemate? It seems to be more for the former, for the brown swings his head 'round to look at her with an adoration that's evident in the rapid wheel of blue eyes. "I will see to the rest of his cleaning. Go, go, and do not make the mistake of thinking dragons are deaf or that the Weyr is blind." Pointed, that, though only three are truly at the receiving end of that sharpness. And incidentally send assist in getting the trio embarrassed further? Zeke's all for it. He gives Yaszha a brilliant smile for her confirmation - if they're all lucky, the three will walk away sans baby dragon. "Mhm. I see." He grins wryly at Larze, considering subtle mayhem to make the lives of the boys uncomfortable — but what's this? A reprimand in the form of an authority the group has no choice but to respect. "Don't think ya gotta." Zekaraiya considers thoughtfully, for it seems both Yaszha and Khu are keenly aware of them, and will be keeping an even keener eye upon them. "Maybe we should go help. You're right about that." The brownrider isn't her wingleader, but she is a wingleader, and Yaszha pushes herself to her feet to tip the other woman a salute. Then it's back to sitting, while Zheraszth wades out of the water to find somewhere to dry off - some distance from the lake, for good measure. It won't do her any good to get muddy or icky before she's dried off enough for an oiling, after all. As for the greenrider? She'll make herself scarce soon enough, now that her dragon's been so dutifully tended to. Weslyn ignores the trio with all the flare of his typical rank, but to Khu, he bows his head. "Yes, ma'am," he says as he moves back towards the water. It was good to see you again, Ixzhulqvoth." Once on the beach, he drops the brush and the soap bag into the bucket and picks up his towel. For all his pleasant nature a few minutes ago, the Smithcrafter suddenly becomes very quiet as he turns inwards, muttering a "list" of items softly to himself. Looks like sparkle bombs might very well be in the works in the near future. Cleaning Chaos: Dragon Edition has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 04:00 |
Khu & Ixzhulqvoth, Larze, Quyen, Weslyn, Yaszha & Zheraszth, Zekaraiya, NPCs: Brit, Thad, Thorne |
Dragons need washed. The candidates do their best. Ixzhulqvoth does not help. |
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The Wrong Business The Wrong Business
"Shut up." The Tea Room This shop is easy to miss from the street. It bears the same striped awning that most shops have, this one in shades of lilac and sand, but it has no sign save for a plaque of sandstone hung beside the door, on which a teacup has been carved. When open, the heavy curtain that covers the doorway is pulled aside to allow entry. After stepping through, one will find themselves in a tiny space decorated with classic desert touches. The walls are whitewashed to increase the sense of light within but the floor is tiled in hues of blue and green, with each tile bearing in its center a brilliant red lotus. There are only five small tables, all of them of dark, heavily carved wood set low to the ground. To sit at one requires reclining on the plethora of pillows and cushions and layered rugs provided for that purpose; each seat is provided with a carved wooden back-prop to rest the pillows against, for those who want spinal support. Tea is served from the service at the rear of the room, where a tiny smokeless hearth keeps water heated, and a row of trays are kept loaded with teapots, tiny cups, and containers for sweetener. There is a small selection of fruits, breads and cheeses also available for those looking for a snack but this is not a place for heavy meals. It's a beautiful autumn day, quite comfortable for the desert, and the candlemark comes for T'rin to presumably have some time off for consumption of food. But of more pressing matters, there's still 'business' to be had this day. The bright day, and bright walls, soon give way for the cool, dark columns of Luxeraeth's hellish mindscape as the great bronze reaches out to a very particular Steen heir. « Ezra, mine would like to speak business with you. Weyr business, in case that should be specified. » Amusement tints the dragon's Fortian-esque accent. « Would the Tea Room suffice? » Imperial columns of creatures entirely unhuman should not become… "familiar"— and yet, as though another trauma for the boy to process, Luxeraeth has settled on the outskirts of the known conscious, a tolerated inconvenience. The bronze is left to wait on the cusp of Ezra's questionable attention. Possibilities roll about, simulated in the way Ezra lays his forefinger on a nearby small metal container and glides it back and forth on the table. The Weyrleader and he barely "speak" much anymore; not that a sober Steen can claim. And in the blaze of the light of day, it must burn down to the truth: business, then. The young man pulls one leg towards himself, knee in, and then extends it again, deepening his languid lounge. Considering the careful crafting of light and tile playing to the ceiling of the place. A wash of sweet and sharp scents — and cheeses of both — more naturally relaxing than any spa. Head mostly dependent on the cloud of pillows shoved beneath, Ezra glances over each shoulder. There is no such thing as privacy in the Bazaar, but two of five tables are occupied, and the Steen heir's number four, at the back curve of his low table when coming from the entrance. Of the Tea Room. The metal container is a very precisely shaped, very expensive, leaf tea infuser. His mug's been on the table a while: empty, with dark grounds of leftover tea sludge forming ambiguous symbols to be read. So… would the Tea Room suffice…. "… Mmhm." The one other patron and Steen attendant at the hearth pause, but decide to take no mind. « 'Mmhm.' He will arrive shortly. » Luxeraeth recedes his little touch, still tinted with that good natured humor, and then there's nothing for a few minutes. Swift as a dragon's ::between:: can be, it can do little good with walking through the Bazaar, even if the busy rider was already enroute before the the call went out; the Bazaar being the general locale required, there was at least some time cut in the process. Stepping through the curtain of the doorway, finally, the herb pack is not over his shoulder, but rather that other pack, the one that tends to carry the rather monotonous hidework that Ezra had previously found to be unworthy of stealing. Now inside, the rider loosens his shemagh for the inevitable consumption of tea, and makes a direct line towards the young Steen. What can't be hidden is the affectionate smile he has plastered on his face as he approaches. "Good day, Ez. May I?" Steen business, Steen table, daylight hours. Anticipating the imminent arrival of political business— Ezra's done absolutely nothing; he's not even sitting up when T'rin's silhouette brushes from outside to inside, hustled into the untouched precision of the Room. Could almost make you think the Bazaar had not met with an ill hand. Except a scar on the land is a scar in Ezra; he's blooded whenever anyone else of the caldera comes to misfortune. He does place a hand and leg underneath him to begin rising as the Weyrleader makes final approach. The Steen heir's begun to change again. Dark curls have grown longer, left to toil down the side of his face as they grow too heavy for the pompadour. Just a little handful make it into a knot at the back of his head, keeping the shifting length from brushing against his neck throughout the warm days. He does scratch idly there. While it's been a slowly incremental transition — often unnoticed when seeing each other day-to-day — T'rin's… not precisely known for not staring. Now with his legs partially drawn in, he rests that fidgeting hand's elbow on the one knee. "Go ahead," that low unbothered rumble cracked by wryness, "Your creature already didn't ask." Tolerated; not left off the hook. "He never does." T'rin settles into the seat and puts the bag to his side. It's not opened just yet, so it still leaves the subject of the meeting as clear as mud. "Don't be afraid to just tell him to fuck off. He won't take offense." Being on that exclusively tiny list of people Luxeraeth will directly talk to and holding himself amused at the young man, Ezra might have some difficulty getting on the bronze's bad side. Settling in comfortably, he'll wait patiently for the usual tea service, making no request to expedite based on his knot upon his shoulder or who he's chatting with. The pause is clear as his eyes remain calmly upon Ezra and he taps the tabletop, not out of a request, but out of working through his own thoughts. "Yes, business…" as though to confirm Luxeraeth's term, as well as attempt to be a shift into the discussion at hand. He has. Told Luxeraeth to fuck off in those precisely lined up words, but it's from an experience Ezra has no compulsion to revisit — can only be dragged, kicking and drinking, on any dragonback now. Ezra only benignly blinks through T'rin's gamely explanation. He'll field no complimentary view of himself in regards to a dragon kin's feelings; no one's ever really able to tell they have them. Not really. It's a thing riders say. It's the smoky satisfaction of Lu in his head, all pipe lighting and so proud of himself after. Thinking he's subtle — or not caring. He's just Tee, isn't he. Tee wanting without boundaries. Either this or any other unreadable palette paints the Steen's features through the properly luxurious slowness of tea service; to rush would be to disrespect it. Where his one leg is propped up near him, now the other drops its knee in front, heel almost to heel, where he can pick heavy-ringed fingers at the autumnal fabrics of the rich and famous. Today, noon, his tunic is contrarily open. Several buttons, though the gentle fabric lays over itself almost enough not to glimpse his chest, a few dark hairs. He denied a replenishing of tea and is beginning to grasp at the corners of regretting it when he has to stare out from under his eyebrows at the Igen Weyrleader. "Say 'business' one more time." Hardly could be a threat? Sounds awful like one; a dare, even. What's hardly is the etiquette of crown prince Steen; he's been known to grow bored and wander away from relatively important conversations in the past, and can surely do so willfully. Not that Luxeraeth would remember his faux pas that led to Ezra's additional aversion. Even today's visit is largely on the bronze's urging more than T'rin's own, because he knows how this will go down; he knows the young man well enough, without the benefit of forgetting after so many days. With a soft laugh, his eyes move to the table briefly, and then from his lounging position, he pulls the pack into his lap. That action alone, business in hand, has calmed his features down to a neutral expression. What is pulled out is not hide, nor herb, nor any manner of first aid. What is pulled out is a simple white knot, as stark as the Steen's family color and lack of adornment, highlighting its low yet honored standing within the rank structure. "I formally ask if you would be willing to Stand for Pariisamith's clutch." Already from his lounged sitting does the young man contemplate, and then begin to orchestrate, stretching the propped up knee over towards T'rin's borrowed side of the low Steen table. Perhaps to thieve a pillow, or merely to press the advantage of his foot being there, on the Weyrleader's part of the seating, flexing the younger man's power in this meet— or like an ornery sibling bidding for superior space. Something he'd know nothing about. But the flash of white caught up in the young man's nebulous dark eyes trades their place another way. Neutral is shifted aside for a bare but present consternation; focused mostly in Ezra's eyebrows, so that little else betrays him until he's bent forward, scolding lowly, "Shut up." No barely to think, whispered disbelief, nor amazement, nor that blubbering honored confusion that stagger other young people. There's an earnest worry there, on Ezra's deliberate features, sharpened by disappointment. Still forward, in one smooth and swift movement, he's already grasped his empty tea mug, clamped it over the offensive white accessory. With a lightning quick thrust — reminiscent but leagues faster than any he's performed high — he slides both mug and knot to the edge of the table. Letting the formal offer drop silently to the padded and pillowed floor by Ezra's half-out leg, while the Steen keeps hold of the mug. The Steen— heir to Essau— with every thread and tile where they meet seeped with Steen colours; their eyes and ears. Painted on the floor, their presumed knowledge: that red lotus its beating heart of the territory. Maybe the patron at table two or the attendant who was just at the hearth again but cannot, now, be tracked. Even though Ezra drops backward like to lean again, empty mug rocked against his chest, the fearsome edge in his gaze remains heated. T'rin lets out a long, deep exhale. There is disappointment written on the Weyrleader's face, but very much anticipated disappointment. "Very well," he replies, even his tone fairly neutral. Luxeraeth is going to whine about this missed opportunity later, but the bronze can deal. He kicks his leg out to hook the white knot upon his boot, and reels it back in for a simple, discreet replacement back into the bag, out of sight. He could go on about notable riders within his bloodline, and that he would be serving the Bazaar, but T'rin knows better. That topic is very obviously concluded, and he hasn't been kicked out of the shop, so there is that. "There's something else," he says as his tone becomes more somber and the adjustment of his seating again reflects the subject change, in part to try to become more comfortable, and in part to hopefully transition Ezra out of the last query. "Issa's… severely injured after a recent Threadfall. She's in the Infirmary. You're under no obligation to visit, but… I thought you should know." The Weyrleader can exhale all he likes; not quite so soon will the legitimate concern abandon Ezra's mind, or look. The subtle rolling of one shoulder back against the pillows, easing his posture into a practiced one — if only by half. 'Very well' he mouths sardonically although, with his own exhale that follows, the man's already becoming the unbothered youth again. His only last indication of what's befallen them is his leg drawing back, foot against the table's stem beneath, keeping them on their separate sides. Once again merely watching T'rin, the Steen's barely time to feel uncertainty rise again before it's knocked clearly off with the little jolt of surprise that accompanies the information given… to him. Ezra's eyes stare across the table, disappearing behind two long, lazy blinks as a sober mind wanders darkness for a tinge of light, of understanding. Fingers twirl the mug in his hand once and a half times but, this shuffling in the recall that it's empty, he sets it blindly aside. Usually a mundane thought may release one's true vision just out of reach. Nonesuch here. He exercises his jaw noiselessly a second and then decides, "… Okay." The polite thing to do: acknowledge one has been spoken at. Even if he's less structured at disguising both his confusion of what thread ties him to this, and the blandness of reply it causes. Curiosity breaks through, sliding in at the last possible moment; it must have overslept. "Aren't dragonriders injured all the time?" If the Bazaar was supposed to be furnishing two hundred or more tithes of consolation, this is news to this family member, at least. "Not like this," T'rin replies with a painful shake of his head with the moisture in his eyes betraying his emotions in the matter. Even the Healer within him is worried about the injury of his partner and its long-term repercussions. He purses his lips into a tight line and with a twitch of his eyebrow, he suggests softly to Ezra, "If you've time later, maybe we can grab a drink or ten to keep my mind off of it." T'rin, sitting up and rather not settled comfortably at the low table keeps to his half of his table, Ezra to his half. There's far more affecting this request than the 'official' one that he had set before him prior, that even bringing it up has changed his demeanor. Ezra merely watches again; not without sympathy, but mostly weighing the true consequence to such a low suggestion, not out of line with them but laced with such personal ingredients beneath. Even the famously lazy young man appears to have been jostled, twice over now, from his relaxation and he shifts against his pillows, no longer finding the comfort of before; a body that will need to move soon. "If that's what you'd like," his ever-so-easy reply sits above all that which the Weyrleader has dragged in with himself this afternoon. The tea attendant still has not returned. Service sits empty and quiet, considering the one other patron nursing these last candlemarks. A long inhale by Ezra. "As long as you're not planning on bringing any more business." That surely cursed other bag slung nearby. Less familiar, and now: enemy. Slightly, this stranger tension cracks, bringing out a breathless gasp, "Cannot believe you'd show that here." Ezra's head shakes, just a little, but even a little is now enough to loosen the curls to move with him. "Do you like looking at my face?— Wait, don't answer that." More words than usually said sober, but the taut string of T'rin's barely held emotions are making Ezra antsy enough to smoke. His knee bounces once or twice. Surely there are riders for which this would be sensible. And yet- and so with them both in no more privacy than the near-back of the small Room, Ezra leans forward, ostensibly to shift empty mug from pillow bed to table. However, blocked by the Weyrleader's frame, the Steen's arm slips forward and, hesitating once, commits to laying a couple of fingers on the rider's wrist. Hopping all over Pern is Sriella's life at the moment, though one might wonder why she got a wagon if she's always begging rides off dragonriders, but, well, that's a question for another time. She's not usually here though, the Tea Room typically far too fancy for her tastes, but here she is, carefully weaving between the tables towards the back of the room. But since there's no one there, she just leans against the counter and naturally, curiously, lets her gaze drift back to T'rin's table. Then. Brows arch. Ooooh, damn. What's she walked into. She turns back to the empty service station. "Hello?" she calls to the back of the house. "Yes." T'rin's simple one-word response could be for any number of the statements and questions put forward by the young Steen, aside from one. In low tones, he adds, "Well, no on the business. I won't, but I can't guarantee Lux won't try to bring it up again, dragon memories as they are." He offers a weak smile back towards him, and then the sound of Sriella's voice pulls him out of that whole wibbly wobbly fog of concerns. With a single nod towards Ezra, he pulls his hands back, leaning back into the cushions of the chair. "Sriella, it's been a while," he greets warmly, although his eyes still appear a little glassy from a recent topic of conversation. Ezra's skepticism has made a comeback as the rider twists away from their conversation, but, then again— There it is. "Well. That's my lounging ruined," he remarks airily, still keeping to tones of utter privacy between him and T'rin. Whoever's across the room can call as they like: service is, as seen, momentarily closed. On his note, Ezra's risen with a graceful swirl of expensive fabrics made to do just this. From habit, he coasts a hand along his hair. More dangerous now, it seems, as it threatens to release the tense little bun barely long enough to live, there at the nape of his neck. T'rin's left the gift of Ezra's long empty mug, the soggy fortunes within jostled out of distinction by that expression of another possible fate. "If you need me— " By merit of standing, that rumbling baritone of his gets louder to reach the low-seated Weyrleader. But what reach? At this declaration — answered quite sufficiently in their hidden exchange, yet so dangerously worded — Ezra pauses, his balance drifting slightly back and forth from stolen momentum, blocked by his own dismissal. His features twist into a soft hrrmm, although the noise does not escape. So instead, he opts to merely leave it, exactly as it is. He sweeps in his deft way around from the back of the far table, glances down, now, at the Weyrleader… an extended hand perfectly positioned to dip and press comfortingly to that shoulder… Doesn't. He curls his fingers anxiously together and slips away into one of the private doorways through the back. Where he may possible stay, not really so far at all, feeding the felines that have gathered in his wake. Sriella is still hopeful there's someone back there, because wouldn't the outer doors be locked if they were actually closed? T'rin is given a smile, but since he has company she does nothing but watch Ezra make his exit, curious ice-blue eyes observing his departure. Once he's gone, she drifts to T'rin's table with a little smile. "T'rin." Eyes shift to where Ezra departed, and then back. "That didn't seem to go well," she says with a tilted, slightly sympathetic smile. "Bad meeting?" Those are never fun. "How're you?" "No, that went better than expected, but Luxeraeth insisted," T'rin replies with a half-smile, pulling up his pack full of work hides, and discarded white knot. Bringing himself to his feet to better meet Sriella face to face, he throws the pack's strap over his shoulder casually. "The matter of greater concern is… Well, Issa's in the Infirmary. She got hit bad by a patch in Threadfall." His eyes start to trail off a bit, drifting over towards the entryway than Sriella directly. "I should, while I still have some of this afternoon available, get some things to bring to her… But if you'd like, I'm sure she'd appreciate some visitors." If she's conscious. Even the Healer in T'rin is affected by the severity of the score. Sriella winces at that news. "Shit, I'm sorry," she says, tone heavy with concern. "Does she like anything here?" she asks, looking back at the still closed service area. "If they ever come back…?" She notices that white knot and her eyes drift towards the man who left. "I turned down Search once," she says, a smile for the bronzerider. "It's just not right for some people…" "She loves tea," T'rin replies with a half-shrug. "She and Ezra have discussed various tea blends in the past." He turns his head back in the direction the Steen had disappeared with an affectionate gaze. Readjusting the strap he slowly nods once. "I hate to depart on you right after you arrived, but I should get to that. My night is also accounted for now." Drink, drink, drink. "But we should catch up soon?" Despite the awkward conversation for her to walk into, the statement is genuine. With an apologetic look, he starts towards the front. Sriella nods, "Sure, I'll take her something if I can, or send it if I can't." If the back of the shop ever opens again. She tracks his gaze to where the young man - Ezra? - departed, and she gives a little nod. Then a warmer smile. "I'm sure we'll find a time eventually," she reassures. "Safe roads, Weyrleader." The Wrong Business has 0 comments. |
11 Mar 2024 05:00 |
There's some business you just don't bring up to a Steen, white knots are one of them. |
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Masokissing Masokissing
"I'd say we had a choice to accept the opportunity, but- it's not much of a choice, is it?" Mountain Vale Cellar The cellar can be accessed through a door in a small hill. A short flight of creaky stairs later and one will find a rather spacious place, with old shelves filled with jarred foodstuffs of all sorts. Are those pickled chicken's feet and eggs? Of course. Pig's feet? Absolutely. There are also several bins full of root vegetables of all sorts, though the types and quantity will always vary depending on the season. There are a few barrels stuffed in the back as well, though the contents are a mystery. The whole place smells earthy and cold and faintly musty, but not unpleasantly so. The candidates have been hard at work at Mountain Vale for a while now - and, with so many of them, a considerable amount of work has been done so far. But, today's the day of the great cellar cleaning - with Graeme making it clear that no one is to touch or open the barrels collecting dust at the back of the cellar. Dajin's taken the warning to heart and, now that he's down here, his attention is fixed on the sagging shelves that are packed full of jars upon jars and bottles upon bottles. Perhaps it's a blessing there are no tin cans on Pern; at least the contents can be seen, if not identified. "I wonder how much of this is edible. There are no labels on at least half of these jars." "We've probably been eating some of it already," Quyen deadpans from where she's busy sweeping or trying to. But down here even the dust seems to have dust and so it's almost as futile as trying to sweep sand away back in Igen. "There's a lot of us after all. Food's gotta come from somewhere." He suppresses a shudder, but only barely. "If we have, then it looks like it's not even dented his stores." Which is an even more ominous thought, somehow. Dajin gets out a cloth and starts to wipe down a few of the bottles, tilting it this way and that as if to discern its contents - and whether it's worth saving. There's no label, but the glass is fine, so it remains. A few jars further back, though, appear to have cracked or the seal's gone bad. "What do you think this was?" He knows what it is now and that's trash. Quyen takes a break from her sweeping to go over an inspect those cracks jars Dajin's found, giving a cursory sniff and then a look back to the various pickled feet and eggs in other jars. "See pigs feet but not much the rest of the stuff considering how many porcine they got out there. There should be sausage. Maybe that's some sort of jarred meat?" "Maybe?" Dajin tilts the jar a little, the contents loosely thunking around inside until he puts it in the rubbish basket to join some others. "Maybe the sausages are already gone. Those don't keep quite as well as some of this other stuff." Like, oh, the feet and the eggs and all. "I'll admit, I kind of avoided eating the meat here." His voice pitches low, in tones of superstition. A glance is darted to the door, though there's no way anyone can sneak up on them; the door's as creaky as the stairs. "At least the tubers are still good." "If you ever had to eat some of the stuff prepared in some of the smaller mines… you learn the knack of not tasting, just eating. As much as you're able anyways," Quyen says with a shrug. "If you get hungry enough, food is food. And tubers… tubers are a lifesaver many a times." There's a grimace for that and Dajin continues in his sorting through bottles and jars to add to the rubbish heap. "It's hard to eat doing the work I do, sometimes- but that's because the curing and tanning processes stink. It'll turn your stomach quicker than that jar of- oil? I think that's oil." He's not opening it to find out. "Do you ever eat good food? Or is it all, just- ah, 'food is food', as you said?" Fortunately, there's no risk of feeling hungry, not with a full lineup of pickled wherry's feet awaiting his attention. Quyen's definitely had the misfortune to walk past the tanneries judging by how her nose wrinkles in sympathy at that. "Yeah. Eat before, and eat after. Preferably after a shower. If you eat a big enough breakfast, should be able to get through a full shift." And a nod in confirmation of the probably oil. She's not questioning it! "Don't get me wrong, if there's good food and bad food both in front of me, I'll go for the tastier option. I'm not a… what's the word. masocist?" The oil goes back where he found it; it looks clear enough, so it's prooobably safe. Dajin flicks a look to Quyen while he listens. Eventually, "Sometimes I just eat after - and after a bath," because it does help considerably. "I know some people that will still eat just hardtack and jerky or other, ah- field rations? I think that's what they're called." The word she offers is one he has to ponder over with a furrow of his brow. "Maso-kissed?" Unfortunately, there's no Harper-candidate on hand to confirm. "Whatever that is, it sounds weird. I don't think you're that kind of weird." "Masokissing is weird," Quyen nods and goes with it. "Like folks that insist on making life harder for themselves, when they could just…. do something else." A pause as she considers some of the jars, straightening them out on the shelf, facing them. "But I guess I also don't chose the easiest way either." but she has her reasons! "Yeah, that doesn't make a lot of sense to me, either," Dajin agrees, moving on to another shelf of Stuff and Things. "Well. I guess some of it does," he speculates after a moment or two. "I like to work on harder projects and I guess that makes it more difficult for me- but, I also like it, so I guess that makes me some kind of masokissed." At least it's not the kind of 'kissed' that'll get a candidate or apprentice in trouble, though it's clear he's starting to make some (very erroneous) linguistic connections. "Why did you pick mining, anyway?" That last question gets a shrug from Quyen as she sorts out a few more jars. "It's what I knew. I'm from Crom." Or what is getting re-established in Crom. "Didn't want to spend a life cooking or doing laundry or those sort of things. And been sorting out firestone since I was old enough to see into the bin. Why'd you choose tanning?" He'll ponder on that a moment as he wipes down a couple of jars - and has a moment of regret until he realizes the jar in hand is olives and not eyes. Dajin shudders, but the timing is pretty bad. "That sounds a lot more fulfilling than doing what they call 'women's work'," he admits, offering her a smile that tilts a little. "Though, everyone should know how to cook or do laundry. Everyone should know basic skills like that." As for his choice, there's a shrug and his smile falters, settling into a serious line. "My grandfather used to make leather armor at High Reaches Hold. I wanted to follow in his steps." "Think that's part of why they rotate us through all those chores, not just as busy work. But for learning," Quyen nods along. "And supposedly a whole lot of meat chopping for weyrlings. Or sewing for straps. If." It's a big If. So much held in those two little letters. And she stops the tidying to look at Dajin. "Igen's a long way from High Reaches?" "Yeah, that makes sense." Dajin sucks his teeth a little and pauses in his work, but only to take a few moments to collect his throughts - and school his expression. "Crom's pretty far from Igen, too," he points out. "But- ah. My father moved to Benden Weyr and that's where I was born. And the I got posted to Igen." And now he's here, with a white knot for his troubles. "Are you- do you want to Impress? Or do you enjoy your work more?" It's a difficult question and he's not Harper-delicate with his words, resulting in a wince that he masks by turning back to his work. "About as far as Telgar, but… I was posted as well," Quyen may also be joking just the slightest with her delivery of that, there's even a ghost of a smile on her face for like half a second. "I like being useful. Impressing… hadn't really ever been a thought. It's not just something you can decide to do, right? But for my work, next twenty turns will mostly be firestone, firestone and more firestone. Whether it's on dragon or in the mines." Two sides of the same mark and Quyen's definitely not got delicate sensiblities at risk of being offended. There's a soft 'ah' for that, a nod, and a glance over his shoulder until Dajin resumes his work. The rubbish basket is nearly full - mostly with cracked jars, bad seals, and a few cloudy containers with vague horrors shifting within. "I guess that's one way to look at it," he surmises after a moment or two. "I guess- well, it'd be the same for me. Working with leather, one way or another." There's a lack of enthusiasm there, but that might be due to the work at hand. "I'd say we had a choice to accept the opportunity, but- it's not much of a choice, is it?" "Is that… a tunnelsnake?" Quyen asks as she comes across a jar with something coiled inside. Snake or intestines, it's a bit too murky to determine which. "You could have said no. Any of us could have said no. And there's some decide they can't keep it in their pants or stay away from drink long enough to make it through." "Saying no isn't an option. It wasn't for me, anyway," Dajin replies. He puts something down and comes around to squint at the mysterious contents of the jar Quyen has. "I hope that's a tunnelsnake." The alternatives are too numerous and horrifying to consider. His gaze tracks to the barrels at the back, then snaps back to Quyen. "And that's what I mean, I guess. You said you can't decide to be a rider - but you have to decide to take that step. The dragons choose after that. So, in a way, that is the life we're choosing to be open to." "Gotta wonder…. how often do any of the search riders actually get turned down?" Quyen says after a moment. "Like being a rider in a Pass… maybe we are all masokissing." That's something that'll get the thoughts turning some. Dajin ponders it, tilting his attention to the ceiling of the cellar. "Not often, I imagine. Some of the cotholds are pretty hard-off, you know? Going to the Weyr has to be better than that." His nose scrunches and he tries - and fails - to stifle a laugh. "All of us, masokissedes. Masokisseds?" None of that feels right on his tongue at all. "Masokissing makes it sound dirty." "I know," Quyen's focus on the cleaning may betray the level of how much this former Crom Colony resident knows about hard-off cotholds. "Maybe that's why folks just say 'You're crazy' instead. When doing something. Choosing the hard life." "Maybe." It's something to chew on a while, anyway. Dajin finishes up what he can and goes to gather that basket of rubbish up. "But crazy isn't right, either. There's crazy and there's crazy and it's hard to know the difference, sometimes." He glances to the barrels again, his expression thoughtful. "Just like the guy here. I wonder what's in those barrels - but I don't think I'll ever be curious enough to find out." He might be a masochist, but he's not crazy. Quyen turns to stare at the mystery barrels once again. But the barrels win the staring contest mainly cause they're inanimate objects without eyes. The Cheats. Quyen just gives a shrug. "Probably be something disappointing anyways. Folks tend to hype up the unknown. Make it bigger than it can actually live up to." Which may also be why she's so deadpan in regards to wanting to impress. The anti-hype can't be disappointed, right? "You're probably right," Dajin says after a final look to the barrels. "Knowing everything else he has in here, it's probably salted fish or something." Unusual, yes, but not horrifying. "I need to haul this up," the basket is jostled, "and dinner's probably going to be served pretty soon." The old man always insists on early dinner - and an obscenely early curfew, too. "You want to come with?" "If it's like some of the preserved fish my pa would have… you really don't want to open it. Swear some of your tanner vats smell better than that lufish." Quyen gives a shudder at that memory. "But yeah. Maybe try and get a quick wash up before everybody else does. Need a hand?" she'll offer to help carry the other side of the basket if so. Before they can both go prepare for that dinner. Masokissing has 0 comments. |
10 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Creepy Cellar Cleaning leads to some philosophical ponderings. |
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Another Offer, Another Chance Another Offer, Another Chance
"It's a long ways away, but." Fort Hold Great Hall This grand room is the largest in the entire Fort Hold area. It soars over two stories in height, and serves as both a dining hall and as a place of entertainment for the residents and guests of the Hold. A door in the northeast wall leads to the Fort hold Tavern, the Dancing Dragon. Cahia has settled into life in Fort these last sevens - months? How long has it been? - but the note from Southern has kept her preoccupied. Today, for once, she's not working the lunch hour. Instead, she's sitting at a little table by herself, picking at her food, lost in thought with her firelizards draped around her. He's found some work at Fort, though it's been interesting for the Igen native. Lokeiv isn't naturally inclined toward shirts or 'normal' work, but he's doing his best to fit in and he's even found some measure of satisfaction in it, if not happiness. It's hard to tell, really. But, what he does know is that he's happier around Cahia than not around her, so that seems to tilt things ever-so-slightly in Fort's favor. Lunch finds him nosing around the kitchens for food and, after finding Cahia's not working, he promptly goes on a hunt to find her and plunk down in a seat opposite her without preamble. Cahia is much happier to have him around, too, though she also feels guilty for it because she knows this isn't his place. He's Igen. Definitely not Fort. But she is grateful just the same. She looks up when he sits, a bright smile crossing her features that's quickly faded to pensive. "Hi." "Hey." Lokeiv flicks a look to her firelizards, to her lunch, then back to her before he leeeeans in with a finger primed to boop her nose. "What's up? You always work at lunch. Are you okay? Do I need to carry you to the Healers?" Worry limns his features - though, the time at Fort does seem to be doing him some favors: he's not all skin and bones. So, that's a win? Cahia wrinkles her nose at his boop, leaning back with a little laugh. "No, no, I'm fine. The Apprentices are working this shift." Alllll by themselves. Cahia might be here just in case disaster strikes. Maybe. She fiddles with her food again and then gives him an apologetic smile. "How are you liking Fort?" Her laugh makes him smile and that's enough to ease the worst of Lokeiv's worry. If she didn't laugh, he'd haul her off without a question. Instead, Lokeiv flashes her a grin of reassurance. "You trained them well, so- I'm sure it'll be great. They'll do great." He has faith. He has no lunch of his own - whoops - but he'll rectify that later. Maybe after she's actually eaten hers. The question hits him askance and he pulls back, perplexed. "It's… uh. I guess it's okay. It's not like Igen," not at all, "so, it's just- different? Why? What's up?" Cahia gives him a look. "I know you too well for that, Scoundrel," she teases him fondly. "But," she adds, her tone softening, "I'm very glad you came here for a while." She reaches into her pocket to pull out the the job offer from Nineveh, as such. "There's a lady in Southern, who has a bookstore. She's looking to hire a Baker to make treats for her customers…" "You being happy makes me happy," Lokeiv replies, briefly sticking his tongue out at her. "And it's different. Not good, not bad, just-" He shrugs. "It's good to explore." But that last might be more for his own benefit than hers. A reassurance. But then there's that job offer and he reaches out to take it, if she'll let him. Just to read it. To verify it. To try to see if there are lines between the lines. "You should do it," is his immediate reaction once he's done, though he's quick to add, "I mean, if it's something you want to do." Cahia lets him have it, of course, and finally takes a real bite of her food. "You think so? I'm thinking about it. But, if I do…" She watches him. "Please don't feel like you have to follow me all the way to Southern. I'm. I'm so glad you found me here, but I'm…I'm feeling better now. About…everything." Sleeping better, she means, and it's easy enough to see. Especially when he stays in her room and gets to see her sleep and not pacing half the night jumping at every noise. She's settled. He reads the offer again, his mouth tugged slightly to a side in thought. "I think so. I think- I think Southern might give you more peace of mind." Lokeiv finally offers the paper back, a smile surfacing and going lopsided. "And I'm glad you're better now," more than glad, even; he's seen the changes and they've been good - not just for her, but for himself, as well. He reaches up, pulling his hair back a bit before he slouches in his chair. "As long as I know where you are and that you're happy," he continues, "I'll be happy. Okay? I can always send Apple or Caramel to check in." Cahia nods. "It's a long ways away, but." Unspoken: that's a good thing for her right now. She takes the offer back and studies it for a moment, before she's nodding, having made up her mind. "I'll write to her and see if she still needs someone. And I know. I'm happy. I…I think owning the bakery was too much. At least right now, it's too much. This," she looks at the message again, "seems just about perfect." He can imagine: a whole ocean and then some between her and the trouble? It can only be a good thing. "Yeah. Yeah, I think- I think you'll have a lot more happiness there." Than here. Than Igen. At least for a time. "You deserve that happiness and peace of mind and- and just… the chance to do the thing you love without all the stress, you know?" Lokeiv's smile remains, tilted slightly. "And just think about all the fruits and flowers and stuff you'll get to experiment with that you didn't have before." All the tropical delights! The fantastic flavors! "I can always come visit." Cahia looks surprised and then delighted. "Oh," she breathes, "I hadn't even thought of that…" She's heard tales of the flavors of Southern, and now… now she can see them all for herself! She reaches for his hands though, giving them a firm squeeze. "You can always come visit," she stresses. His mood brightens all the more and his hands are easily caught and squeezed; he'll return the squeeze with a soft laugh. "I know, I know. It's just- you know how it is." Him dealing with the Weyr and the riders and all of that? It's not a strong suit of his. "But I will visit. I bet you'll be even better by then," not just in terms of mental well-being, but as a baker, too. "Just- ah. Let me know if I can help with anything to get you ready for it, okay? I can even go down with you for a few days-" just long enough for Lokeiv to get a taste of the humidity and nope on out of there, but still. Cahia shrugs with another smile. "You're welcome, but you don't have to. I can do it on my own." And she can, and she knows she can, her confidence returning despite her fears and mis-steps with the bakery and that new family. "I know I don't have to," Lokeiv replies with a firm squeeze of her hands. "And I know you can do it on your own. You're strong and you're smart and you're resourceful, Rogue." All points punctuated with a little wiggle of her hands and a bobbing of his head, just so. "But, the offer's still there if you want it." And if she doesn't? He'll be okay. "Either this time or if you leave Southern or- just- I'm here for you. Always. No matter what, okay?" Cahia nods, "I know," she says and she does. "And same for you, too." Or at least she'd try. Try her hardest. She finally lets go of his hands and stands, carefully tucking the offer away. "I need to go check the kitchens and then I'll write to her, see what she says. Even if she says yes, come right now, I'll still find you before I go." Guilt still hangs in her heart for how she vanished on him last time. And he nods in turn, affirming her affirmations, as if to secure them in his mind. "Okay. Good. And- I'll hold you to it," though he trusts she'll follow through, Lokeiv can't help but offer the words on a teasing note with an easy grin. "Otherwise, I will follow you down." Threat? Promise? A little of both. He pushes to his feet, his attention hanging askance on the lunch offerings. "I'll see you at dinner." For his day's still only half done - and barely, at that. Another Offer, Another Chance has 1 comments. |
10 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Cahia gets the offer of a lifetime and Lokeiv offers his support. |
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Dawn Work Dawn Work
"They don't need me." 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. Enjoying the relative coolness of the dawn time, and having finished up the tasks Taski had for her this morning, Nesyari is currently wondering loose, a little at odds with herself as she hadn't expected to get done quite as early. Aside from eating a bit of breakfast in the form of a small broken off bit of fresh-baked bread that's still steaming and dripping in butter. She looks around at the changes to the bazaar since she was last in. The various states of repair. And then, suddenly, there's a small teen dropping down from a rooftop beside her. He didn't intend to startle her (if he even did), because he comes down feet-first and facing the wall, dangling from his fingertips as far as he can before he drops the few feet to the ground with a solid *thump*. He turns to move off in his chosen direction, and nearly runs into the other teen. "Ahh, shit," he fumbles, awkwardly swaying out of the way. There is indeed a bit of a startled and quickly suppressed squeak. Though that may be more from almost dropping her buttered bread. Nesyari though has simply not /not/ gotten used to people dropping from the roofs as tends to happen around here. She gives little ahem though as her gaze turns towards the lad. "Well, that was quite graceful there, wasn't it?" she asks with a but of a cheeky grin. "Might think about actually looking, don'tcha think?" Ryeklom shrugs, pushing reddish curls away from a sweaty forehead. "I knew it was a safe spot to land." NEVER MIND that he almost landed on her. "Usually, anyway," he amends. "Wouldn't want to come down head first…" Is that what she was suggesting? That's strange. "Where'd you get that," he asks then, a chin-nod towards the bread. There's a bit of a hrm as Nesyari continues to eye the lad. "Well, landing on your head would be a bad move. Typically doesn't end well when you go head first. Trust me." She then looks at her bread "Taski has a lady friend that likes to bake for him, and since we got in real early this morning, she put in a few extra for us. Just got finished baking." she explains. "So what about you, what has you," she looks upwards a moment before continuing. "trying to land on poor hapless travelers that are out enjoying a bit of a bite?" Ryeklom eyes her. "You say that like you've done it," he says, a tickle of a smile tugging at the edge of his lips before he squashes it. "Looks good," he says, looking hungrily at the bread. He hasn't yet had his breakfast. "Work," he says with a shrug, a hand dipping into the pocket of his worn pants to feel around for something, but he doesn't draw it out. There's a little bit of a shrug even as she breaks of some of the bread to share having noticed the look to the bread. "Perhaps." though she doesn't on that particular matter. "Here, want some? It is good but I'm getting full and would hate to waste it." she asks matter-of-factly. "Work huh? Well nows a good time to be doing it, that's for sure. What do you do if you don't mind me asking?" Ryeklom is quite the suspicious lad and he knows she's lying about being full but his pride wars with his hungry belly, and he takes the food. But his mother didn't raise him to be rude, so his "thanks" is genuine. "All over. Mostly errands." He will not get more specific than that. He does tilt his head towards the rooftops. "Way faster to get around from there, and you can see where things are blocked off for repairs." Nesyari glances up and then nods "Yeah, I remember being able to see quite a bit more when I ended up there." she notes and looks thoughtful "Though I really hadn't thought about it being a good way of getting around. I'll have to keep that in mind when Taski has me out doing things. I still sometimes get turned around trying to find various things, course I don't really get much a chance to spend wondering around all day." Ryeklom gives her a curious look. "So you'd just climb up and then climb back down?" That idea had honestly never occurred to him. When he gets up there, he moves. "Who is Taski?" "Well, it'd all depend. But climbing's no bog deal, typically easy enough to find handholds, and there's a good deal more than back home on and all. But sometimes just a quick look would be good but staying up might be good too. Less distraction and all maybe. Dunno. Haven't tried it yet. And Taski's a Trader I travel with. Pays me mostly with food and a place to sleep, but the occasional bit of a Mark and all." Ryeklom tilts his head to study the older girl. "Is he… your…" he trails off and then just tosses caution to the winds. "Lover?" Because why else travel with a guy who just pays you in room and board? There is silence that greets that question and then Nesyari bursts out laughing "Oh Faranth no." She takes a few momemts to catch her breath "He's like ancient." Well maybe not ancient, but relatively counts, right? She then sobers a bit "It's better to be working hard for not much with him, I get a chance to see places and I do a little trading myself. Better than being out there alone. It's protection." She shrugs some. Ryeklom huhs. "Sounds like he's taking advantage." That's his totally unfounded opinion based on nothing but the barest bits of information about her life. "Can understand protection though," he adds, fingers fiddling with whatever is in his pocket as he frowns down the street. Nesyari follows the glance to see what he may be looking at even as she answer "Well, most everyone takes advantage, but he doesn't hit and he doesn't have roving hands. I'm strong enough to help unload and load, and running errands doesn't bother me." There's a bit of a pause and then a quiet add. "At least I'm useful to him." Ryeklom snaps his gaze back to her at that additional comment. "Were you not, before?" There's a bit of a snort "Only so long as I didn't show my face." Nesyari states "As a girl, I'm only as good as my looks." She rolls her eyes a bit "At least that's Fathers opinion. What use is someone that can't attract a wealthy lad and all? And he's got Jahlah. She's proper lady and all and he's working on a contract for her. She's a decent sort though, so I don't hold it against her." Ryeklom studies her for a long, long moment. "Holder?" he finally asks, his voice pitched much softer than before. Nesyari kind of half shrugs and tilts her head into the rising shoulder "Yeah, and Mother is sister to the Holder. So, gotta keep up appearances and all. Not like I'm even near in line of succession. My cousin's married and with a babe on the way, and he has a sister who is also married, and then I've two brothers over me, as well as my sister who'll likely be married to someone with sense just in case. They don't need me. At least some of the outlying holders have need of an extra pair of hands when I'm not out, and I'll pick up things for them as well that they're not likely to get easily." Ryeklom listens to her talk with a steady gaze, staring intently at her face. As she finishes, he gives a small nod. "It's worse to be heir," he says firmly, already shifting away from her, "and lose the hold, than to have nothing from the start." Again silence. How does one reply to that. "Well, I certainly can't argue with that." Nesyari states. "I can't even imagine." she shakes her head a little. Well mother always did tell her that there were other's that had it worse. "I'm sorry." she says simply without a trace of pity, but certainly some sympathy. "I don't know if there is anything, but if there is anything I can do, let me know?" she asks quietly, but with tones of a transaction being offered. Ryeklom just shrugs, not stopping in his trajectory away from her. "Thanks for the bread," he says again, and then he's vanishing down a darkened alley, presumably to continue the day's work. Or what he can get. Nesyari watches the boy go. "Anytime." she murmurs as she watches him go. Then she sighs a little "Well, that'll teach me to whine about my life." she murmurs to herself and rubs idly at the side of her face. "After all, my lot is my own doing I suppose." she shakes her head and wonders off herself. Dawn Work has 0 comments. |
09 Mar 2024 07:00 |
Two teens meet in the Bazaar's dawn hour. |
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Disaster over Mountain Vale Disaster over Mountain Vale
« Wingleaders report! » Mountain Vale Cothold Southeast of High Ground Hold, Mountain Vale Cothold resides further down the river and is well-nestled within the mountains. For a livestock cothold, there are precious few buildings outdoors - rather, the cave systems have been put to good use to house both animals and guests to this idyllic place. There is a main building with a cellar, a rickety stable for runnerbeasts, and a shed out back that's seen better days, but it's the caves that serve as home and shelter for beasts and workers alike. This is not a particularly bustling cothold, but it provides well enough for its tithes. Hired hands provide most of the population here, aside from the beasts: plump porcines in particular, with an ample scattering of herdbeasts and caprines. Graeme, the cotholder that runs the place, is known to keep to himself and has few visitors aside from the workers that he has to hire to help tend his territory. Midday runs hot across this stretch of the Northern continent, but it's not nearly as hot as Igen's desert - indeed, it feels more like mid-autumn, especially with the whipping of wind over the mountains. Below, the livestock cothold of Mountain Vale is well-entrenched, compact along the river and pressed in tight against the mountains. The livestock is secure within the caves of the cothold, while the windows of the hold itself - generous, considering it consists of a large house, shed, and ramshackle stable - are battened down. Many candidates have been at the cothold to work, so the injured riders and Weyrlingmaster's staff are on hand to drop off more candidate groundcrew members and the necessary flamethrowers. Thread is already falling over Benden's territory and their ranks are ready to make the changeover, leaving this region's fate in Igen's hands. Unfortunately, it seems the wing-fouling winds and erratic spill of Threadfall is enough to cut dangerously through their ranks; even Benden seems to be flying uncomfortably light, with Thread having taken its due. This is the sky that Igen's riders manifest in, with the trade-off from one Weyr to the other being imminent after so much time spent in preparations. Below, the ground crew is aligned along the river, which presents its own challenges. The mountains are rocky enough that Thread will find no purchase, and there's plenty of water that they can safely put their backs to the river, but the rest? The rest is lush, green, and precious enough that burrows will need to be tamped out with a quickness. Vormaytha is present again, barking her orders and cackling as she herds candidates into buddy-pairs and points out the grid they'll be walking to make sure every inch of terrain is covered. Dajin's among the candidates, lips pressed flat as he looks at the flamethrower and double-checks it as instructed. Issa checks Shabeth's straps one last time, ensuring everything is secure, as the Wingleader surveys Vesper's formation. Her gaze is sharp and focused as she checks each rider and dragon, ensuring their readiness in the formation. "This one's going to be tough," Issa murmurs to Shabeth, her voice steady despite the nerves twisting her stomach. Shabeth rumbles in response, a deep, comforting sound that reinforces their bond. Together, they wait for the signal for them to engage. Zekaraiya is quite, quite certain he was supposed to be elsewhere — and yet, here he is, among the crew of dragonbait with his very own flamethrower. The cackling woman is given a sharp look fromm beneath his heavy brows as the longest candidate checksthe thing, absently chewing at his lower lip. One hopes5his will be over quickly. Shuseran looks up, studying the lay of the land, from mountains to river, mentally calculating the effects on the wind and currents. Wind… one of the worst foes of dragonriders during a Fall. And today, the wind is up. He watches the treetops, for there are trees here, noting the fickleness of the wind, frequently changing direction and buffeting the foliage first one way, then another. Not a good sign. Sirocco passes muster and, so, they join the other ranks in the sky when the time is right. Khu adjusts the collar of her jacket, setting it to mask the grim set of her mouth. The snarl and lash of wind and the Threads dancing in it- it's a nightmare just waiting to happen. A signal sets Sirocco into a subtly altered pattern, while Ixzhulqvoth relays finer details through the ink-and-white of his mind. Now, it's just a matter of doing the delicate changeover dance - while flaming the ancient enemy. It's Luxeraeth's first Threadfall back from his tail's recent scoring, and thankfully this is not a complete Fall. Even so, the 'Seconds are prepared for a swap over as necessary to relieve the Weyrleader pair should the score prove an issue. Hovering within the sky, leading the top fore, he awaits the call from the Benden Weyrleadership. « Let's pick up where they're leaving off, shall we? … Let's go. » The bronze is certainly ready to return to action despite the dangerous winds, and as he finishes his ingestion of firestone, he lets out a flame moments after his order. T'rin's signal echoes a "Go, go, go!" as he grips his straps tight. Madisyn is on wing duty this time around as she and Aireyanath make their place in Mirage's formation. With the unpredictability of this location, the pair is needed more in the air than back at the injury waiting area. Giving the green a good pat on the side, she closes her eyes for a moment to just feel the air around them. It looks like the bottom wing will be working extra this afternoon. Parhelion is in fine showing, even if Sz'rkos might not feel quite the same way. Still, Evalyaszath is well-fueled and ready, nimble on the wing and ready to make the exchange. When the time comes, they're ready, and when the swap is made, the green is already flaming with precision, blasting a few particularly gnarly bits of Thread out of the air before she skips between, leaving another dragonpair to finish it off. "It's ugly up there." Dajin grimaces, casting a cautious look skyward. "I've seen it like that before." He adjusts the hang of his flamethrower and starts to move, though it's too early yet for any Thread to even think about filtering down. So far, so good; it's proving to be a more typical Threadfall without any filaments drifting to the ground. Meanwhile, Vormaytha continues to point and direct, with an eye on the skies and a clicking of her tongue. "Gonna paint some bellies, it is. The wind'll just whoo! flip it right on up under 'em!" A bronze dragon trumpets alarm and disappears ::between!:: Shuseran winces as a Bendan rider takes a full-on scoring to his back right before the changeover, the wind having blown a clump past him, then right back at him as the wind direction changed unpredictably. The brown pair winked out ::between::. Bendan, so no way to know how he fared. Shuseran can only hope for the best for him. And if he Impresses, one day he will be up there in those treacherous winds. It's certainly enough to give one pause to think. The awkward moments pass, with good old Zekaraiya eyeing the treetops whipping around overhead, then the riders even higher overhead in that ancient dance with the devil known as Thread with an ever deepening scowl. Were a scowl sufficient, some twist of the malevolent stuff would have crisped beneath it. Instead, he is left to wait, impqtient and unnerved, for whatever signal to do his part. The wait is made harder stillby his two firelizards' agitated squealing from somewhere in the treeline they'd been sternly banished to. Larze is in the group of candidates, more sedate and serious than usual. He handles his gear a little more gingerly but otherwise moves along with his usual wide stride. When Vormaytha mentions how the thread will come /up/, he winces and jerks a look upward. Poor dragons. Poor riders. Not seeing any danger above, he shoulders the tank of his 'weapon' and gives a testing gout of flame harmlessly into the air, away from the team. At T'rin's signal, Shabeth leaps into action. The brown dragon's wings beat powerfully, carrying them into the mid swap dance. Issa takes a second to be proud of all they had accomplished in the last turn as the rest of Vesper Wing moves into formation around them. Thread falls in thick clumps, but they meet it head-on, Shabeth's flames turning the deadly strands into harmless ash before skipping ::between:: and returning to finish flaming it from above. "Why would a woman want to expose herself to this kind of danger?" Shuseran murmurs to himself. He just can't undertand why so many females seem to crave this life. "Why, when they could be safe at home raising children, happy?" Anyone nearby might have heard him say this. Overhead, a blue in Arroyo keens abruptly and skips between - there's no call for mourning, but those looking would have seen the roiling of Thread engulfing one of his wings before he made it between. His absence leaves enough of a gap for some Thread to fall through and, while Mirage and Oasis get most of it, a few stray strands filter toward the idyllic territory of the cothold below for the ground crew to take care of. "Why would a man risk his life, when he can just be safe at home, farming his animals and raising his family?" Dajin flicks a look to Shuseran, his expression a thing of carefully cultured neutrality. Benden by birth, the accent is prevalent on his tongue. "But, perhaps you should ask one of the female riders that, eh?" With Thread falling past the ranks of dragons, he starts to move. "C'mon, Thread this way." There's a necessary bit of shifting up in Sirocco, though no major injuries manifest. A few 'scored wingtips warrant only a brief mention; Ixzhulqvoth is not immmune, with a grazing of Thread along a foreleg that will require numbweed and little else. He eradicates a clump of Thread in retaliation and is bathed in ash for his troubles. He'll wear it proudly. Zekaraiya did indeed hear Shuseran, and throws the man a look — one part incredulous amusement and part warning. But Dajin's beat him to it."Those women," he pon The blue sudden hit and disappearing makes Madisyn frown as she fights the urge to head back to the Weyr to help. "That one is going to need some major work," she mutters to herself just as her green drives suddenly to catch a strand that had somehow been missed by a brown in the wing above them, causing her to grab her straps tightly. Good thing that she is tied down, because she just might have just been flung off at how steep Aireyanath's dive is. Whirlwind continues their flame, taking down several sheets from the top, even as not all can be caught and slip towards the flights below. T'rin frowns as a few extra dodges are needed than the usual due to the whipping winds, and he grips his straps ever tighter. Luxeraeth lets out a flame and sears a knot in their path. » You doing okay, buddy? « Luxeraeth rumbles in agreement. « Of course I am. 'Tis a flesh wound. » Good. Another stone is fed to the bronze, and T'rin signals a shift in Whirlwind formation to account for the wind. Hearving Dajin, Larze flicks a look at the other candidate, wide mouth tightening at the question. It's not directed at him and so he just shakes his head. He does give Shuseran a curious look for his opinion. But, last time he let his attention stay, he got chewed up. Squaring his shoulders, he continues forward, blazing dead a patch of thread as he falls and following up on a few stray bits that try to escape between the rocks. Nothing reaches the earth to burrow! Shuseran glances at Dajin, then fastens his eyes to the sky again, tracking a small clump that's ground-bound. He moves toward the target area even as he responds to Dajin. "Men risk their lives for their women and children. That's the natural way of things, isn't it?" With Parhelion, Sz'rkos and Evalyaszath are flying well; the green is agile enough to avoid the worst, her rider quick enough to keep her fueled and steady. No fancy aerobatics here, though the two are capable of it; for this, it's more about efficiency, economy, and trying not to die. They're pretty good at it. Zekaraiya takes aim at another bit of Thread, charring it before it an become more of a menace than it already is in this terrible weather. Freed from the command to stay, the lizards hunt down other potential burrows. "Have you met any women, man?" Zekaraiya ask Shuseran sardonically. "Thay are not all shrinking violets. 'Sides, aint the dragons supposed to know? They choose women quick as they do men." Shabeth maneuvers deftly through the chaos, his flames incinerating Thread after Thread as Issa directs him with practiced commands. The mountainous winds throw the Thread into chaotic patterns, demanding all of the pair's focus to anticipate its movements. » Tell them to change to the scattered V, and let the B team know that they may need to be ready early. « Issa relays to her brown. With Vesper being mostly greens and blues, the change mid flight happens more than other wings. Shabeth rumbles in confirmation as he flames an incoming clump. The order is relayed throughout the wing. At least the air is cool and it's not raining. Small blessings, right? Dajin squints upward again, tracking the progress of any other strands - nothing as yet, with the others being so quick about it, but there'll surely be something soon. He cants a look to Larze, then to Zekaraiya with a mild, "I think it's pretty apparent he has a narrow view of nature, too," he remarks, furrowing his brow as more dragons drop out from the skies above. "Weyrs have yet to fall to ruin and they have no issue with women fighting Thread or wearing pants or refusing to get married." His response to Zekaraiya must wait while he flames the clump before it can burrow, then Shuseran turns to the other candidate, frowning. "You make a good point. Why do the dragonets choose so many women? My personal theory is there simply aren't enough acceptable male candidates on the Sands for them. Surely that would explain it?" He scans the sky again, alert for any Thread escaping the dragons above. (Un?)fortunately, Maeyrra's too far from the conversation to chime in - but, then, she might also just be the type to keep her mouth shut even if she did. She continues along, though she's largely in Vormaytha's shadow, keeping close to the older woman lest she be attacked by her own hair again. It won't be Thread that will get her: it'll be embarrassment. The snarl and tangle of Thread overhead merely gets worse - with no sign of getting better. If anything, the winds are getting worse, turning some of the larger clumps of Thread into absolute nightmares, heavy masses that don't drift so much as plummet when they get to a certain size. "I'd be proud of any of my sisters if she was selected to stand, even if I were worried about them." Larze says after a very long moment of burning up thread after thread with a vengance. He pauses to fix the cloth around his mouth and nose. "I don't think they would go running to do it, but they'd want to do the honor of protecting Pern if they were selected." And to echo Zekaraiya: "The dragon decides." He turns back to the work, scanning above and then plunging forward to run down a semi-circle of escaped thread. He's like a goat on the rocky landscape, experienced in this type of terrain. It's a good way to stay out of trouble. He gives Maeyrra a nod as he moves by her. A silent sort of support of her standing but he's moving away from her, knowing she can handle herself. Kanyith blinks onto the scene, his yellow-streaked blue hide distinctive from a distance. He takes the place of one of the Vesper pairs that have had to drop out early, and within seconds, he's charred his first clump of Thread to sooty dust. « B Team, » he states, as chai-scented mirth lines his thoughts, glittering with the tiny diamonds of fine snow. « If by B you mean Best. » A long streak of fire leaves his dark blue maw before he tucks his wings and barrel rolls to the side. His wings snap outward to let him soar upward while Trek, as ever, clings to his back for dear life. "Do you realize," Zakaraiya drawls,scanning the ground before him, "they even thrive on it? Women lead. Its why the Hold girls run to the Weyr, I've been told." Shuseranis given a sideways look, tinged with scorn. "C'mon, man. You really believe that drivel?" Luxeraeth blinks ::Between:: from one clump of Thread to suddenly get in position to lay flame upon it for daring get so close, and so those in the path below aren't caught by its sneaky ways. T'rin starts running low on the firestone, bags depleting a lot faster under the chaotic Threadfall, so a refill's swiftly requested from the support riders. It's clear to Shuseran that Larze is sweet on Maeyrra (and he need have no worry about Shuseran trying to take her away— he's got no time for romance these days, with other things on his mind). "I didn't say anything about not being proud of those who are up there now, male or female, but take Maeyrra," he says quietly, so the young woman doesn't hear. "What would you do if she took a clump of Thread to her back the way that Benden rider did. Is that what you want for her?" He looks at Zekaraiya. "Women should be far better treated than they are, some of them, I agree. They should be valued, not mistreated, loved, not abused. Then they wouldn't want to give up their lives so readily." Nothing fancy for this green either as Aireyanath turns her head back to receive yet another piece of firestone; her mind full of the hum of an engine that no one seems to be able to pinpoint what it is the sound of. « Getting kind of tried here. » She calls to her rider, even as she turns to flame yet another clump that has fallen through the upper wings. "Can't talk sense into people when they didn't sensibly come to their conclusions," is Dajin's observation askance to Zekaraiya and Larze. He blows out a breath and continues on, shaking his head as the conversation continues. picking up the pace as he spots more Thread falling up ahead - this time slipping through a gap in the lower ranks, with a brownrider in Parhelion being forced out of position: go between or get hit with Thread? They'll take between, thanks. Shabeth weaves and dives, flames licking at the silver menace. Despite their skill and coordination, the unpredictable nature of Thread in high winds leaves no room for error. In a heart-stopping moment, a missed strand whips out of nowhere, its vile touch slicing through the air with malicious intent. Before either can react, the strand lashes across Shabeth's side, burrowing its hungry, burning tendrils into his hide. The brown dragon's anguished cry is a thunderclap in Issa's mind, resonating with her own scream as the Thread simultaneously wraps around her leg, its caustic burn searing flesh and bone. Instincts and training take over; there is no time for thought, only action as the pair disappear ::between::. They emerge above Igen, the familiar sands a blurry landscape through their pain. Shabeth, struggling to maintain flight, manages to land in a staggering, clumsy descent that brings ground crews running. Threadfall's peak is swift-approaching and, with it, a spike in injuries; a wicked gust of wind sets Thread roiling and it cuts a hideous line through the ranks of the upper tier. Sirocco loses three dragons in a single swipe, injuries ranging from mild to severe. No casualties - though, for the older brown that gets his neck entangled, it might be too early to tell. Khu doesn't have the luxury of panic; Ixzhulqvoth is already arranging the wing again, swapping out for some of the greens and blues in reserve. He will be aware of 'score along his own tail much later; for now, he is only aware of keeping everyone together through tendrils of black on brightgloom. "True that," Zekaraiya agrees amiably enough; Shuseran will either see the folly of his ways or forever lag behind, a relic among more progressive minds. Meanwhile there's more Thread ahead to burn. "Think I'll ask if I can follow healer around for the next craft. Always did like plants." Perhaps it will keep folk from insisting he help them train their lizards like his. More Thread? Not for long! Maeyrra's able to coordinate with Vormaytha to take care of a filament that's half in the water. Probably unnecessary, as it seems to be drowned, but the practice helps. She does spot Larze and flashes him a quick smile, but it's a nervous one; Threadfall isn't really great for her temperament, it seems, and she's still anxious. But, fortunately, she will be fine once she's over the worst of her nerves. Larze only has time for thread and chores and learning. Ick. The late bloomer wouldn't know romance from crackdust anyway. The question Shuseran poses makes him stare a moment and then he asks, carefully, as though he's not fully understanding. "Do you -not- care how that Benden rider is?" He glances over at Dajin and then back to Shuseran, "I know Maeyrra, of course I'd be more concerned about her, but I'd be concerned about -you- just as much. You say there aren't enough acceptable male candidates? Then what, by the redstar, am I and Dajin and you and all the other male candidates?" T'rin blinks once at the call that Vesper's Wingleader did not return to formation following ::Between::, even if he's given a swift update that Issa and Shabeth returned to Igen. Breathe in, breathe out. His Healer training comes into play as he keeps his focus on leading despite the unknown of the extent of his partner's injuries. He swaps out the empty bags of firestone for the fresh ones, and the last of the meager bag he already had is thrown to Luxeraeth to build his flame. Flame sprouts forth, taking out another sheet of Thread, burning it to char which is swiftly swept away on the wind. "Chopped liver, Larze. We're chopped liver." Zekaraiya suggests with malicious good humor before he eyes Maeyrra with his head cocked — and a wink. N Resupply is running into hazard after hazard; there is no real telling where Thread will be - or won't be. Khu signals for resupply, with Ixzhulqvoth briefly uncoiling his thoughts to touch at the edges of Shabeth's mind. It will be a busy day for the wingleader-slash-dragonhealer, but she can't allow her thoughts to stray beyond the necessary task of feeding her brown and making sure his flame is strong. Soon. Soon, it will be over - but not soon enough. Elsewhere, a green keens sharply as she's struck; she emerges at Igen for a crash landing. Shuseran is momentarily stricken to see the brownrider take a score that way, she and her dragon. Why can't they understand, these others, that it's because he respects and values women that he wants a better life for them than this? He sighs and fastens his lips tightly together, focusing on his ground duties, until Larze addresses him. "I care much. I'd wished when I saw it happen that we could know how he fared. I care just as much for the Igen injured. I fervently hope we'll have no casualties or even serious injuries. And yes, I hope our presence will give the hatched more of a choice. But every candidate is more of a choice, isn't it?" Even as he says this, he realizes that holds just as true for female candidates. His mind shunts that thought aside for now. Time to reflect on that later. His thoughts fall to his own craft, to the things he hopes to accomplish, whether he Impresses or not. One way or the other. He looks at Zekaraiya. "Well, I'd rather lose on of us than a woman. I'd rather we risk our lives than they, that much is true." Kanyith's easy banter ends abruptly when Shabeth's anguished cry reaches them. Any fancier moves are abandoned as he and the others adjust to the disappearance of their wingleader until the brown pair's replacements can fill in. Flames spout from the V-shape of dragons, the blue and green bodies close enough to the ground at times to be recognized. Trek continues to feed firestone to her lifemate, but like the others, the pair soon has to blink Between, emerging lower to take the handoff of fresh bags. Vesper is now without a Wingleader, but Issa's 'Team B' wingsecond Myla and her blue Kineth pops forward and takes command of the situation. « Steady » the blue calls out to the wing with a command that doesn't often come from a blue. « Keep to the formation.v » No they will not be back sliding without their Wingleader. Back at Igen, Issa is barely conscious, her world reduced to agony and the dim awareness of voices and hands, urgently working to save both rider and dragon from the Thread's deadly kiss. For those that touch Shabeth's mind, it is full of panic and pain. "Best served with onions," Dajin adds on the heels of Zekaraiya's words. "It's the only way to do chopped liver, or so my grandfather used to say." He flashes the Southerner a grin, then tips a look to Larze, thoughtful, before lapsing into relative silence- until: "That- that doesn't look good." It's less a tangle of Thread and more of a ball, as sheets and tangles have collected together into what is, effectively, a cannonball that aims for a patch of ground not far from where the candidate collection is headed. "Ahhh, that doesn't look good." At all. Nope. Perhaps fortunately, Sz'rkos and Evalyaszath are swapped out before they run themselves ragged; exhaustion will guarantee a deep, deep sleep later - once the adrenaline wears off, that is. The greenpair make a return to Igen, where they're promptly dragooned into helping out where they can. They aren't healers, but the Djazik still knows his way around a first aid kit. Near Vormaytha, Maeyrra's squeak of horror can be heard. She freezes, wide-eyed, at the sight of that silvery mass and it takes a firm nudge from the older woman to get her in motion. "Aye, gonna need all the fire we've got, kiddies! BURN THAT BALL!" Vormaytha cackles brightly and hurls herself forward, moving as nimbly as any caprine despite her years. Larze gives Zekaraiya a nod in agreement. The cotholder mutters as he shoots way too much fire at a bit of thread. "He sounds like my sharding father." In regards to Shuseran. He is scolded for wasting fuel and corrects the spray of fire, moving away from the hidebound candidate to let him ponder his words. He narrows his eyes and grees with Dajin. "Let's go GET it!" And he jogs forward, flame jetting out as he reaches the edge of the 'trouble'. With the injury list getting longer and longer, Madisyn and Aireyanath receive the message to return to the Weyr as Madisyn's skills are needed both as a dragonhealer and as a former Journeyman Trauma Healer. With one last bletch of flame, the green disappears to head back to Igen and duties that wait there. Someone better be making some fresh Klah for the long night head. Shuseran's eyes widen as he spots two more clumps, not far from the one Dajin pointed out, destined for the ground. "There," he points them out, then eschews further conversation as they hurry to flame out the Threads before they can do too much damage, but already they're burrowing. First for the biggest. He turns his flame on the widest setting and opens it up fully on the writhing silver menace, charring part of it. It's far too big for just one person, though. "Great; now I'm hungry." What's new about that, one might wonder — the Southerner is always hungry. He starts to expound further, but that ball ofThread earns his full attention, no matter what else is going on around him; he's got eyes only for that tangle. "The hell…." The old woman's screeching is certainly not the call he was hoping for! And yet, it's the only one. He'll jog along with Larze, leaving Shuseran and the echoes of a father he'd as soon forget behind, encouraging his two w8nged friend to breathe fire upon the looming disaster. Maybe it'll help. At long last, the trailing edge of Threadfall can be seen - soon, soon, the end will be upon them and the final tally of injured can be made. Fewer burrows can be counted, at least; despite the injuries, Igen's riders seem to have done well in protecting the land below. Still, the burrows that are there are nasty and quickly draw a convergence of candidates with their fire. Larze winces away from the firelizards as though he expects them to fall upon him and his flame goes wide. Cursing up a storm, he focuses and widens the stream of fire so he can catch the big bits before narrowing his focus on the stuff taht's going to groun. The cussing is real creative and very 'backwoods'. Another round of flame is thrown forth from Luxeraeth, now intent on staying in until the end regardless of how his tail feels. T'rin issues a swift swap order of two greens, the young K'varin coming up from reserves to relieve Shellis. It won't be long, with the trail coming up, but he wasn't going to risk it with the heft of this wind. Luxeraeth briefly touches Shabeth's mind; as soon as hidework and orders permit, they're going to check on them. Thread's not done yet - soon, very soon, but not yet. « Let's set the air aflame. » The clumps will take a little while to burn through properly; they're large and hungry and hideously metamorphosing all the while that the fire is being flung at them. Char and ash fly up and swirl like snow, but steady progress is made and it'll be but a minute or two of steady fire before the burrow is reduced to stinking ash and burned earth. With the end of Threadfall nearing, Khu holds her position for now; her wing needs a wingleader more than the Weyr needs a dragonhealer - at least for this little while. Another resupply rider is injured as they try to reach Sirocco; rather than risk another, she releases the flameless rider instead, sending them back. Again, the wing shifts; the gaps are larger than she'd like - but it will do. Energy is flagging, and with it, so is attention. The injury list grows longer, but the flames needed lower in the formations start to taper off as Thread thins, only to burst forward as the wind-tangled clumps wreak their havoc. Kanyith barely gets another gullet-full of firestone in time to singe a chaotic twist, the tail of which just catches his own tail. Eyes glow red before he blinks ::Between::, emerging again in a blink to let fire take the last of the offending silvery junk. Shuseran's lips press together grimly as his flamethrower wand follows the Thread into the earth, thrust deeply before he opens up fully. He keeps the flame going a good long while before finally ceasing and withdrawing the wand from the ground. He watches for a long moment to see if there's any motion, any movement that would betray any Thread still alive in the burrow. Finally he moves on to another. Much like Sirocco, Vesper has too many gaps for Myla's liking. Sending the order to shore up the gaps as much as possible, the pair calls out for anyone still waiting to swap out to join them. Vesper will be tried tonight but they will answer the call. Maeyrra and Dajin both do their part, though the young woman is quick to move away when it looks like the Thread's been burned to nothing. She promptly turns and rushes to the river to collect herself, ditching her flamethrower to double over, hands on thighs, while she struggles to catch her breath. Dajin, for his part, seems to be an old hand at this; once the deed's done, he looks up - but there's no more Thread falling past the dragons now. What's there on the ground is all there will be. Finally, finally, the last dregs fall from the sky and, in a bitter twist of fate, even the winds grow calm. No more Thread drifts past the protective aegis the dragons provide; all that remains below is swiftly being seared to naught under flamethrowers. A mere handful of burrows in total: not terrible, given the circumstances. A few scattered bursts of dragonfire eradiate the remaining threat, but the air is otherwise eerily quiet, save for the beat of dragonwings and the occasional rumble. Larze sens the thread to a fast, ashy death with a particular sort of glee. Die Die Die loathsome things! He finally relents but he's scouting for worm sign…erm….thread sign. "I think some is still here…couldn't have got it all…" Zekaraiya will be all too glad to see the end of the Threads gone to ash; the stuff is absolutely terrifying up close, though he's long used to avoiding it in the way all free people avoid it: tiny caves or other stone shelter. Being of the guardian types, he'd spent way too much time securing their bit of territory fr9m the stuff. He'll join Larze on the hunt for more of the stuff. "Let the small winged ones go after it." He smiles, grimly. "They're good at it. I made certain of it." « Wingleaders report! » Luxeraeth has a bit of extra annoyance in his mental voice tonight, whether that's from the renewed searing pain in his not-yet-fully-healed tail score, or from carryover of checking on Shabeth and T'rin's concern for Issa. The flights remain in their formations, allowing to take swift acknowledgement of fresh gaps. « Reserve dragonhealers, once your immediate duties are handled, you're activated. » That's rather straight and to the point for the devilish bronze. After reports are in, it'll be time to head home to lick their wounds. Larze draws off his face cloth, mopping at the sweat on his brow. He offers Zekaraiya grim smile. "Thanks for that. Teamwork. Good!" He looks around the area, eyes narrowed, still wiping at sweat. "Do we need to make another pass to check the rocky spots to be sure we're clear? Makes my skin crawl thinking we mighta left some." He gives a wave of the flamethrower wand but doesn't flame. "I haven't really had time to talk with you during meals and what-not. Nice to work at your side." From Ixzhulqvoth, there's a stream of information; images function faster than words and, thus, the list of the injured is relayed to Luxeraeth with reassurances that Khu will be putting her hands to work once they're back at Igen. As for the brownrider, she's scanning the skies for any lingering signs of Thread- but, now, it's down to waiting for the Weyrleader to signal them to go home. Once there, her real work will begin. Zekaraiya nods sharply, passing a hand over the long planes and angles of his face. "We'd better." His own skin is getting the ick at the very idea of loose Threads bloating up the place. He gives Larze a crooked smile. "Same to you." Kanyith banks to the left with two of the other pairs from Vesper, swooping low to do a last check for burrows. When the command comes for the dragonhealer reserves to report back, the blue of the trio angles his head upward to look toward Luxeraeth in uncharacteristically silent acknowledgement. Rather than return to Igen immediately, the blue drops closer to the ground, likely looking for any who need attention and couldn't skip back to Igen on their own. "Well done," Dajin chimes in, with an eye to the firelizards for a moment or two before he falls back into a ready position, waiting for further orders. Vormaytha is on point, as always, this time calling for candidates to return the flamethrowers and prepare to return to the Weyr - though, of course, not all of them are going back. Some are staying at the cothold to continue helping there. She probably has a list. And Maeyrra? She's gained some control over herself and hands off her flamethrower, before she heads toward the cothold after offering a wave to Larze and Zekaraiya - she's one of the ones that's staying, it seems. Kineth's report is clumsy but complete. List of injuries given starting from their Wingleader down to the loss of one of the greens and her rider from Igen's last clutch. But there is no time to mourn as Vesper's emergency plans will need to be put in action as word to Kineth is that Shabeth and his rider will be out of commission for an unknown amount of time. Larze looks uncertain, like a hound still ready to hunt. While the tired candiates rush to turn in the flamethrowers, he'll take the lead if Zekaraiya will follow and just check one or two of the rocky spots, flaming into this crack and that, to be certain and some rather questionable mounds that suggest a burrow. When Vormaytha is calling more threatening, he'll surrender the hunt at last. "Guess they know it's okay. Right? How can they be sure?" He's putting his gear with the others at last though. Larze also waves cheerfully to Maeyrra. "Hope all stays well." The call from Luxeraeth goes out - it's time to head home. Ferries for the candidates are swiftly prepared, some differing from the ones that brought them to the Hold based on dragonhealing needs, or injuries sustained by the original riders. There's a lot of work to be done on the ground, back at the Weyr, better sooner rather than later. Once everyone is situated, T'rin issues the call and Luxeraeth echoes it across the wings. « Excellent work there. Let's go celebrate our success. » …so the injuries aren't in vain. « Catch you back there. » The vision's sent out, the familiar Star Stones of Igen Weyr, and then the ::Between:: order. It had better be; Zekaraiya is hungry enough to try eating a tree. "Guess we're goin'." And he hands over his flamethrower, calling to his lizards as they prepare to leave. Disaster over Mountain Vale has 0 comments. |
07 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Dajin, Issa & Shabeth, Khu & Ixzhulqvoth, Larze, Madisyn & Aireyanath, Shuseran, Sz'rkos & Evalyaszath, Trek & Kanyith, T'rin & Luxeraeth, Zekaraiya, NPCs: Maeyrra, Vormaytha, Myla & Kineth |
Threadfall over Mountain Vale Cothold doesn't go as planned. threadfall injuries |
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Protecting Southern Telgar Protecting Southern Telgar
"Shells, man! You were nearly eaten!" South Telgar Hold Southern Telgar Hold - alternatively called Southern Telgar or South Telgar - resides south of Telgar Hold and is just barely in Igen Weyr's coverage area. Situated on a river that flows west across the Telgar plain, it boasts a higher-than-average geriatric population. While that's primarily due to older people leaving Telgar for its harsh winters, it's also due to both the remarkable natural hot springs - made effervescent by a high limestone content - and a Healer Hall that's nearly as large as the one at Fort Hold. Unsurprisingly, the specialty here is in tending to geriatric studies, but there's also a significant amount of pediatric studies as well. The Hold itself is a stone building near the cliffs - but not within the cliff itself. The cliff faces west and the Hold faces east, though the stories of why it's like that have been lost to time. Regardless, the edifice is a solid one and has housed residents and Healers a-plenty over the turns within its sheltering stone. Midday finds Igen Weyr on the brink of a sandstorm - which means riders are in a hurry to get their straps on and dragons fueled before they're signaled to make the trip between to where Threadfall is set to touch down. Southern Telgar Hold is the most precarious point that needs protection, with its residents known to be less able to flee from potential danger. Sand is already spattering against the Weyr's walls, with precious little time left for preparations. Khu is already putting Sirocco through its paces, methodical in her movements and clear in her instruction. There is no room for error today - no more than any other day fighting Thread, perhaps, but especially with the secondary threat looming large in the near-distance. Kh'an checks over Xhieleioth's straps for the hundredth time now, a nervous eye cast to the cloud of sand that encroaches. Other riders - particularly AWLMs and injured riders that can yet fly - are loading up candidates in preparation to take them, and their flamethrowers, to the rallying point. The group is led by a wizened woman named Vormaytha, who knows her way around a flamethrower as well as any goldrider - or better, to hear her say it. A former Smith, she was forcibly retired after some Incident, though no one's willing to tell the tale of it - but, perhaps, it has something to do with the gnarled mess of burned flesh and twisted bone that comprises one of her hands. V'iss and Vuzjavalasith are among the number of injured riders that can help - just because he can't get a deep breath without his cracked ribs aching and lungs burning doesn't mean he can't get candidates up on the bullish bronze's straps. It hurts, but he's been hurt worse - and doing the work keeps him useful for the scant remaining sevendays of his extended - and unexpected - visit. The Weyrleader and leader of Whirlwind Wing finishes securing the straps at his neck, securing his helm and locking the vast majority of his visible skin behind leather. It's fortunate they have Threadfall away from the pelting sand of the Igen sandstorm and sits in the calmer, and slightly more humid, plains. It will still be hot, just a little moderate in comparison with the desert. Another summer day, another six hours of being glad he'll be whipping through the cooler air above. With T'rin's helm fastened, he double-checks his bronze Luxeraeth's straps. Despite the whirling of the sand, Luxeraeth's mind is cold, quiet, still. A dark landscape of basalt towers, standing as though ready for war. « If you're not on ferry duty, get in formation. » It's useless for T'rin to yell his orders amongst the storm, but he raises his arm in signal to mount up. Kordath is crouched down, looking almost lazy as J'kar gets candidates up on the blue "Come on. If you can't get up on a little guy here, what makes you think you could get up on a big ol bronze that you're so hoping for." He says to one particular candidate. There's a wince as he flexes an arm recently released from a sling. There's a grin on his face, it's good to be back in action. And despite the lazy look of Kordath, little ripples charge under his hide. He's ready to fly. Maeyrra clutches desperately at her flamethrower, giving it a worried double-check before she goes to find a rider to travel with. She'll find one soon enough, but there's a nervous look tossed to some of the other candidates before she scrabbles up to take her place on the dragon's straps. Vormaytha has her own 'thrower and a dragonrider suited to take her, but she'll not mount up until all the candidates are where they're supposed to be. Issa stands next to Shabeth as the pair regards each rider in their small but mighty wing, her presence a steady beacon for her Vesper Wing riders as they scramble to equip themselves and their dragons for the coming battle. Once they both agree it is time, the Wingleader conducts one final inspection of Shabeth's straps, her fingers moving with practiced ease before vaulting to the brown's back. Khu carries the Weyrleader's signal onward to Sirocco, the wing's riders mounting up and ready to fly. Ixzhulqvoth gives a little tippy-tappy of anticipation, a subsonic rumble carrying a bolstering message that courses like ink through the linked minds of dragons. The wing is ready and rallied, waiting for the signal to rise and go onward, to fight - and fight well. Arroyo follows suit, with Kh'an finally strapping himself in as well. Xhieleioth's mind spans outward, her siren's song transmuted into a bardic battle hymn. Thrumming and powerful, her mental reach wends its way through the wing and beyond, licking at the minds of other dragons that are receptive to her melody. Weslyn's typical laser focus is a bit as scattered as the sand starting to pelt the ground around them as he checks the thrower for the 5th time since he had gotten the contraption in his hand. The former Smith, now candidate, find himself starting a 6th time when J'kar's word reach his ears. "Shard's" he mutters as he finally moves towards the nearest taxi. The pair of candidates that J'kar gets to babysit, err ferry, are finally up and J'kar follows suit making sure they are secured and he secures himself. Kordath lets loose with a mindsong of deep bass beats that seem at odds with his small size, but there they are larger than life. He also can't help a deep trumpeting bugle that startles the pair of candidates on him. J'kar chuckles "No worries there kids, he's a talkative one when it's time to fly." And Kordath is ready to fly. Fully strapped in, T'rin now with the bonus height of the large bronze, prepares the signal for launch, echoed through Luxeraeth's booming mind, tinted with the excitement and anticipation of the fight to come. It moves swiftly to the wingleaders, and then the flights at large. One, two, the signal is given and the heavy beats of the wings take to the sky. Almost as soon as they're launched, the envisioning is spread, for no one wants to linger in this storm if they want to maintain formation. « Meet you there… » And the order is more mentally felt across the dragons than heard. To ::Between:: they go. Black, blacker, blackest… to hover over the quiet Southern Telgar Hold and its quiet community, now broken up by the sound of a full fighting force of dragons' wingbeats. The air is clear over Southern Telgar Hold, though the riders are too high up to experience the scent of the river and the mineral-heavy hot springs below. The candidates will get a noseful of the smell, though, along with the amped up humidity in the area. It's marginally less hot but, as anyone from Southern will say: it's not the heat, but the humidity, that'll get ya. Thread glimmers on the horizon, but it's not yet ready to fall; fortunately, the winds are relatively calm, the air is still, and it hopefully won't prove too be too much of a hazard this time around. A leisurely Threadfall, wouldn't that be nice? Below, a triage zone of dragonhealers and people healers is set up for injuries that aren't serious enough for a trip to Igen. Candidates and other folks on groundcrew are deposited along with Vormaytha, who quickly organizes the group and explains both the buddy system and the grid system of sweeping for burrows. "Don't go blastin' each other, neither, no matter how much Billy tugs yer braids or Sally sasses ya! Thread's the enemy, kiddies! Burn it good!" Issa adjusts her position atop Shabeth, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline mingled with the steely calm that she forces on herself. Her eyes scan the assembly of Vesper Wing, and when T'rin signals for launch, echoed by Luxeraeth's resounding mental call, Issa lifts her hand in silent accord. Shabeth, powerful and poised, readies himself beneath her before pushing off to the larger formation of dragons and riders in the sky. As they emerge from between, Issa's gaze is steely, her focus absolute as she surveys the horizon ahead of them, ready to lead her wing into the fray. Sirocco emerges whole and hearty, ready to flame. It'll be another minute, perhaps two, before the first strands will filter down from the sky - and, when it does, they'll be there. Khu lifts a hand to fix the strap of her helmet, while Ixzhulqvoth takes a moment to check in with the dragonhealers below. With any luck, there'll be no need for her help down there; there'll be enough to do when they return to the Weyr itself. Perhaps the day will be smooth. Perhaps. The visiting bronzepair deposits their load of candidates with Vormaytha and, after a quick check of their own ability - V'iss of his ability to breathe, Vuzjavalasith for his ability to keep himself under control with Thread so near - they push to the sky again and make a necessary return to the Weyr for a few more stragglers. That'll be all they can manage; the bronze is too insistent on wanting to flame the ancient threat to be trusted not to sneak some firestone otherwise. "Gah" Comes a grunt from J'kar "Air should be drier, this stuff'll drown ya." The bluerider adds as they emerge out from the bitter bite of ::Between:: Down they spiral the blue light on a as he heads down to deliver the candidates. "Remember which end the flame comes out of kiddies. Don't be settin' yerselves on fire." There's a cheeky grin as the pair lands and he's helping them all unstrap, mostly one-handed but he has the knack of it. Once on the ground, Maeyrra's all wide-eyed and anxious, darting a look this way and that to try to find a familiar - well, more familiar - face among the candidates. She situates her flamethrower as instructed and is careful to keep the wand pointed down and away from her, with her fingers well away from the trigger. She chews her lower lip and looks for someone to buddy up with for this harrowing adventure. The few times Shuseran helped with a ground crew at Southern Boll had been very close to the Hold. This time it's a dragonride away. He'd clambered awkwardly on the blue's back, muttering at what a difference 6 turns had made to his then-teenaged agility, from the first time he'd been a-dragonback as an apprentice starcrafter. That had been a blue, too. He'd prepared for this meteorologically, but had forgotten the physical side of helping on a ground crew. When they finally arrive, he slides down from the dragon's back with an awkward thud, wiping sand from his clothes and unwrapping the shemagh from his face. He turns and murmurs a thanks to the dragon pair, then heads off to join the other candidates with their flamethrowers. Weslyn awkwardly falls from the back of his dragon taxi but quickly recovers. Setting the flamethrower on his back again, he joins the line of other candidates, giving a nod to those whose names he can remember. "Well, this will be interesting," he mutters to those around as he squints his eyes at the leading edge of the Fall. T'rin's eyes scan for the first sign of the leading edge, his breath slow and shallow as though listening for the inevitable Threads through the intense concentration, only briefly broken to start the move of firestone to Luxeraeth. The tell-tale first signs make themselves known and with a swift motion, T'rin leads Whirlwind and the rest of the top flight forward, swiftly to be followed by the next wings. « It's showtime, friends. » The Weyr engages. It's not long before the searing filaments descend and, then, it's all hands on deck - so to speak. Threadfall starts light - but only for a minute or two. Then it thickens, falling in heavy sheets that seem to writhe together into unspeakable shapes in the air. Xhieleioth flames one of them and is soon forced to skip between as the sheet - flamed in two - must be dealt with by others. Tattered bits of it filter past the remaining aerial defenses, breaking through and providing groundcrew with their first challenge of the day. With the candidates delivered J'kar, not yet cleared for Threadfighting puts himself at the mercy of Vormaytha. At least he knows what he's doing having down ground control a number of times, and at least he's fighting Thread still. Even if it isn't quite where he wants to be. Kordath warbles a little his eyes whirl quickly. He's none to keen to be grounded, but he doesn't fight the command to stay grounded. Instead he keeps watch for missed clumps to relay to J'kar. Issa's gaze remains fixed on the horizon, the telltale signs of Thread's arrival etching a line of tension across her brow. She mentally prepares, reviewing the strategies and drills they've practiced time and again. Shabeth senses her focus, matching her intensity with his own stoic calm, the brown's hide rippling in anticipation. As Thread begins their treacherous descent, Issa tightens her grip on the reins, her entire being concentrated on the task at hand. "Vesper, ready!" she commands. As the Thread begins to thicken in the air, Shabeth springs into action, the brown's flames a bright counter to the silver menace from above. The ranks of Sirocco shift position as necessary, the movement punctuated by staccato bursts of fire. A few dragons skip between, while others are able to bank out of the way of a nasty knot of Thread. Ixzhulqvoth does not revel in fighting Thread, but his satisfaction in destroying the stuff spins and wheels, ink on brightgloom. "C'mon, then! C'mon!" Vormaytha flaps a hand, motioning the ground crew teams to venture forth. "Looks like we got us a snarl comin' in right pretty over there, don't we?" She points a gnarled claw of a finger to where Thread has broken through. A few other stray strands make it through - the clumps might be nasty, but the individual strands are insidious. As a brown dragon disappears ::BETWEEN:: as it is hit, a green manages to catch the rest of the clump it missed. Luxeraeth releases a flame towards a small patch, searing it into nothing but char, breaking it apart and dispersing as the pair fly past them. T'rin's head looks left towards that end of his own wing's formation, double-checking coverage with a nod towards his next over wingmate. His hands grip tightly at his strap as Luxeraeth twirls slightly left to share a flame across a larger sheet that had began to descend between their paths. Shuseran assesses the temperature, humidity, wind direction and speed, eyes fastening skyward on the dragon pairs above. A sharp word from their shepherd brings his mind back to the ground. "Sorry," he mutters. How is he supposed to do his job if he has to do this? Then she spots a tangle getting through and beckons to the candidates. Shuseran goes as bid, checking his flamethrower yet again as they head over. With a hard gulp, Maeyrra heads to the indicated spot as well, with a worried look being shot to Shuseran. Then back to the clump that's fallen and where it's now eating a burrow into the ground. She aims her wand at it, flicks the trigger, and yelps audibly when a gout of fire jets out. Training is one thing, but the real deal? She releases the trigger and staggers back a step. "It's getting so big!" It seems her fire didn't even touch it; the nasty thing is bubbling and pulsating within its self-made 'nest'. A green rider yells a warning as an unseen patch approaches another dragon. Kordath trumpets as some strands slip through and J'kar is in range and heads for hit just as Vormaytha motions them on. It does help having an extra pair of eyes and all. The smell of the 'throwers fills the air, not quite the same acrid scent of stone, but it's enough to put a grin on the mans face. "Don't stop flaming!" He yells. "One single strand will decimate the area." And he aims the wand at the burrow and burns it. Burns it good. Die Thread. Die. Weslyn moves without much thought as Vormaytha's urging carries him toward the clump she had indicated. Shoring up Shuseran's side, he flips the switch on his tank and points his wand toward the withering mass just as Maeyrra unleashes her fire at it. "Maybe," he calls to her as he widens the nozzle on his own and sends a fan of fire toward the burrow. Shabeth receives a slight score on the wingtip! Red-cheeked and embarrassed, Maeyrra aims her wand again, but the flame gutters a bit before sputtering out. "Oh, what- oh." It helps if she actually presses the trigger. But, by then, the burrow is swiftly burned out and filled with ashes and bad memories. "There are more!" Vormaytha crows, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet as she points to a few more places where just enough Thread's gotten through to touch down. She'll lead the way to the next with a purposeful stride. Cry Havok….and all that. %n, rolls his shoulder under the staps of the thrower's tank and moves forward with a group of candidates. He hasn't been very chatty the past few days and this particular task allows him to just focus on the murder of thread. What better way to rid yourself of frustrations? His long legs carry him swiftly to catch up with Maeyrra and Vormaytha so he can do some kill'n. Shuseran isn't far from Maeyrra and smiles to her encouragingly. After he helps Weslyn with that clump, he heads over to a stray filament with his flamethrower, visibly repulsed at how quickly the single thread has grown in the lush grass. He points his nozzle and lets a gout of flame loose, wrinkling his nose at the acrid smell of the charred Thread. He nods to himself then looks around for more. Xhieleioth expels a little more flame before, at long last, the green's reserves of endurance are worn too thin. Her song falters and fades as she's swapped out for another pair. The green will have to wait before returning to Igen Weyr; the area's being scathed by sand, forcing a brief detour somewhere else until she and her rider can return home. Ista feels like a wonderful place for a bath, no? T'rin signals an exchange between a slightly injured Whirlwind pair and a fresh one from the ground. Better to get that looked at than not; they can always rejoin the fight once cleared. A few short bursts take care of a pair of clumps that dared to in their path. As Threadfall reaches its zenith, the knots and sheets seem to be falling faster and harder still, though the winds remain still enough that there's no threat of upward-blown Thread to lick at dragonbellies or throats. Still, it's heavy enough to be a real problem for flame to burn through them and it often takes two or three dragons to properly get through the larger patches of it. Ixzhulqvoth is doing his best to destroy it all, but he's one dragon with one flame. Khu signals for resupply and is grateful when it comes quickly. Luxeraeth receives a medium score on the tail! Wingtips are 'scored; a few dragons catch a lashing across tails or neckridges. An unlucky green gets a good chunk of her main wingsail caught - the trailing edge, unfortunately, where she came out of between a little too soon. She has to land in the triage zone for immediate care. Ash scatters as a huge clump is hit with flame. As some of the smaller burrows are swiftly tended to, Vormaytha herds Larze and Maeyrra to another one that's apparently gotten quite large in the time it takes to get from one spot to the next. "Have at it, kiddies!" and she's soon off, flagging J'kar and Weslyn and Shuseran along to follow her to yet another burrow-to-be that's not close enough to the water. "Pity, really. This'un almost drowned, but almost isn't good enough, is it?" Issa's attention is pulled away from the line as one of the Vesper's greenrider calls out to them. Luckily, the warning was just in time for them to maneuver out of the way of the clump that was about to rain down on their head. Even so, Shabeth's wingtip catches a stray strand. The pain is sharp, a singe that sears through the bond, drawing a hiss of sympathy from Issa. The Weyrleader's bronze blinks ::Between:: briefly to avoid a clump, but they re-emerge not yet far enough away to avoid a second one, which attempts to take out Luxeraeth's tail. T'rin orders them to blink a second time, killing the Thread attempting to consume his lifemate's hide. He signals a swift swapout with his Weyrsecond, feeling the searing pain in the rider's phantom tail, and begins to descend towards the Dragonhealers. Shuseran sighs to himself, wondering how much of this missed Thread getting through to the ground is due to the prevalence of female riders. Why, oh why don't they stay at home, safe and loved, instead of coming in droves to the Weyr to Stand for dragons, to have to endure this? Surely men are better equipped to do this sort of work. Can't they see that? He nods to the old smithcrafter as she points out another Thread, this one partly in water. Water and fire, fire and water. This time it's a good combination, a deadly one for Thread. A glance up to the sky as J'kar watches the Fall and then gives himself a shake and a glance over towards his blue and back to work he goes. Soon enough he'll be back in fighting shape for the skies, but for now it's fighting on the ground. "Almost is never good enough." He says to Vormaytha and lets loose with the flame. "This ain't a game of 'shoes after all." Kordath warbles and shifts on the ground as he watches the Thread eat at those above himm. Thicker and thicker, heavier and heavier- until, finally, it seems to ease and the trailing edge of Threadfall is in sight - and none-too-soon! A few more dragonrider pairs are forced to ground, leaving the dragonhealers and healers scrambling to help. Fortunately, some healer-candidates are on hand to help, though few have experience with dragons. One of the dragonhealers spots Luxeraeth and T'rin and motions to a clear spot off to one side where they can be more promptly seen. Ixzhulqvoth continues to blast away at the silver menace after a quick refuel. Sirocco's ranks shift again, as some riders are swapped out - and others drop out fully, leaving the wing as a whole at partial strength for the last stretch. With Threadfall easing up, Khu can only hope the wing can handle the last little bit without the extra support. They have no other choice. Larze's expression is grim as he leans forward and blazes the escape-thread to ash. The sprinkling of ash coming down makes him cough until he adjusts his face-wrap. He glances over to Maeyrra with an 'you okay?' expression, waiting for her nod, offering assistance if her gear is acting up. He winces at the cries of pain from riders and dragons. This is a first for him. Being near dragons on the ground, not just watching them in action above their meager cothold. Fire and water indeed, but Wes is all about fire. Moving to the next burrow, he unleashes his tank at the mass, but unlike the others, he observes how the flame turns it to ash before moving to the next one to repeat the process. Luckily, the trailing edge is not far away so he hopefully won't have much more to burn. Sorry, Larze; Maeyrra can only shake her head at him. No, sir, she is not okay. The flamethrower does work okay, though, so no help needed there! She's getting better at wielding the flamethrower, so there's that, but the periodic flash of silver Thread overhead has her flinching a little. She swallows hard and tries to focus, but when a breeze sets a stray hair to tickle across her neck, she lets go of the wand - which fortunately stops flaming - and slaps at the back of her neck with a startled cry of horror. A new dragon flames his first patch of thread, and his rider grins proudly. « That smarts, thank you very much. » Luxeraeth's protests start even before he's actually touched by one of the dragonhealers. T'rin, a Healer prior to finding his Luxeraeth, flings himself from his straps to check out the injury. He's always been much more of a people-Healer, but shards, that hurt in his mind, instantly giving him some flashes of the injury he took at the beginning of the Turn to his right shoulder. "And they'll make it hurt less," he assures his dragon, stepping back to let them clean and then slather numbweed on the fresh injury. "It's not your first score." Only a scant handful of potential burrows remain, though there'll no doubt be plenty to talk about at the next Wingleader meeting; without the wind to blame, something else will have to bear the burden. Closer and closer, the trailing edge comes - but it'll be just a little longer before the Weyr's fighters can return home… hopefully by then, the sandstorm will have blown itself out. Shuseran too quails at the sounds of the injured. He glances over at the healers and dragonhealers. It's enough to make him wish he was healercraft, to be able to help… or glad that he isn't, so he doesn't have to face the Threadscore injuries up close. He keeps a goodly distance from them, casting about for more missed Threads. It's lightening up and fewer Threads are getting through. Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to flame right now. Turning quickly at the cry of horror, J'kaars eyes are wide expecring to see one of the candidates being eaten alive by thread and lets out a woosh as he notes that it's a false alarm. "Shard it all." He mutters and goes back to checking for burrows and almost viciously burns out yet one more. He's antsy, but then he suddenly relaxes a little and murmurs something under his breath and another glance ot Kordath who's watching him intently for a moment and then the blue is back to watching the skies and dragons as the end draws near. As a dragon disappears ::BETWEEN::, another moves over in the formation to cover for her. Larze points forefinger and middle finger at his eyes and then points to a gleam of silver, wriggling between two mossy rocks. He swings up the nozzle of the device and flambees the writhing horror. He whirls at the sound of his friend's cry and steps over to her, sweeping a sharp look over her person. "You're okay! Deep breaths. Almost done." The dragonhealer that's immediately at hand for Luxeraeth and his rider is, fortunately, efficient at the task. Quick-fingered and cool-mannered, it won't take long for the wound to be cleaned and liberally slathered with numbweed salve. After a moment or two, the older woman says, "Gurazmath says the sandstorm's nearly done at the Weyr." Her green, as weathered-looking as her rider, offers a warble and croon of reassurance. Coming from ::between:: Issa and Shabeth take a moment to survey their situation and gauge just how long it will be before the trailing edge reaches them. "Sabeth, tell Conarth to move in closer to the line. He is too wide and letting too much through." She makes a mental note to speak to the bluerider. The two of them are experienced enough to know better. Don't mind Maeyrra. She'll just be here, hyperventilating as a result of her own imagination. She sheds her flamethrower and sits on the ground, where Larze's words finally sink in enough for her to suck in a slow, shuddery breath. But the embarrassment burns deep and she'll just… sit there, until Vormaytha comes to collect her and pull her back to the rallying spot. "Nearly done, kiddies! Nearly done! Just a few more minutes, by my reckoning. Just a few. Pity it's summer - the hot springs here are a dream after Threadfall! Can't have ya boilin' alive after savin' the world!" Shuseran walks toward another of the potential burrows, eyes widening as he sees the ground heaving under the grass cover. Only a small area marks where the Thread burrowed but it's down there. "Here!" he cries. "It's buried! How do we get it up to flame it?" His voice betrays his nervousness— near panic is more like it. He quickly points the nozzle at the heaving earth, letting it belch flames. Right or wrong, he can't stand by and do nothing, waiting to find out what he should do. Instructions are being relayed across dragonminds; Khu is already rearranging the ranks of Sirocco. If larger changes are afoot, that will remain to be seen for later - once Threadfall is done and wounds are licked and she has a chance to get her thoughts together properly. Still, Thread's on its way out - the last few strands finally fall, triumphantly blasted from the sky and turned into ashen confetti. "Thank Faranth," T'rin replies back towards the dragonhealer with a relieved smile. The sentiment isn't completely for his injured dragon, but also the flight that will be returning tired from a long Threadfall, who would best not have to fight against sudden winds upon popping back into the heat of the desert. He turns his eyes skywards towards the formations, with the top flight barely within sight. With it not being a severe injury, Luxeraeth keeps up communication with Whirlwind, and the update as to the end of Threadfall is swiftly relayed across the ranks despite being an echo of those in the skies. He does like to hear himself talk. Larze murmurs his reasurances to Maeyrra, fussing over her like he would one of his sisters. Until Vormaytha arrives to attend the candidate. He lets his attention wander, his protective instinct taking the forefront. It's probably why he totally misses the thread curving and curling down and down towards the crown of his head. The deadly thread gleams in a silent death. Larze moves forward just as the deadly stuff moves past him, but unfortunately catches against his thin upper-arm. There's a moment of shock as the sizzling issues from the heavy leather jacket he's wwearing. Then he lets out a yelp of pain. WHat /does/ one do when threaded? You can't really use the flamethrower! Some riders are returning to start collecting groundcrew - or otherwise provide support where they can. The candidates won't have to wait long for their rides home, but they'll have to finish their work, first! Someone hollers to Shuseran, "Just jam your wand in it and let it go! Burn it good!" There's no fishing the stuff up once it's down there - and fire works all the same when it has enough fuel. It's someone else - another candidate, it seems, who's keen-eyed enough to see the Thread that Larze missed - who cries: "Get him to the water! To the hot springs! Drown it off of him!" J'kar is heading back and in time to see the Thread aiming for Larze and he starts running for the candidate just as another candidate is yelling. He's ready to drag the candidate if he doesn't start moving. "Into the water, there." He points out to where one of the first burrows was, by the water. Shuseran isn't close enough to see what happened to Larze nor to help him. He nods feverishly to the person who yelled instructions to him, thrusting his flamethrower wand into the burrow and opens it full up, holding it there for quite longer than needed. He shudders when he finally removes the wand. He knew that. He knew what he should have done. It had been part of their training. It just didn't come to mind when he was faced with that heaving soil, knowing it was down there. Knowing Thread was burrowing deeper and deeper into the precious earth. His face burns red hot, embarrassed to have forgotten momentarily. They'll have to dig it out later, to make sure none escaped the flames. Only then does he realize something's going on with the tall lad. He frowns, striding that way, hoping nothing's happened to the young man. Larze hears and obeys, his face scrunched with pain, but he's quick. Water. Right! Before it chews right through the whole limb. He's running for the water, flinging his gear off before he's plunging into the water, diving into the depths so he might kill the horror sizzling through leather to his skin. With the end of Thread in the skies, Khu and Ixzhulqvoth descend to check in with the dragonhealers. With no immediate need for trauma-trained hands, her attention turns to the candidates and ground crew that are returning back to the reallying point. Vormaytha's already doing headcounts and is sour-faced about it, with her attention spanning back to where the others are still off doing Faranth-knows-what. She's not seen the Thread incident, but she'll find out eventually. Trundling in after Laarze, J'kar makes sure the Thread is well and truely drowned before he ushers the candidate off to the Healers "You need that well and truely cleaned, Faranth knows whatever organisms are living in this water can kill you just as much as Thread if the wound gets infected. But you'll have something to show off to your lovers." He adds with a grin "Now move it." Luxeraeth coordinates the Wingleader reports and numbers, relaying them to T'rin who swiftly makes a few notes in a small notepad. Written reports will come later, with all of their signatures and stamps, and desk traveling. Everything requires hidework of some sort. Well enough to fly, but probably take next Threadfall or two off due to the fresh wound, whatever the dragonhealers prescribe, Luxeraeth gives his wings a bit of a stretch now that his tail is slathered in numbweed. T'rin's attention briefly shifts over to the commotion over towards the water, and he makes a mental note to check on the candidates later, once the post-Fall reports are in. Mounting his dragon once more, he straps himself in. « If you're not scheduled to stay for support, prep to head on home. » Teeth chattering, Larze comes out of the water, peeling quickly out of the leather jacket, hissing in pain. Blood runs down his arm, dripping from his fingers. It's not going to end his life, but it'll need a stiches. "Th-thank you." The pain making him chilled and a little fuzzy-haeded. "Whu…." A blush stains his cheeks at the mention of showing off the scar later. It will be a really impressive one for sure given the way it's looking where the thread chewed into and around his boney arm. "Shards!" Shuseran realizes with a start that Larze was Threadscored! He goes to check on his fellow candidate, taking possession of Larze's flamethrower. "I'll take care of this for you, so y…" He catches sight of Larze's wound. "Shells, man! You were nearly eaten!" His eyes go wide. Making shooing motions to both the candidates to get them moving "Maybe you won't forget to keep your eyes to the skies with Thread flies." J'kar states as he continues to escort the two. Gotta make sure Larze doesn't collapse, or if he does, that he gets carried back. One way or another." As things are seen too, and all seems well. Kornath combo hops and trundles his way over to prepair to take candidates back to Igen. Where the air doesn't try and drown you and the sun is just right for baking dragonhide. Larze is in agony, obviously, but he is too stuborn to faint and pass out. "Y-yes, sir. I … messed up." And he knows he'll pay, looking guilty. He makes a face to Shuseran and moans, "I'm fine. I…prolly deserve it." Thank goodness for healers. He slumps into a place to sit, surrendering to their mercies. Once the healers have done their duty for both dragons and humans alike - which means a rather prodigious amount of numbweed salve being slung about and a couple of stitches here and there - all the Weyr's riders and all the Weyr's men (and women!) will return home for a hard-earned and much-deserved rest. There'll be plenty of time to show off fresh scars, whisper about near-misses, and mourn those lost in 'Falls past before Rukbat sinks below the horizon and brings the sleep of the dead - and not-quite-dead - with it. Protecting Southern Telgar has 0 comments. |
05 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Issa & Shabeth, Kh'an & Xhieleioth, Khu & Ixzhulqvoth, Larze, Shuseran, T'rin & Luxeraeth, V'iss & Vuzjavalasith, Weslyn, NPCs: J'kar & Kordath, Maeyrra, Vormaytha |
Threadfall over Southern Telgar Hold - and there are burrows! |
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Eggs: Thrice Touched, Thrice Cursed Eggs: Thrice Touched, Thrice Cursed
"Want another go? You going to stay up here?" Sands The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be. Post-breakfast seems to be the best time for touchings - or, at least, the most convenient, considering the sweltering heat that's already descended upon the Weyr. It'll only get hotter. And, while the AWLM is back again, there's no immediate sign of the egg-observing Khu. The litany of rules is rattled off, though, by now, plenty of candidates know them by memory and a few mutter them under their breath in time with the AWLM's recounting. It concludes with ritualistic regularity: bow to dam and sire, then go forth and touch the eggs. Most of the candidates are quick about this, too, and hasten off (as quickly as is prudent!) to lay hands on the eggs that compel them so. Keen eyes will spot Edric in the galleries, observing impassively from afar. Today, it seems, he is the keeper of the snacks and water in the 'safe' place. It's Larze. Come to the sands again, but without the eagerness of his previous outting, if the dragging of his big feet are any indication. He's trailed by the Trio of Bitran-boys who are full of energy and whispers and plots. The candidates salue, Larze with far more respect. "So, is it true that candidates bring gifts for the sire and dam? What does one even get a dragon? Meat?" Larze asks in general, hopefully getting an answer from someone who might know something. More than one will be using the early morning hours to an advantage, Kopriva among them. She timed her absence from the Sands well, while Pariisamith slept and returned with enough time to spare before the AWLM brought in the Candidates. The young gold is awake now, but wholly relaxed in posture; she observes, as trust only extends so far, but despite the watchfulness? She is calm, stretched out in repose close to her clutch but not looming and leaving some space for Candidates to roam for those eggs nearest to her. Kopriva lingered by Pariisamith's side on her return, one hand smoothing over golden hide and ending with a gentle pat. Then she turns to walk across the sands, hair braided and bound back off her neck, clothing light and suited best for a summer desert climate. The young weyrwoman does her best not to cross paths with Candidates. Not from a sense of avoidance, but as not to disturb. She does greet the AWLM, even if its nothing more than a respectful nod in passing. Her gaze had turned to the Galleries, but the prompt of Larze's question pulls her attention. "Not always, as far as I am aware," Kopriva answers, as gentle spoken as the slight smile offered. "Pariisamith doesn't ask for anything but respect given to her clutch. Nhiuzukkath showers her with enough… gifts." A small pause, a little hiccup of withheld amusement. The AWLM continues to gesture candidates forth, though some are very obviously reluctant. A few are warily side-eyeing a couple of eggs - This Egg Has Such Sights To Show You and Be Careful What You Wish For Egg - while others are trying to hide their interest in a few more - To Cure What Ails You Egg and Coils of Vengeance Egg being notable. It might take a bit for the AWLM to get all the candidates to the eggs, but rest assured that it will be done! There's a salute for Kopriva, of course, once she's spotted, but duty is duty and so it is done. Larze gives all the eggs the same thoughtful scan. While he doesn't have a reaction to any particular egg, he moves first to the This Egg Has Such Sights To Show You egg. On his way, he is obviously taking in what the queen's rider says, eyes rounding slightly a he looks up (and up) at the queen. "Yes. Of course the most respect. I feel like if I say anything about the eggs now, she'll think I'm just making it up, but they are so beautiful." He's honest rather than trying to kiss-up. Then he's looking about at That egg. With the determinatated steps of a elder teen who won't be intimidated. This time, rather than just a linger touch, he puts both palms on the shell. With the sharp, metallic click of a puzzle finally snapping together - or becoming undone? - you find yourself awash in the intensity of emotion. All of them. Lust and rage and joy and hatred and pure, pure bliss come crashing down in undiluted waves, one after the other after the other. Which one clings closest to your skin? Which one seeps deepest into your heart? Those become the hooks that snare you, wrenching you forth to the unseeing, unknowable eye of the one that dwells within. With your senses shocked, you're scarcely aware of being flayed alive, laid open, and everything exposed for the scrutiny of the inscrutable entity that resides in this space. There are no words, just the searing sensation of judgment, of being weighed and measured - and of being returned to yourself, skin intact and body whole. And yet- and yet… something is missing or changed. Will you find it? Will you know? Or will you forget, like all the others? "She wouldn't think that," Kopriva's reply is equally as honest, even with amusement underscoring her tone. Honesty is often appreciated by the young goldrider and, not wanting to keep Larze, simply watches as he steps towards an egg. She does not linger, both to keep from accidentally intervening and to have some reprieve from the heat of the Sands. All her time spent here and still her tolerance to the heat wanes quickly. Up to the Galleries then, for her. Where snacks and drinks await those in need, but are passed over in favor of another greeting — this one quiet (and shy) towards Edric, if the Headman has not moved from his spot. "Weyrwoman." Edric inclines his head to Kopriva, the title tilting easily off his Fortian-slanted tongue. The presentation of snacks doesn't need him to gesture at it, but he gestures all the same in wordless invitation for her to take as she likes, if she's so inclined. His attention briefly tilts to the candidates on the sands, light skittering on his glasses and momentarily reflecting faces back. "Quite a healthy lot of candidates," he intones, slanting a grey glance askance to the young woman. "Skilled, too. The number of crafters taking the white knot is-" he weighs his words and settles on "-unusual, but not unwelcome." Larze's jaw muscles twitch as he grinds his teeth against whatever sensation, real or imagined, course through him. He hisses out very quietly and for just a moment a look of pain criss-crosses his features but he keeps his fingers touching, not pulling back. It's like a game of chicken. Maybe. And then, finally, the sensation pulls away before he does. Ha! Take that -egg-. EGGLING! His mouth, too wide and full for his lean, teen features stretch into a big smile as he straightens and dusts his hands together. "There." It's said very quietly before he looks around, checking for other eggs untouched. It is not shocking that Be Careful What You Wish For Egg is avoided. Enough have tried it. Even he. He shakes one of his feet of sand and then moves that direction. Perhaps if he had another 'look', he'd be able to rid his sleepless nights. Or…might make it worse. The Usual Suspects are watching him closely but they found no pleasure in his lack of response last time and soon find other candidates to taunt in quiet, sneering whispers. Some whispering is to be expected, but those that whisper too long will find an AWLM drifting their way and reminding them that they're there to touch the eggs. A purposeful jerk of head toward the galleries - where Edric lurks reigns observes - is often more than enough to send some of the candidates back to the task at hand. Among the candidates, Maeyrra has returned to the To Forsake Love For Power Egg, despite her best judgment. This time, the touch is longer, more thoughtful, and she eventually steps away with a creasing of her brow that only a brief breather can relieve. Kopriva holds up one hand in polite dismissal to the offer, more habit than anything. She'd eaten breakfast in the (much cooler) living caverns, between other necessary tasks. The water, however, may be perused later. Taking a seat near to Edric, one she is settled, her hands fold neatly into her lap; no fidgeting, yet. "I've not had a chance to really take note, even with the times I've been present when they're brought here. It's … good to know." On health and skills. Something draws a slight frown to her features, as she glances sidelong to meet his gaze. "Not unwelcome for us?" Kopriva hesitates. "… We've not potentially upset the Crafts?" Strange, for her to say 'we' when her hand has likely had no involvement in Candidates. If she's sitting, he'll sit, though Edric still maintains a position where he can keep an eye on the proceedings on the Sands. His authority doesn't extend quite that far, but the AWLM's head jerk elicits an acknowledging tip of his chin. His attention returns to Kopriva, though his eyes largely remain on the Sands for the time being. "I have the rosters, if you want them," for the man has his lists and keeps them faithfully, "but, yes. We are working with the crafts as best as we can to ameliorate the situation. Some candidates are shadowing crafters. Others are continuing their studies. It's likely they'll lose far more to the dragons than they fear they will." One corner of his mouth finally allows a half-smile, likely for reassurance. "You have nothing to fear from the crafts; they've weathered worse storms." Larze wrinkles his nose as he stands by the Be Careful What You Wish For Egg …egg. He glances over at the Trio as the AWLM schools them to make with the egg touching rather than mocking the younger candidates. Rolling one shoulder, he reaches out and also puts two hands on the egg. Maybe it will be…sleeping? Or, it was all a part of the heat, too many eggs, and lack of water yesterday. It takes an unusual amount of time for this one to stir to wakefulness again - perhaps it was drained from another's visit? Or, worse, it was busy weaving some fresh terror to embed in the hearts and minds of those that dare to handle it. What's the worst thing you've ever done? Truly, the worst? The most awful, nightmarish thing? Because you did it again. Oh, you don't think you did and your rational mind says you didn't… but this egg knows. You thought it just now, so of course it's happened again. The anxiety builds, bit by bit, wrenching at nerves and pulling at your stomach and dragging your mind down into the worst possible places. What was the worst thing you've ever done? It wants to know. It needs to know, because there's no way to undo it, now is there? But maybe it can make it better, yes? But even that idea is a trap - what is better to you… and what is better to the one that whispers within this egg? What hideous shape will your next wish take? How will your next dream be warped? It twists further in your thoughts until, finally, the feverishness of it, the desperation of it, breaks - and you're free again to breathe. Koriva's focus drifts to the Sands from time to time as well, though she may miss the exchange between the AWLM and Edric. Her eyes drift to the Candidates in a passing sweep, but much of her attention lingers on Pariisamith. The gold has not shown any change from her earlier calm repose; in fact, the young gold looks to be dozing again. It could be a ruse, maybe to set some of the more skittish Candidates at ease if they're wanting to approach the eggs nearest her. She is no threat … as long as none of them are. Tolerance, as seemingly freely given is, in fact, balancing on a knife's edge. "If you don't mind," Kopriva accepts Edric's offer, only after a beat of indecision. "I would like to see them." Likely only to stave her curiosity. It feels … necessary, to her, to know a little more of those who may one day soon become Igen's newest riders. Some connection, even if so impersonal and distant. "Shadowing? Is that something new?" Kopriva blinks, only to half-smile in turn. "It wasn't quite fear and more a passing concern." WAS IT? "But thank you, for the reassurance." "Of course." Edric reaches for his folio to make some notes and offer a reassuring, "I'll have copies to you later today." Copies that he'll personally transcribe, rather than leave to the hand of an assistant; he's particular like that. For a moment, he lapses into silence to focus on some activity on the sands - not Pariisamith, no, but the candidates that putter about with varying degrees of uncertainty, curiosity, and caution. "The shadowing isn't precisely new," he provides at length, tipping a look to Kopriva, "but we're making more of a push for it. They'll be spending time with both dragonriders and crafters in fairly equal measure." Preparing for their future, that is - no matter what shape it takes. On the sands, the AWLM continues to herd candidates around, encouraging a few to take a breath or step away or get some water when they look overwhelmed. One of Larze's hands shoots to his throat, as the sucked in breath seems to get stuck there somewhere in that horrible space half-remembered but…recalled in the darkness. What in the world made him do that /again/? Insanity! Because doing something again with the hopes of a different response is only THAT! He is fighting against it, like someone who is being pushed under water. Unable to suck in another gulp of life giving air. How can anyone do such a thing? It's only when he tears his other hand away from the surface of the egg can he suck in several shuddering breaths. "Who—who would want -THAT-?" He asks to… Maybe Maeyrra who is near enough to ask. She's just about to lay hands on The Curse of Mediocrity Egg when Larze's question catches her. Maeyrra blinks at him, confused, then gestures for him to keep his voice down. "What are you talking about?" She scoots closer, under the pretense of touching the egg - but she seems to know this one well enough not to touch it. Worried looks flash to the AWLM - occupied with a candidate that's gone a bit green - then to the galleries, before she looks to Larze again. Upon entering the Hatching Grounds, the heat hits Weslyn like a physical force. Despite the sweat beginning to bead on his brow, there's an undeniable sense of awe as he steps further onto the Sands, his eyes sweeping over the eggs scattered before him before Weslyn moves cautiously among them. The intense heat reminds him of his smithy, yet the context is worlds apart. After spending some time just watching and moving about the eggs, the Journeyman Smith finds himself drawn to The Risen From the Ashes Egg, its surface swirling with colors that remind him of the fires that he usually calls home. Extending a tentative hand towards the egg, Wes carefully places his palm on its hardening shell. The heat suddenly rises, spiking high and fast and terrible. It's enough to make skin prickle and sweat with a vengeance, enough to bring the tunnel vision of impending unconsciousness to the fore. But, then, it begins to ease and the oppressive grip of heat relaxes into a nest of myrrh-scented wonder. Fire, you realize - or, perhaps, this one imparts - is transformative. Purifying. Another surge of heat swells through you, as if seeking out those weaknesses in you that might be changed - or do you want to change? What are your weaknesses? What would you change, if you could? What parts of yourself would you lay in a sacrificial pyre - and what would you make of its ashes? Questions rise like smoke and ash, clinging to your thoughts with a degree of persistence. Would you lay yourself on that pyre if it meant you could be reborn? What legend would you leave behind? What legend would you make? The heat subsides fully and, soon, you're all by yourself again. "Thank you," Kopriva's words carry enough suitable appreciation, even if she is unaware that Edric will be personally transcribing her copies. Her expression turns thoughtful under his elaboration on her previous question, an acknowledging hum before another lapse of silence. "It's a good thing, I think," she eventually (and quietly) adds. Not that there is much risk of their conversation carrying from their position in the Galleries. "And wouldn't hurt, either. It sounds… almost mutually beneficial?" Again, there's a note of hesitation, a little faltering in confidence. If any Candidates do begin to drift over for some water, Kopriva will gently encourage them — either through a warm smile or by pouring a glass in offering. She remembers enough of her own experiences through egg touchings to feel some sense of understanding. Larze tries to grab for Maeyrra's hand to prevent her from touching /that/ egg. He felt bad enough for how she responded previously to an egg he rather liked. He lowers his voice as well, motioning towards the Naughty in Thy Sight Egg egg. It allows them to put their backs to the AWLM to have this quick, hushed exchange. "You … feel ….something? Right? Doesn't that mean that the dragonette will be like that?" His shoulder crunch tightly together to make himself smaller. "Nope. Maybe Brit will get it." Oh dear, but he has said the name and summoned the butcher's boy. Brit swaggers near with his crew in his wake. "Going for the green, eh Lard'o. Good on you. You'd make some bluerider /real/ happy." He makes kissy-kissy faces before slapping the taller candidate's shoulder in a 'Friendly' manner. The loud *SLAP* rings out, making the tall lad sway and almost stumble. And then Brit and the duo are off to look at (and drool over) the Coils of Vengeance Egg. Meanwhile, correcting his posture, Larze reaches to touch the Naughty in Thy Sight Egg ….egg. ONE! TWO! FIVE! Wait. Wait, no, that's not how it goes. The broken string of numbers turns into a frantic psychic scramble, as the distinct feeling of something being tumbled around makes itself known. The panic is acute and distinct, some unknown entity inspiring such a frenzy of activity. But what is it? What is it that this one fears? But, as soon as it realizes it's not alone, it seizes hold of you, impressing (lower-case, not capitalized) upon you the importance of being properly armed and prepared. Are you afraid? What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of- oh no! It's there! Behold the terror from beyond, a fluffy little furbeast of some vague variety. Terrifying? This one seems to think it is, for it quickly seems to retreat, leaving you to deal with the floofy little horror with all those TEETH and those red EYES - or, perhaps, discretion is the better part of valor and you'll make a tactical retreat of your own. The Headman lapses into silence again while he listens, as if weighing Kopriva's words very carefully. Edric eventually nods, firming up the wavering sense of confidence in her, offering some reassurance in the singularity of his acknowledgement. "Yes, it is very mutually beneficial. It's a program that I'll try to continue, for so long as I can. Building those allegiances is critical for the health of both Weyr and Craft," he opines, before lapsing into silence again. He'll take some water, just a little - he's sweating a bit, even here, which betrays his fundamentally human composition. It's an unfortunate flaw. "I do, but-" Maeyrra trails off, as if struggling to make sense of what Larze is trying to say. "I don't- I mean, dragons aren't like that at all. None of them are. They're all nice and they like people," but, then, she sounds like she's trying to convince herself that the stories told of dragons are true. She's definitely not Weyrbred, this gal. "Shove off," she hisses to the idiot Brit - and it's not long before the AWLM pops up in time to see Larze sway. Not having seen anything directly happen, he does venture his way to where Brit-and-buddies are - likely to levy a warning of some sort to stay focused on the task at hand. Weslyn presses his lips together as he pulls his hands away from his chosen egg. "Well, that was interesting," he mutters to himself. "I wonder if the feelings it provokes indicate the personality of the dragon inside." He stands there a moment longer, collecting his thoughts, the remnants of the egg's warmth still lingering on his skin like the afterglow of a forge's flame. Finally, he moves again, picking his next egg randomly. Still, the chaotic colors of The Betcha Can't Guess My Color Egg give him a pause before his hand once again makes contact. The scent that arises is potent - eucalyptus, to be precise, if you're familiar with the scent. It opens up the sinuses and all the other senses, leaving you with a mystery of a different sort: just what's going on here? A riot of color greets you, like the shifting leaves of some Southern tree. They rattle and whisper, sway and sigh, while you're left to either climb those impossible branches or merely bask in the mottled shadow that it casts. Others might offer more visceral experiences but this one? This one seems more intrigued by your introspections, by your thoughts and observations. It probes a little at the edges, but only to feel out the shape of you. Do you fit within its scope? Are you comfortable touching its bark? And, in turn, you can feel it reflecting those thoughts unto itself; is it comfortable with you? Could it shape around you? Back and forth, back and forth, like the swaying of boughs in a breeze - until, with a final breath of eucalyptus, it sighs itself back to eggy slumber. "I agree," Kopriva offers as a reply to Edric after a spell and only slightly distracted. It's followed by a smile that is far steadier. When there is a lull in approaching Candidates, she will help herself to some of the water too. Best to stay ahead of dehydration, as much as one can! Her gaze settles over the clutch again and there is a shift to her expression. Another passing frown of thought. "Maybe it's just me but … has the AWLM been approaching the same group of Candidates?" she notes, more in observation than growing concern. Pariisamith hasn't shifted, either in position or her mood and keeps up the ruse of 'dozing'. Larze isn't weyrbred either. So this is all. Extra. Very. Very Extra. His response to the -Naughty in Thy Sight Egg- is to utter a muffled grunt, hand flying up to his face to flap away at -nothing-, but clearly something. Unfortunately only he can see it. Loosing touch with the egg clears his head and he covers his beating heart. Sighing, he turns back to Maeyrra. "Thanks." Telling Brit off, or for the advice? "You should check out that egg—" He point to -The Curse of Mediocrity Egg-. "It /tastes/ like cookies!." With that, he waves to the girl and steps over to To Forsake Love for Power Egg. If this one has been an egg Maeyrra seems to favor, maybe it will be…not better, but differnt. Temptation arises in a slow sigh, a song that trickles in and tickles at the back of the mind. It gleams golden and watery, a treasure submerged, while a trio of maidens emerge from the waters, each more enticing than the last. Their song strengthens and shifts, tingling at the senses and plucking at all the desires and wants and hungers you might have - but then there's the gold. Treasure. Something that can be made useful. Which is the stronger lure for the likes of you? Which draws your interest more keenly? This seems to be of paramount interest to the one within, levying one temptation against another in equal measure. Take the gold and leave the women to their lament? Or will it be the other way? Forsake the power for the promise of love? The gold can't love you, after all. The treasure can't converse with you. But the gold will also never leave you. It will never fail you. It will never break your heart. Back and forth, back and forth, until the song shivers to a conclusion and the gold grows dull, fades, and all goes to black. "Brit and his buddies," Edric intones, lifting his chin to indicate the trio in question. "They're on latrine duty for the next seven." And likely longer, though the drum of Edric's fingers on his folio suggests some other thought left unsaid. "The AWLM has been keeping an eye on them for me." He tilts his head toward Kopriva, finally wresting his attention from the Sands to settle on the goldrider. "Of course, if your lifemate would prefer they be removed from the Sands, this can be arranged." Deadly neutral, his tone; it matches the eerie flatness of his eyes at this angle. As Weslyn withdraws from the mass of colors at his fingertips, he flares his nose as the eucalyptus scent still lingers around him. "Well, I don't know if you can hear the answers to your question if I say them aloud, but I feel like you can feel them. I will think about them and come back." Taking a step back, he turns around and finds himself standing before The Rule Them All Egg. "Well, let's see what you have to say," he tells the eggs as he continues the routine. Something glints and shimmers at the periphery of your thoughts, a fickle sort of temptation that lingers rather than fade. Desire for it builds and builds, intensifying with every second you catch sight of it, but what is it? Why does it compel you so? Do you have any answers for why it makes your chest feel tight and your stomach knot and your hands sweat? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, all you know is that you need it, yes; you need whatever it is and when you get your hands on it- ! Everything goes dark for a moment, then strange and swimmy, as if you were pulled into another realm for the span of a breath, maybe two. The promise of power resides in the illusory ring that gleams on your finger, a power so vast and so incredible that there are no words for it - and it's yours. All yours. What would you do with such power? With such limitless reach? But, no- no. No. It's not for you. Not yet. It's wrested from your grip and you're cast out abruptly, darkness shuttering down with an air of finality. "Oh no." Maeyrra goes wide-eyed at Larze's reaction, panic briefly flaring as she tries to- what? Block the AWLM from seeing him freak out? She does her best, anyway, with worry mounting all the more until everything seems to be okay again. Only then does she seem to relax, offering a murmured, "That one was okay," she means The Curse of Mediocrity Egg, "but it was cinnamon rolls for me." She moves on, indecisive, before she touches the egg Larze just left. Naughty in Thy Sight Egg, prepare for another challenger! Brit-and-buddies are Master-level manipulation experts. But that's Bitra Hold level, even if Thad and Thorne are second and third sons of the second son to Lord Bitra (allegedly). They charmingly appologize and then, with the sweetest of apperances, make shows of pet-petting the nearest egg to them. They aren't exactly disrespectful buuuut…clearly they have one or two eggs picked for themselves like they could just shop a dragonette, as they do with all other things in their life. Larze is pulling his hand away from the egg with a thoughtful expression. That certainly was different from the others. Just like the various colors. He's pushing sweat-wet hair from his brow when the word 'latrine duty' float down from the gallery as though some second sense can tell trouble is coming his way. His shoulders slump. The trio's punishment usually means two things for him. Neither great. He flashes Maeyrra a smile for her earlier 'saving' him from view and then when she talks of the cinnamon rolls. "Did you see gold in this one?" He notcies Weslyn, a familiar face since candidate can't really avoid eachother, but he wants to be able to touch at least one more before the queen gets fed up. The AWLM levels the ol' hairy eye on that trio again, but there's only so much to do when one of the younger candidates is quickly scrambling away from the eggs and making awful noises. "Not on the Sands, not on the Sands," and today's a fine day, for the young lad does make it to the entrance of the Hatching grounds before the heat and the eggs finally win the day. Someone is sent to get the boy some water and some of the other candidates take that as an opportunity to get some water of their own. Maeyrra scrunches her nose a bit at Larze, then offers Weslyn a quick smile and wiggle of fingers - facial familiarity accounts for much, even if she's not really met many of the others. To Larze, she replies, "The gold is really nice in that one," confirming his question, "but the other choice it gives-" her cheeks pinken, her nose crinkles, and she looks sheepishly away. "Which did you choose?" Not that she's looking at Larze, of course. Nope. She's got her eye on another egg, though it's hard to tell if it's A Fool's Gold Egg or Strange Fortune Egg. Another candidate near Weslyn chimes in with a murmured, "I think they don't even really need to ask anythin'. They just… know. Like, they can get in us all quick-quick to find out. The askin' is just them bein' nice." Which, given some of the eggs, maybe 'nice' isn't the right word for it. But, then, he's off to cautiously venture to another egg, even if touching feels a little weird; considering he's moving away from Rend The Flesh, Scar The Spirit Egg, it's probably understandable. Kopriva's frown deepens, mouth tipping to a thin line. "I see," she murmurs as Edric supplies all the information required. His deadly neutral tone is enough to pull her attention away and to him, though she does not balk. It's not directed at her, after all. Grimacing, she tilts her head slightly but a pause or so later? It shakes, however reluctant on her end. Did she discuss, then, with her other half? "If latrine duty isn't working… Perhaps something more?" Did she just suggest creative license to Edric? "I know bullying isn't — uncommon," Or tolerated, but she knows eyes and ears cannot be in all places at once. Personalities don't always mesh and disagreements are bound to surface in large groups — especially youths. "But the risk here," She nods to the Sands, but perhaps more to Pariisamith. "She is very tolerant. Pariisamith hasn't been troubled — but I don't know how she'll react if pushed. If it comes to it, then yes, remove them. Better they suffer the consequences than all of the Candidates." But? For now, Brit and his buddies have a tenebrous last chance. When one Candidate suddenly scurries away and the AWLM follows, Kopriva looks a touch sympathetic. Larze also lifts his hand to Weslyn before turning back to Maeyrra, his smile widening. "I'd pick the gold. I can't imagine my father's face if I gave him that gold. I'm…uh…don't know anything about the ….other." ahem. With cheeks flaming as bright as his unruely mop of curls, Larze turns to give -The Curse of Mediocrity Egg— a longer look. "I could wrap myself all around taht egg. It is…nice. But, guess we must make sure to touch them all, to introduce ourselves, yuh?" That stated, he heads for The Anguished Egg. It looks so blue and pretty and…"Oh!" He's already got his hand on the shell before he can think better of his choice. Emotion defines the moment of contact, as sadness ripples up from the depths and is chased with a measure of soul-deep agony. It's not pain, no; no, it's a kind of despair that has a color and a taste - steel-blue and coldly metallic, it suffuses the very flesh and bones of you. The taste of blood emerges moments later, filling your mouth, your nose, your everything. Such anguish fills you for so long that it feels like a lifetime - but, then, it eases, oh-so-slowly, in a steady flaking that leaves you free again. Was that worth it, for this chance? Is it worth it? This misery? This suffering? This agony of the heart and soul? Will it be worth it, in the end? This one doesn't have an answer, seeking only to know the sides of you that hurt and ache and bleed. It wants to see the hurt parts - because those are the ones that matter most, don't they? Anyone can behave with their best virtues on display when they're happy, healthy, and whole- but when they're limping and suffering? The questions linger even if contact doesn't and you're left alone once more. Shaking off the remnants of power and loss, Weslyn takes a deep, steadying breath as he leaves those whispers behind. "Sorry, power isn't something I want." But is there a slight hesitation in his steps as he moves away? Well, he will never admit that he could even have a chance at it. Passing by Maeyrra, he nods towards The Rule Them All Egg. "That one could have what ya looking for." Stopping at whatever egg is closes, he reaches out, his hand hovering before making contact with The Test Of One's True Character Egg as he braces himself for the probing depths of his own psyche. Then, with a gruff nod to himself, he lays his hand upon the ocean egg. You descend into the cold and wet and dark, where ghosts reside in shifting rows before a treasure that glints and glimmers. But it's not for you, no- no, that kind of treasure takes a certain kind of hand to get to it. You aren't the type for it. Or are you? What will you do to get what you want? What sort of man are you? What kind of person are you? The ghosts make their watery moans and the world shifts and shudders, but that treasure remains, glistening in its bed of gold. Will you lie? Cheat? Steal? Surely not, surely not- but, then, do you know yourself well enough to know how you'll do when untold riches await? Questions of character prickle under the skin, slithering as if with a mind of their own. Who are you? Who are you? Who are you? echoes until the vision fades and you are yourself once more - whoever you are, will be, and was. "I am not above stripping fools of their knots, Kopriva." Edric's tone is a thing of flat finality, free of cruelty; it's merely matter-of-fact. "But- that might not be entirely necessary." Not yet, anyway. Not yet. He settles in, his impassive regard shifted back to the Sands, even if he's still listening and present for the goldrider. "I am, of course, all ears for suggestions," which is very true; he might be a creative man in his own right, but he'll never deny the opportunity to learn something new - even if it's learning more of how others think and process things. "Oh, I don't-" but Maeyrra's protests fall away when Larze and Weslyn both go for new eggs. Whatever else she wanted to say is simply swallowed for later. Lips press flat for a moment and, while she seems to consider more eggs, the young woman blows out a breath, instead, and decides to acquit herself of the Sands before she suffers a fate like the other lad. He'll be fine, by the bye. Just needs some water, fresh air, and a reminder that this isn't a sprint, it's a marathon. Touching all the eggs in a day is a fool's game. "How often has that happened before? And for what transgressions?" Kopriva deflects for a little while longer, intrigue outweighing the need for now. She may not be looking at Edric, but there may not be need for it; instead her gaze drifts out over the Sands. Eventually, perhaps, with some enlightenment, she'll gather the courage to pitch a few suggestions — or work from any she may gain from the Headman. There she will likely remain in his company in the Galleries, pausing at times when Candidates venture in for snacks or water. She will likely not move from the Galleries unless it is required of her — or at Pariisamith's request or needs. "There are always a few," Edric explains, sipping his water and considering the candidates. But his voice pitches lower, to a murmur meant only for Kopriva's ears, and the conversation continues until there's no more conversation left to be had. The remainder of the Headman's time is spent focused and intent, with a purposeful weight to his regard as he observes the AWLM and candidates. Periodically, he'll hand over water and snacks for those that need it, but the faint glint of his lenses strikes a shiver in the hearts and spines of a few souls who have already crossed the man once. Faranth forbid they cross him again. The Usual Suspects aka Brit and his croanies, may hear that talk of extra latrine duty. Nothing new for them, they seem to have been given it a lot. Suspecious they never whine, or comment, about it. Brit turns to the gallery with a large, charismatic smile and wave-salute. Look at him, he isn't up to anything. He is the -best-. Kind to animals. Helps old ladies. You know the drill. After the salute-wave the trio make their departure from the sands, heading towards the gallery just behind Maeyrra. "Someone saw something perverted in an egg?" mocks Thorne, the big brute. FOr Larze though, he is caught in the emotions of the egg as his hands draw free. "You will hatch soon! I promise and then you wno't be alone!" Because really, that sort of -emotion- has to come from not finding a rider. Right? As he turns away, he's licking his lips, looking as though he has a mouth full of something foul. "Why don't you touch it and find out?" Maeyrra doesn't have enough guile in her to feign sweetness; she's hot, exasperated, and now the trio is getting in the way of her getting her water. "Maybe you won't get any of the fun stuff and it'll just be something boring." She'll find sanctuary in the sphere of Edric's influence, where she can sip her water and lock her eyes on the eggs to the exclusion of all else. Pulling his hand from the egg, Wes frowns down at it. "They really do seem to want to pull you into whoever is in there." Pushing up from his crouch, he looks across the sands again. "I think I need some time to think," he calls out to the AWLM before following the trio, Maeyrra, and whoever else has had enough of the heat for the day. Larze lingers. Thoughtful but tears brimming in his eyes, making his lashes dark and his freckled skin blotchy with emotion. After a bow to the sire and dam, he turns to the AWLM. "I'm going to head up. That's about it for me." He wipes at his eyes when a tear falls but it's followed by a second. He stays with his back to the gallery until he's composed himself. With a last sniffle, he turns and heads out. Unfortunately, redheads suck at hiding a crying jag. Grabbing water, he settles himself between the trio and his friend, Maeyrra. The clear warning that they will have to go through him to keep at her. If this also makes him the target of their silent and cleverly hiden jibes, so be it! When more candidates seem to be filtering away, the AWLM finally clears their throat and announces, "Okay, the lot of ya- get some water, get a break, then get back to chores after the lunch break." And, sure, there's a sense of knowing as some of the others are on the edge of overwhelmed, but the AWLM isn't going to call anyone out for the cracks that those eggs expose. All in all, it's a nice little reprieve from the late morning, perhaps, but there's no escaping the work that yet remains - not for the candidates nor the AWLM nor the Headman, who has to send someone out to clean up after the unfortunate soul that made a mess of the hatching entryway. With one batch of candidates seeking shelter, of a sort, in the galleries - where snacks and drinks and nervous conversations are had in ample quantity. Maeyrra has fallen into an introspective silence, some of the others are quietly exchanging notes. A few, however, perk up when the AWLM returns after a brief break, this time with a fresh batch of candidates. The rules are recited once more, with the Headman in the galleries offering only a slight nod as if to affirm that, yes, the rules will be enforced. The AWLM glances to the galleries and motions to the candidates there: "If any of you want to give 'er another go, you're welcome to it." A few scattered groans mark the ones least likely to participate for the rest of the day; for some, the lure of chores is stronger than the siren's song of fate's insidious whisper. Shuseran seems to have managed to sneak in in-between groups, so he salutes the dragonriders present then goes before sire and dam for respectful bows, then hangs back as a new group files in. Once they start milling about, Shuseran goes to the Let the Waves Hit Your Feet Egg and touches the soothing "waves" on the egg's surface, then fall to one of the "shoes", tracing it before recoiling as he realizes the images on the egg seem to include severed *feet* inside the "shoes". He manages not to break contact with the egg but already he dreads the feelings to come. Larze leans over so that his boney elbows rest on his knees. He's finished several refreshing glasses of water. Between that, some fruit and time, he's back to his usual self. Seated between Maeyrra and the goons of Bitra, he finally looks over at the girl. "Want another go? You going to stay up here?" The sensation of gently lapping waters rolls over your feet - as if they were bare, in fact. It sloshes and pulls, sucking a little as if to drag you just a little deeper into the sand. Just a little. It can't pull you in too far, after all - can it? But the water comes again, rising and falling, washing up to your ankles, then drawing back. Deeper and deeper you go, but it's not unpleasant, now is it? It's actually kind of nice, that heavy feeling. It's not unlike those moments before slumber takes hold and carries you off. And wouldn't that be nice? To get a nap? To drowse the day away? To be lulled into a false sense of security- oh. Wait, no, that's a terrible thought, isn't it? The egg's already revealed too much, it seems, and the waters draw back completely afterward, leaving your feet bare in that theater of the mind - and covered in spiderclaws that are fully intent on getting their claws on your ankles. It's already given you a taste of itself, surely you don't want to leave without leaving a piece of you, too? Clicky-clack go the claws and then the vision truly fades, leaving you whole - but, perhaps, a little itchy in the toes and ankles. Maeyrra shrugs a one-shouldered shrug and sucks her teeth a little. "I'll go if you go," she finally says, briefly shooting a narrow-eyed look to the Bitran buffoons (as she's deemed them in her head). "C'mon." Not waiting for much of an answer from her friend, she reaches to try to snare Larze's arm to gently tug him along while she makes her way down to the sands proper. Edric remains, of course, but he tracks the progress of the candidates from the corner of one cool, grey eye all the while. Shuseran pulls away from the egg uneasily, glancing down at his ankles to make sure there aren't any spiderclaws actually on them, looking at the sands around him. He does indeed reach down to scratch the ankles of both feet, giving one last look at the egg before turning to examine the rest of the clutch. Nearby, the grey, blue and white of the [Thunderfury, Blessed Egg of the Windseeker] catches his eye and he walks over, reaching out a finger unhesitatingly to trace the neon blue and white lines. Surely *all* the eggs can't be.. dark. Surely this one is better? It's not an easy path to follow sometimes, is it? To get to where you want to be, there's a lot of work. A lot of grinding. A lot of looting tunnelsnake butts. Wait, what? Where is that coming from? How about boar tusks? You're immersed in a strange world with a strange sense of barter, though the edges are too blurry to make any real sense of. All you know, with the dream logic you're granted, is that you need a lot of these boar tusks to give to… who? The names don't matter - do they ever, in a dream? For that's what this feels like, more and more - but you pass them on. The adventure continues, spanning hours and days and sevendays - until, at long last, you acquire your prize and hold it aloft. A mighty sword, a testament to your dedication and diligence, to your devotion for the cause! Behold, your works! Behold, your persistence! Behold- wait. Wait. Is that the sound of a massive beast thundering your way? Time to make a hasty decision: do you stand and fight? Or beat a retreat? Either way, the vision fades shortly after, your fate sealed only by your final choice. Larze will gladly go, as much to explore the sands again as to share the experience with a friend rather than the Trio. "Kiss-ass." "Brown Nose." "He thinks if he touches all the eggs he'll get luck. What a fool." The harmless retort comes to his back, bouncing off the tall lad like water off a duck's back. Instead, he gives Maeyrra a grin. "Okay, what one haven't you…tasted? I do not recomend that one with the 'face'." A shudder runs through him and a sadness fills his eyes at the memory. "That dragon really needs his, or her, rider." At least that's his thought of it. They are on the sands by then. Maybe Edric will hear the bros. Maybe the trio will end up on the sands after them. Who knows what fate will do. Larze bows to dragon parents and salutes the AWLM and waves to some, including Shuseran in that before scanning the area. "HOw about that one? It looks like a tunnlesnake, right?" He points to Reptile in the Refuse Egg but waits to see if his companion has other ideas, there are many eggs in that directon anyway. "I haven't touched most of them," Maeyrra admits with a shrug. "You touch something first. I'll find another one, I promise - but I'll avoid that one," she reassures, flicking a worried look to the one in question. She already has her eyes on a few nearby, but she'll wait for Larze to lay his hands on something before she sets her hands on another. There's a brief look to Shuseran for his egg choices, though - perhaps getting ideas of her own for other, future touches? Shuseran waves to Larze and Maeyrra, frowning as he hears the jibes thrown toward the taller lad. "Pay them no mind," he tells the other. "They're jealous. Stand tall, Larze. Be proud to be yourself." He means that in a positive way and hopes the young man will take it that way. He offers a smile to Maeyrra, altogether approving of the young woman's conservative manner of dress. He doesn't at all mind that she's a candidate. After all, golds do need riders, should there prove to be a gold among these eggs. He turns his attention back to the eggs, looking around before crossing over to the Ten Times Roond Egg. "This one looks rather like a tunnel snake too," he observes, tracing the silvery grey encircling the egg. Round and round the wrapping goes, as you're enfolded in the slippery coils of some great beast. It's so large, indeed, that all you know are the coils - oily and slick and iridescent in a sickly rainbow of hues. A perversion of draconic coloration, perhaps, but not unpleasant, either; it's a strange, warm embrace that doesn't feel especially malevolent. Then again, are any of them actually evil? No, this one seems to just want to know how durable you are. How strong is your will? Your constitution? Can you hold up to the pressure? To the knowledge that, when all's said and done, your life will be forever changed? Does that idea terrify you? Thrill you? Or are you ambivalent to the fickle whims of fate that somehow brought you here, to touch this egg, to experience the hold it already has? The clench of coils soon loosens, freeing you to catch your breath and return to the sands - but with questions that linger, like an oil slick on the soul. Larze nods his head to Maeyrra as he continues to the Reptile in the Refuse Egg , saying quietly, "There's always the one that smells like cinnamon rolls and cookies if you need it." He's not encouraged by the fact his fellow candidate isn't eager to repeat the egg touch but, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Hearing Shuseran, he rolls one lean shoulder, cracking a grin. "They just need a target. It ain't nothing." At least until they try to target someone he likes of course. "Dealt with way worse'n them." He looks at the egg indicated and then back to the reptile egg. "Maybe after this one." With that decided, he puts a hand on the egg he's reached at last, giving it a firm and careful touch. Sometimes, things aren't always what they seem. Safe places aren't quite as safe, when one's familiar enough with the shadows. The swish and slosh of water made thick with refuse of all sorts is only made worse by the knowledge that it shouldn't be that rhythmic, that… regular. Something stirs in the depths of this egg, but the nature of it doesn't manifest until you think it's calm- and only then does some great, unspeakable eye slide open, multiple sets of lids eventually revealing a phlegm-hued iris that blinks slow in its regard of you. Scales brush against your leg - no dragon, this, but perhaps some massive tunnelsnake? But how? Why? Who would do this? For this cannot be a natural event, no tunnelsnake could possibly get that big unless someone were feeding it- until you realize it's been nibbling at the edges of your thoughts already, assessing your responses, gauging your reactions, testing the depths of your emotional waters. A final nibble farewell and then it descends, sucking the dark and foul water away to leave you alone, alone, alone. The young woman offers Shuseran a quick smile. "It does. There are a lot of, um. Interesting ones." Maeyrra settles on the safe response, what with the gold resting just over there. She wets her lips and finally goes along to touch The Rule Them All Egg, with only a fleeting look to both Larze and Shuseran before she descends into her own moment of not-quite-zen. The meteorologist nods to Maeyrra. "Interesting is a polite way to put it. Are eggs always this.. umm.. grim? Some of these seem downright spooky. Can't tell this is my first time, can ya?" He grins, then turns back to the egg. "I'm looking for something too, you know," he whispers to it. "I want a dragon that isn't afraid to climb as high in the sky as we possibly can, and follow the winds from one side of Pern to the other. How about it? Are you that one?" Larze motions to Coils of Vengeance Egg as he looks around the sands. "That one has snakes as well. It has a very powerful sensation. Overwhelming, but not like some of the other ones. At least for me. I'm trying to decide if they 'speak' to everyone." He shrugs though, because what could he, a poor cotholder know of the way of dragons? Shuseran's question makes his eyebrows lift and pinch together in question. "I couldn't tell or nuff'n. You didn't fall down or run out crying." The expression stays in place as the other candidate speaks of what he'd seek for in a dragon. He has nothing to offer. He hasn't really thought of it in terms of what he's 'like'. With that in mind, he moves to Longhorns on a Lagomorph Egg and touches the bovine marking, or what looks like a bovine anyway. How scary can a bovine be? Psh. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Something lands smack dab in the middle of your existance and there's no easy way to get rid of it. It waxes philosophical as it leans into your space, all improbable fluff and statistically unlikely horns. It shouldn't exist and it knows that - but you shouldn't, either. It's all a grand, cosmic fluke, after all. An accident of the stars. But, now that you're here and it's here and you're both here together, you might as well give it a good scritch behind those long, long ears. It's no bovine as things turn out - no, it's more like a large, horned furbeast that hops, rather than strides. It turns a canny eye your way and winks. Think on it a while, won't you? How amazing it is that two motes of stardust can cross paths - and never give it a second thought. Wonderful, isn't it? It hops along and leaves you with the memory of fur and fuzz that tickles the nose, puffing up dust in its wake until all the world's sand and shell again. "It's my first time here, too," Maeyrra admits to Shuseran with a sheepish scrunching of her nose. "But I've heard some of them are, um. Well, they can be like that. Though, that one," she points to Sweet as Hunny Egg, "isn't as, um- dark? And that one," The Curse of Mediocrity Egg, "is really nice." She can't speak for the egg, alas, and if it has an answer, it's so quietly whispered that no one can hear. What she does know is, "They do that with all of the candidates, though. I don't think I've heard of an egg that doesn't speak like that." "I've touched several I didn't mind so much. The ship-looking egg wasn't bad and I liked that kind of solid grey-brownish one over there," Shuseran tells them. A frown from the assistant weyrlingmaster reminds Shuseran to move on and let someone else touch this egg, so move he does, wandering about a bit before finally coming to a stop in front of the This Egg Has Such Sights to Show You egg. A puzzle! Puzzles are good. Intriguing. He reaches out to touch a part that appears as if he could push it in. Of course it's unyielding, but still, intriguing. He traces the puzzle on the egg's surface. It really does look as though he should be able to… A touch here, a stroke there and, with a sharp, metallic *click* - all is revealed. The puzzle snaps together and all is promptly undone, as wave after wave of powerful emotions slam into you with complete disregard for your personal comfort. Rage and bliss, misery and joy, lust and anguish and undiluted serenity. Each crashes hard against against the barriers of the mind, trickling past your protections to find their way inside. Which ones leave the brightest stain? Which ones soak your heart? For those, those become the hooks that wrench you aloft, holding you hostage for a mind that's too alien to comprehend. Shocked and dazed by the dizzying torrent of emotional overload, there's only a peripheral awareness of being flayed open, exposed, revealed to the very bones of who you are to a creature that surely cannot know what it is looking at. Or does it? What does it seek? What will it find? Judgment burns as it considers you, weighs you, studies you - and then, a moment later, releases you with a whisper of chains and a final, razor-sharp touch. You return to your body and find that it is unscathed - but the mind? The mind will not survive without something being changed. Will you find it? Will you know what is altered? Or will you forget, like all the others before? Larze's mouth gawks open in the wonder's this particular egg is showing him. A big, toothsome smile, too wide for his face, spread wide. "Wow." He squeezes closed his eyes, finger splaying wider and wider but no….it seems the image is fade. Gone. "Dangit." He opens his eyes and grins around him. There's a young, haggard looking candidate that he motions over to the egg. "Try this one," he whispers, stepping back. He waits to see what happens with the kid, moving a step to the neighboor egg, By A Hair Egg is right there and waiting and Larze finally fully focuses on the egg to give it respectful attention, running both hands lightly across the shell. What's it like, to be where you are? Comfortable? Safe? Secure? That doesn't feel the best, though, does it? Not when there's so much more you could do? When you have so much potential? Perhaps, this one wonders, you might like a nicer seat. A more luxurious spot. A spot more befitting of someone with your destiny. How does that feel? Soft? Plush? Silken? Oh, but pay no mind to the gleaming blade that hangs overhead. It won't hurt you, unless you do the wrong thing. You aren't the type that will do the wrong thing… are you? The sword sways, jewels glittering bright against the gloom. Do you dare rise? Run? Or do you stay and wait to see what happens? For, in the end, it's like all the other touchings - the connection breaks and the ending is left for your own mind to fill in, at the end. Shuseran breaks contact abruptly with the puzzle egg, *staggering* away from it. He stops to steady himself then moves quickly to the water station, sagging against a wall, looking back at the egg with alarm written on his features. Is that *really* what it would be like, bonded to a dragon? Finally he composes himself enough to take a proffered water, splashing some on his face to cool himself off, then drinking the rest slowly, looking at all the eggs. After a few minutes rest and rehydration, he goes back out to the Sands once more, this time approaching the furry looking Grimalkin's Legend Egg. Is that a purr he's hearing? He almost expects this egg to be warm and soft to the touch. Warm it is, but isn't everything on these sharding hot Sands? Soft, furry, it is not. He caresses the stripey looking egg. You can feel it when your fingers touch shell - and maybe it is a trick of the mind, but it does feel like the shell is vibrating a little. There's a faint purring sound, one that reverberates through you, and it feels warm. Restorative. Comforting. A lot like having an old feline curled up on your chest, refusing to let you get up. Ignore your bladder; the feline's needs come first and the feline needs sleep. But with it comes a growing awareness, that the creature that's here is keenly aware of you. The cadence of your breath. The beat of your heart. The smell of you. The taste of you. Oh, don't ask how it knows what you taste like. That's a question with uneasy answers all around, isn't it? But is this what you want? What you think you want? For your desires to be subsumed by those of another? Would you sacrifice your desires, your hopes, your dreams at the altar of one that will alter you forever and for a day? Or more? One eye opens, golden and mirror-sheened, to hold you in its regard for what feels like an eternity. And then it's gone, rising to its feet in a fluffed up arch, traipsing down your belly - and, like any feline, its paw finds your bladder and suddenly it feels like it weighs as much as a dragon before it launches off and vanishes in a mist of sparkling dust. Alone, again. Alone. Larze is quite introspective as his fingers slide away from the egg before him. He narrows his eyes. "Never seen such…things….." His lips tighten and he goes to re-settle his hands on it but his fingers twitch into fists and he steps back, bowing politely at the beautiful, dangerous egg. He turns to look at Shuseran, frowning slightly at his response. He has an 'are you okay?' expression but he's not going to shout it across the sands. As it seems that the egg's messages and images don't keep him from trying another, he moves towards the Unassuming Double Edge Egg. Perhaps this one will be likewise dangerous and deadly. His hands trace the wood and steel, explore the feathers as well. The twist of a blade sends you spinning - not to your own demise, as it might initially seem, but flung into another world entirely. It's a strange place, all metal and glass, one that shines and pulses and glows. The people are strange and the customs are stranger still, but what else are you to do? Do you blend in? Do you hide out? Do you seek shelter with others like you, flung from one world to another? There are so many ways to approach the problem that presents itself, so many ways to resolve the mystery. And time spins wild and long and longer still - until, at long last, the way home is revealed again. But here, too, there is a choice - a choice no less important than the others: would you stay where your name has no history, no weight, no power? Or will you go where you can make your name mean something? Or do you stay in the shadows forever, your legend unwritten while you skulk amongst strangers? So many possibilities, yes. So many - and all the choices are yours. Must be the water he just drank. Must be. Shuseran shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, trying to decide if a visit to the privy is in order or if it was just the purring egg making his bladder feel quite full. Surely he's sweating the water out and doesn't really need to go? Yes, that's it. As he retreats from the feline-looking egg, he's feeling more normal again. He almost trips over another egg as he's backing away from the moggy egg and he turns in time to stumble into The Walled-In Lovers Egg, scrunching up his eyebrows and frowning at what looks like skeletons. His hand reaches out automatically to balance himself, touching the "wall" on the egg's surface. Is there nothing more powerful than love? As an emotion? A force of nature? It surges through you, singing through your veins and strumming your nerves, filling you with the butterflies and joy of newfound love and affection. Limerance might be more accurate for this fleeting feeling, but for now? Here? With this egg? It is a love that is so intense and singular that it feels forbidden. It's a love that cannot be. That should not be. And as it grows in intensity, the walls start to come up as they must. But is it to shelter you? Or to protect its growing hearts? Is this love for you? Or is it merely trying to reach past you, to find something else? Have you ever been in love? Known its depths? Felt its sorrows? Have you ever had a broken heart? The last stone is soon set and the passionate intensity fades quickly, drifting into the realm of memory with a thin rose veneer and a hazy fondness that will fade further with time. Larze looks troubled by this egg. Deeply troubled. Choices offered and both of them…troubling. His brow is wrinkled as he walks through the eggs he's already touched and explored. Larze lets his gaze linger lovingly on the simply white egg surface of the -The Curse of Mediocrity Egg-. "Would that one might wait for me there. Smelling like cookies." He grins at this fantasy and ends up before the Sweet as Hunny Egg. His friend Maeyrra didn't offer great results but…he has to know. Oh, hey, hun! HI THERE! Your mind is barraged with bright colors and strange symbols, like smiling faces, clapping hands, and anatomically incorrect hearts. Don't you want to know everything this one has to offer? Of course you do! It's a once-in-a-lifeteime opportunity, you know? You just need to sign here and here and here and- oh, sorry, sorry, yes, maybe this one should explain just what the deal is, but that would ruin the scam- er, surprise. As it falters on its sales pitch, the desperation underneath is exposed, gleaming like sunbleached bones. All it knows is that it needs someone - just one more person to agree to do what it needs them to do and then, and then- but, who would be willing to buy up such massive quantities of supplies? And why would they need to be sold after they were already bought and- as more questions emerge and holes are poked into its little balloon, the inhabitant retreats to retool its approach. Next time, yes… next time, you'll sign up, if it's the last thing it does… Shuseran looks surprised and thoughtful about the message from the walled-in skeletons egg. He *hasn't* had any great loves in his life thus far. That's an.. interesting egg. He's not sure he's ready for that great a love, though. Too many things he wants to do. Too many things to discover without including a love. Besides, too many of the women around here are clearly unsuitable. He shakes his head, then glances back at Maeyrra again. Would that more of them would be like her! He gives her an encouraging smile before turning to another egg. This time his gaze and his feet take him to an opulent egg, in shades of crimson and purple. It looks almost velvety, sumptuous. He reaches out to caress the By A Hair Egg, drawn to its luxuriousness. Are you happy where you are? Comfortable? Do you enjoy your secure spot in society, knowing you can do what must be done in relative comfort? Or do you crave something more? Something greater? A taste of a certain kind of power, perhaps? Like the power a Lord Holder wields over his people? Of a Weyrleader over the Weyr? A true Mastercrafter over the craft he's dedicated his whole life to? Surely you must, or you wouldn't be here, touching this one. A seat is offered, one that's beyond comfortable and verging on obscene; it's bliss, that cushion, that fabric, that coolness. Just don't look up, where something gleams, balanced precariously on a long strand of something thin and fine and easily cut. Don't move quickly, now. No, no. Just sit a while, for this one wants a good, long look. But how long will you stay? Will you flee? Or will you stay until the very end, when the strand is cut and that sharp edge comes rushing down? Only you and the egg will know how you choose and what path you will take - and only the egg will know how it judges you for that choice. She's been around a while, now, poor Maeyrra has, but she's starting to look a little ragged 'round the edges. The young woman offers a fleeting smile to Shuseran, one that's extended to Larze, but she's soon stepping away in a bid to redo her braid and eye the not-so-distant offerings of water. Maybe there's a murmured, "I'll be back," but it could be some other candidate whispering to an egg before they move on. Larze looks deeply confused as he steps away from the eggs. "Okay, that one is different." So was the one before, but in very different ways. He lifts his hand to Maeyrra and looks disapointed that she's off, but who can blame her? Some of these eggs are rough. Painful even. He blows out a breath and turns slowly to see how is leeft out here and what eggs he might not have touched and which he might risk. He gives Shuseran a nod and watches a moment to see how he'll like that egg before moving to The Ageless My Sins Will Never Touch Me Egg He's seeing the handsome man image in the shell and doesn't notice much else as he lays his hand on it. Of course, as soon as you touch the shell, something fundamentally changes; it's your face that you see, in those imagined brush strokes. Your face and yours alone. Was it always there? Surely not, or you'd have seen it before. Or would you have? Either way, there's a feeling of age that creeps up on you, an awareness of lifetimes passing and all that collected knowledge gathering within your mind. And, yet, you still look like you. You feel like you. A youth, but with the wisdom of generations. What would you give to live forever? What would you sacrifice to see the world grow and change while you remain young? Of course, nothing is without consequences and, even as you consider the very idea, grief hits you. Over and over and over again, like a barrage of little hurts built up over time. Would it be worth it to see your loved ones die before you? To know that every love you gain will be a love lost to time? This one picks 'round your thoughts delicately, prying them open with the wooden end of a paintbrush before, at long last, you are released again, with the shell being as it was before and all that knowledge gone, gone, gone. "I want more, yes, but I don't think what I want involves comfort," Shuseran murmurs to the red and purple velvet egg. "More like hard work and a lot of hours of flying. I'll pass on your chair, red egg." With a pat, the starcrafter leaves that egg, looking at Larze. "Which egg was that you say is different? They're all so unique, these. Except they all seem to want to have you look at yourself, you know? I suppose that's not a bad thing. I feel like I'm showing my innermost person to the dragons within them. It's just.. odd, this feeling. J'ever wonder what all of them," he indicates the full dragonriders around the Sands, "felt when *they* touched eggs, when they were candidates?" He jerks his head toward Maeyrra. "She okay?" She'll be fine - her braid's redone and she's shaking her hands out, but the AWLM veers her way anyway to check in on her. Maeyrra answers whatever question's asked of her and the AWLM nods, ultimately gesturing her up to the galleries, where water awaits. She does look a bit sweaty and red-faced - but aren't they all, by now? The AWLM turns their attention to the candidates that linger - for there are still quite a few, though their numbers have been slowly dwindling through the attrition of heat, overwhelm, and a general unease of having so many eyes on them. But, for now, there's no call to clear the sands just yet. Shuseran looks heartened when the AWLM doesn't give that jerk of the head that means time to leave. He turns back to the eggs, looking around for one he hasn't touched yet. So many! Surely this is a large clutch? Being his first time living at a Weyr, though, he doesn't know for sure, though he's heard that clutches are always larger just before and during a Pass. Let's see now.. he looks around. He's more drawn to blues and greys, but the grassy look of the Perpetual Hunger Egg catches his attention. It looks so out of place on the Sands, as though a small oval of grass somehow managed to grow in all this hot sand! Whimsical. That's it. He reaches out to touch the egg, tracing a fingertip up one of the "blades of grass" on the shell's surface. It's so lush, isn't it? And, by now, the illusion of actually touching grass is nothing so unusual or strange, not after all the other experiences you've had so far. It feels real enough. It feels nice. Pleasant. It even smells nice! Just a perfectly normal patch of grass where an egg is. Except, well, we all know it's not really grass, just a trick of the mind. And even if it were grass, it wouldn't be this supple and green and luxurious. It also wouldn't leave a tingling sensation where you touch it. Oh, is that new? Yes, the longer you touch, the more it feels like it's- well, nibbling? Licking? What is that sensation? It builds and grows, becoming more and more intense until the tingle turns into a full on caustic experience, as if it fully intended on eating your hand, instead of doing whatever it was doing. It just wants to get to know you, even if its methods are unorthodox. But is it so strange, in the end? Is it so odd? All it wants to know is if you're a good fit for it, just as you surely want to know if it will be a good fit for you. When contact breaks, the grasses wilt, and it fades away to nothing - just some dried blades of grass, rattling in an imaginary wind. Larze shakes himself slightly away from the The Ageless My Sins Will Never Touch Me Egg. He blinks away the questions and focuses on Shuseran, offering a more serious question. "Huh? Oh, she might need to process some of the things. I feel it too. Getting my head too full and…some of them…linger." He glances warily at a particular egg….** Be Careful What You Wish For Egg ** . "That one is…something…." Frowns, seeming to be willing that egg to do something. "Anyway…never thought about this …ever a'fore. What this experience would be like." When asked what egg he likes, he motions to the The Curse of Mediocrity Egg "That one. A dragon like -that-…It's probably not right to say it though." As the other candidate resumes touching and no one calls them off the sands, he dares another one. THis time, it's the Patched Luck Egg that he attends to, a fingertip first exploring before his palm flattens lightly over the top. Bold colors and strange designs emblazon themselves in your mind. They come on slowly, the patterns fitting themselves with care in the 'scape of your mind, as if picking shapes and colors that make you feel safer. Protected. For that's all this one wants to do, really; to shield you. Shelter you. You've seen such horrors already, haven't you? You've had quite the adventure, lad! Quite the adventure! And, now, you're here, in a place of relative comfort. Oh, the walls may creak and the bed needs to be stuffed again, but it's not so bad. The blankets smell sweet and the woodstove works just fine to make cakes and breads and stews. It's the kind of safe, comfortable place a man could make a life of. The kind of shelter that one could find restoration in. A place of hopes and dreams and the knowledge that nothing bad can happen here. But only here. Safety isn't guaranteed once you set foot out that door - and you must, because a man can only stay so long in one place before the rest of the world comes a-calling. The memory will remain even as the vision fades, leaving you back to yourself once more. Shuseran says, "Shards! I don't think I'll ever look at a beast eating *grass* the same way again." Shuseran yanks his hand away right as the contact breaks off from the green egg. He shakes his head, looking around at the other eggs. He hasn't touched any of the golden eggs yet. He wipes the sweat from his brow as it threatens to drip down into his eyes— again—, and looks at The Rule Them All Egg. Surely that's an illusion? Something around the middle seems almost like glowing lines. The starcrafter doesn't recall seeing that on the egg before? He could have sworn it was a uniform golden color. Must be the heat of the day playing tricks on his eyes. He's due another water break right after this, if he's seeing things. First, though, a touch to this one. The moment you touch this egg, you can feel it. There's something here that you want. Desperately. You need it like water and air and food. You need it like sleep. You need it. But where is it? How can you find it? You fumble in the dark until you find it - a golden ring, gleaming and perfectly fitting to your finger. Do you dare put it on? Of course you do. It's your ring, now. It's always been yours. And, when you do, you're drawn into a hazy nether realm, where all the others seek you out. They want to take what's yours. None of them can have it, because it's yours and you found it first and how dare they- but that desperate grip on a singular piece of this egg leaves you blinded to the rest, doesn't it? Leaves you oblivious to the ways in which it learns about you, your mind, your thoughts, your very being. And, in the end, it knows more about you than you do about it - even as it plucks that ring away and casts you out into the void of the world. Back to your body, back to your mind, and away from that strange, dangerous ring. Larze stays next to the Patched Luck Egg for far too long. He lets out a soft, almost mournfall sigh as he is encouraged to move away by a small girl from Boll who has taken the knot. He steps back and then heads for the galleries for water. There's no way he's going to wreck the images from that egg with some horrorshow like last time! "THank you." He bows to dragons and salutes the riders and makes his way off after his gulps of water. "Maybe I can get a swim at the lake before getting back to chores…" his voice trails as he goes. Shuseran blinks, feeling his ring finger, looking down in alarm. Nothing there. Was there ever? Yet it feels… naked now. Like something *should* be there. He shakes his head. The only ring he's ever worn is there there on his index finger, where it always is. It's definitely time to go, if he's seeing things *and* feeling things. He goes over to the Wingleader and gives her a salute, then turns to the others for the same. He goes to the AWLM. "I think I've had enough for today. The heat is getting to me. I'm for a nice cold fruit juice from the kitchen. Thank you. I'll report for my evening chores as soon as I stop seeing things. And feeling them." He salutes here as well, and turns to go, disappearing into the dazzling sun of the Weyrbowl. "Okay, it's that time," with the midday meal - or is it dinner, now? - drawing nigh, some have been here for quite a while indeed and the AWLM is keenly aware of that. "Go get a break and leave them eggies alone. They need a nap, same as we all do." And, with that, the remaining candidates are ushered off. In the galleries, Maeyrra waits for Larze and Shuseran to depart and she'll eventually follow, though likely not to get a swim - she just wants to escape for fresh air, even if if it's not much cooler. Edric, in the galleries, finally rouses himself to stand, while assistants and other candidates are quick to collect the goodies in the galleries to take them to the living cavern. And Khu? She's been here, yes, but like a ghost - she's taken her notes, studied the eggs, and is gone like the refrain of a half-remembered melody that can never quite be caught. Eggs: Thrice Touched, Thrice Cursed has 0 comments. |
03 Mar 2024 05:00 |
Edric, Khu (Cameo), Kopriva & Pariisamith, Larze, Shuseran, Weslyn, NPCs: Helpful AWLM (tm), Brit, Thad, Thorne, Maeyrra |
More eggs are touched. |
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I Can Be Yours I Can Be Yours
I can teach somebody that is willing to learn. But you have to be committed to it. Steen's Spirits First and foremost, while this building may be open to the public, the vast majority of the floor space has been dedicated to the actual production process. From the entrance, several stills and a few work tables are visible, along with shelf upon shelf of glass storage, but access to this area is blocked by a large skybroom counter. A small bell jingles as the door is opened to summon a worker for assistance. Orders can be placed immediately, or for those indecisive, a small sitting area with a few tables has been set up to the side. Not more than a dozen could probably sit in the tasting area, but the chairs are comfortable and the tables are always as spotless as the rest of the building is. It is the forty-sixth day of Summer and 110 degrees. A cloud appears on the horizon, familiar to Igen natives, swelling across the blue skies quickly. Sand blows across the weyr, pelting everyone and everything until it blows itself out. The fine sands, raised by the strong winds, penetrates the ears, eyes, nose, and throat. It's been at least a seven since the Bazaar stampede and effects are still being felt. At least in this particular corner of the bazaar said effects are mainly felt by Ramita and her broken arm, tucked up in a sling. She's not letting the injury keep her from her duties but her employees may wish it were as the pintsized vintner hovers near the lad that's just trying to make sure the tubers are good and pulverized before being set to ferment. "You did make sure to take out any eyes, Yugan?" The question gets a roll of the teen's eyes but confirmation yet again that he did, before she turns and goes to haunt the front counter. Like a ghost Merita slips in quietly on little kitty paw feet. Well practically like one. Shes silent though as she watches and listens, her eyes flicking to her moms broken arm, though there were some benefits to that little disaster. Her eyes head to the potatoes and there's a thoughful look on her face. "Vodka?" she asks out of the blue as she slips over to Ramita. "That is the plan," Ramita answers, though the skeptical look she shoots back to poor Yugan she may be doubting the result. "Considering that's the base for most of what we sell would think they would be used to making it by now…. not ask for proportions five times before getting started." With a nod Merita purses her lip a little "Is it really that hard to remember the proportions?" She asks after moment "Doesn't it stay the same, if you increase or decrease the amount you're making?" There's a curious look on her face as she wonders over towards Yugan to look at the potatoes. Ramita confirms Merita's question not with any verbal feedback but a small nod (and even the smallest of smiles) and a glare back at the worker. Even a child can get it. "If we were using wheat or the desert cactus to start, those would be different." And as the girl walks over towards the workstation she doesn't stop her or prevent Merita from inspecting Yugan's work but instead asks, "Merita, can you tell me what the basic steps are for making vodka?" Merita hmms thougfully and nods as listens and then she blinks at the question. The basics? She casts a sideloing glance at her mother "Well, you need clean potatoes, because it can affect the flavor and what was it called, clearness?" She frowns and shakes her head, no thats not it. Oh well "You cut em up so that's there's more parts of the potato and you boil them, then you strain them and mash them and then there's more water on them and you cook them and then there's some time of grain added I think and it's cooked ome more and then it's sits and then you use the liquid and ferment it with yeast, and then it gets distilled and then there's something else done to it, I remember that there was different names and all, but I forget." "Clarity," Ramita offers and nods along. "There can be multiple distillations as well, and the filtering. Infusing is an optional later step." A hand waves to where she has some concoctions steeping with some of the bazaars hottest peppers. "Maybe I should put you to doing Yugan's work. Though that would require investing in a stool…" There's a quiet little ah sound and Merita repeats "Clarity" under her breath. "Infusing? That's putting in the flavors?" A glance over to whats steeping an a little nod to herself. There is a look of interest at the thought of doing Yugan's work. "Could I?" she asks quietly, after all that would be so much better than just watching whats being done. And as for the stool there's a sidelong gkance at her mother and a cheeky little grin "I could use yours." "Yes, because while there is beauty in simplicity, not everybody can appreciate the subtle signs of excellent craftsmanship," Ramita says as she beckons her daughter back over to her and out of the worker's way. "And it can be an interesting exercise to find new combinations of flavors that pair well together." And as for the girl's ask of could she, Ramita gives a thorough look at her daughter, the sort of stare usually reserved for when determining which of the siblings may have done a misdeed that had been unfessed up to. "You just had your turnday, did you not?" The stool for the moment forgotten. There is no fessing up to misdeeds, because it's not a misdeed if you're not caught, right? However, at the question of the turnday Merita blinks "Yeah." she says at the change of direction "Not too long ago." She eyes her mother oddly, could she have forgotten that easily? "Why?" She asks after a moment getting a quite interested look in her eyes. Speculative? Perhaps. Benden? A brief look of panic before Merita's face takes on a neutral look, free of emotion. "Benden? You want to send me there?" she asks after a moment. "Doesn't it rain a lot there?" She asks with a bit of a look of horror. She might melt or something. At the panic, Ramita places a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "Benden would have to be something you want. Something you'd have to commit to, succeed at it. Because if you go away, coming home is never so easy. It's not the same as what you left. Or you're not the same. So you're not wanting to go away to become an apprentice. Are you wanting to truly apprentice here? Or were you just wanting to work in the shop, like Yugan there. Mix when told to mix, earn a bit of pocket marks of your own?" There's a sidelong glance at Yugan and then there's a shake of her head as Merita responds "I don't just want to mix when told to mix." There's a glance towards the infusing "I want to create, I want to make something, I want to make something unique." She starts to smile a little "I want to do more then just whats needed doing. I know that I'll have to start out doing whats needed doing, but I do want to do that here." There's a pause and a glance at her mother. "I can learn here, can't I?" She glances down at the floor and scuffs "If, if you don't." She stops, swallows a little and then looks up, squaring her shoulders "I won't be a bother to you, I can find someone to umm, teach me." She stops again and glances at her mother "But I uh, I wouldn't be adverse if you would want to well, pass on your secrets?" She looks hopeful, her eyes imploring. "I have been looking for good apprentices," Ramita admits though she's still keeping her dragonpoker-face on and all these decades in the bazaar has ensured she has a good one. "I can teach somebody that is willing to learn. But you have to be committed to it. There will be no slacking, no leeway given just because you are my daughter. You can ask your brother. There's a reason why he doesn't have an apprentice knot. And there's a good deal of basics to learn before any secrets will be entrusted to your care." Merita scoffs a little at the mention of her brother "I'm not scared of work." she states and theres a grin "I do want to learn, I mean, to create I have to know what not to do, don't I? And I'm not Demitren." she says quietly, a secretive little look on her face and then it's gone if it was ever there since there's a smile now "I'm not afraid of the scut work that apprentices get." Who has she been talking too. "It's not like shoveling manure or anything, or getting covered in runner slobber." "Disposing of the mash can be plenty fragrant, I assure you," Ramita promises with a wicked little grin of her own. "And no, you are not your brother. This will be more work, more responsiblity, and much earlier hours. In addition to keeping up your harper lessons. But prove yourself and more rewards as well." Eventually she will have to pass down the shop to someone in the really long term rewards, after all. "I'll notify the Hall." Another thoughful look crosses Merita's face, she never did think about disposing of the mash and watching that. Well, be that as it may. "How much earlier?" she asks curiously "Earlier then dawn or there abouts?" She asks after a moment "I mean dawns been pretty eassy to do these last few days." Then she blinks, casts a look at her mother and then doesn't elucidate on that "I'm not afraid of work, and well I've been responsible with my kitty and all, and, " another brief pause " and doing harper lessons isn't a hardship." "Earlier indeed, since you truly don't want to be tending to the distillations during the heat of the day if you can avoid it," Ramita certainly knows from experience there. "And we'll be doing that before you then go to your other classes." And then there will be homework for both as well. "You handwriting has always surpassed Demitren's." not that it's that hard. "That does make sense, it does get pretty hot in the middle of the day." she tilts her head a little "Has it ever gotten too hot for the distillations? Does it make batches go bad?" she asks curiously. It's something she hadn't really thought about but now that she thinks about, still, there's that little remark about Demitren and she grins "Well, he'd rather be out doing other things inside of doing something as boring as writing." "Fire is still hotter than the temperature gets even on Igen's hottest day," Ramita assures. And then an eyeroll for the mention of her son's desire to do other things. "He can run errands for his grandfather with that attitude." The one that spoils him mercilessly and enables it anyways. A little not at the mention of fire being hotter "That's true." She doesn't say anything about grandfather, after all, she's just a girl. But she'll have a knot and Demitren won't. So chalk one up in her favor. Enough about him "So, it's okay then? You'll take me on as an apprentice?" she asks, just confirming and all and making sure it's all real. "And no special treatment expected." "Yes, I'll take you on as my apprentice," Ramita confirms with a nod. "It's quite common. Parents training their children. From time to time you may have additional courses with some of the other vintners in the bazaar, to broaden your experience. But primarily you'll still be in my charge. A reflection of my work, more than most apprentices are." She bears the family name after all. "And given time, you'll need to submit your own work to the Hall in order to walk the tables." she has no control on that besides confirming she thinks the apprentice will be ready. "We'll have to best to offer people all made under our own hands." Merita says with a bright grin and then there's a thoughful look "Does it have to stay vodka? Or can I work on something else." She asks curiously though there's a pursed look to her lips as if nt quite sure what she would work on. Then a shrug, time enough to think on that. "I won't disappoint you mama." she says in a very soft voice as she looks at her mother "Or should I say Journyman now?" "It'll mostly be vodkas, especially to start. Tubers are more efficient. Grain isn't grown here after all," Ramita points out the reason why her main product is tuber-based. "But you'll learn the rest. And we do make some other spirits on occasion." Like the partnership with Topiltzin for the desert cactus brew. "And Journeyman when we are working." And in the shop probably consists of working. "Yes, Journeyman." Ooo, thats almost kinda fun to say. Merita nods a little as she files away to little tidbits. "Is there any special restrictions on clothing, or types of clothing that is better to wear while working? Kinda like the smiths and their heavy aprons when at their.. at their." she stops blinks as she loses the word for a moment "Their forge!" Ah ha, she remembered and then blushes a little at the outburst. "Clean, clearly," Ramita says. "You'll still stick to the family colors." And a wave up to her own headcovering as well, so presumably that is safe too. "Washing your hands frequently and no loose sleeves. No sandals." Sticking her foot out to show the boot she grins "Boots are safer than sandals." Merita says with a sage nod as she puts her foot back down. "Cactus needles hurt when they poke you in the toes, and I certainly don't want to do what Fergi did." she shakes her head a little "I didn't think someone could pick up both feet at the same time, but he did when he stepped on a cactus with one foot and then the other." A little pause and a surpressed giggle. "He then ended up umm sitting on it. I learned then and there to not try and save my footwear when it does rain and get mucky. Nope. Never gonna walk out there without protection on my feet." Ramita smiles but shakes her head. "It's more that we work around a lot of glass. Some of it breaks." It's a fact of life, at least for the craft they have both now chosen. "But yes, it is also wise not to walk without shoes in the desert as well." Yes glass, she knew that. Really. "Yeah, glass in the foot is not fun." Merita is quiet a moment and looks around the place, seemingly with new eyes and then a little sigh. Her mom did mention keeping up with Harper lessons and she sighs a little "I guess I had better get going so I'm not late for seeing the harper, I'm to help with a couple of the younger ones with their sums and all. So, start in the morning, yes? And here or?" She's a little nervous now with this new direction she's taking and wants to get off on a good foot and all." Ramita laughs at that. "I'll see you from the house. At least tomorrow. There will be days when we have differing schedules but if we are going to be in the same place at the same time, it doesn't make sense to act like we weren't coming from the same starting spot after all. Do well in your classes, Merita." And as she leaves she might be able to catch the faintest sound of her mother humming as she wipes at the counter. I Can Be Yours has 0 comments. |
02 Mar 2024 06:00 |
A day at the shop leads to major change between this mother and daughter, and a new relationship of journeywoman and apprentice. |
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A Late Bite A Late Bite
"Interested in a cool snack?" Living Caverns Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. It is the forty-sixth day of Summer and 101 degrees. It is a hot, miserable night. Dinner rush: Over. What does that mean? After dinner rush! Because the weyr never sleeps. This is the time for the late evening riders to come in and busy crafter break free. It is also the time for candidates to be helping the kitchen staff putting out late-evening-snacks/dinner. Larze carries out a tray laden with fresh hand-sammiches and some sort of sweet-pastry offering. With ill grace, he tries to set up the food service but, it's a tricky task for the candidate. Ceris was on a roll! When you get into the zone crocheting, you don't interrupt that calming and productive rhythm unless you have to. One winter afghan blanket later, and the journeyman weaver finally breaks herself free for whatever evening foods might be available. Could she have made something for herself at the shared oven? Perhaps. Instead, however, there's the cool cavernous indoors, away from the heat of the Bazaar, even the heat of her journeyman quarters, where she no longer has to roast under the heat of the sun and skeins-worth of yarn in her lap. Ah! Fresh food! And it looks like it's not hot! The pleasant surprise brings a quiet smile to her face, and she politely waits for the candidate to finish his setting-up, avoiding getting in his way to dig in. For his part, Xanathos is just happy that things have calmed down enough to provide enough free table space to work. His current change in status in the Weyr has thrown his work/life balance off so he has to make use of what time he can. Taking the end of the first mostly empty table he runs across, he lays down a cloth with a grid mark taking several moments to situate it just so on the table and smooth it out. Larze doesn't see Ceris, rather he feels that someone is behind/beside him and willow-bends his tall frame to make room for the person as he tries his best to set out rolls, handwiches and pastry. "Porcine, cheese and spiced pickled veg in these…" Turning he adds, "Ma'am." To Ceris. He gives the empty tray and artful spin, showing off some pretty good hand agility before tucking it under his arm. "Excuse me, ma'am." Bowing slightly, he slinks around and behind her so as not to be in tht way and offers a nod to Xanathos. Though the two have not formally met in the throng of candidates, it's impossible not to see familiar faces during some meal or another and there's not so much space in the barracks. He slows his steps, watching what he's doing with cloth and marking. "Oh, thank you, Candidate," Ceris comments with a soft voice and a polite bow in return. After all, she's been in his shoes - err, knot - before, a few Turns back when her knot had shown a senior apprentice's weaving. With the introduction into the foods available, her attention then goes to the spread, picking up a plate and grabbing one of the porcine options, intent on some protein after a daytime of lighter fare. With a few pieces now on her plate, she moves over towards the liquid refreshment and pours herself some juice and turns her attention to where the candidate had gone. Oh, Journeyman Xanathos, where the shell has he been? Once he has the cloth just so, Xanathos takes out several buckles and sets them in specific locations on it. Half of the buckles look like they lost a fight with a rampaging herdbeast, the others are various different designs. He's frowning at the collection, gripping his chin in contemplation, when he notices Larze and returns the nod. Larze behaves as one of the baker junior apprencies, new as they might be. He watches to see what the weaver might select. Then he's striding back to the kitchens. When he comes next,it's with a large bowl of sliced berries and melon. A cold refreshment in the cool of evening. Perfect after a day of heat, sun and blowing sand. After setting this out he makes busy cleaning up some of the spilled bits. All the while he is keeping a keen ear on what's going on with weaver and candidate. Why? Well, they will likely find out in short order. Finally both plate and juice in hand, Ceris moves over towards Xanathos' table, and without asking permission, settles herself quietly down at a part of the table that isn't covered in his grid-like cloth. "Xan," she starts rather non-confrontationally, because she's frankly not, "Where have you been?" It isn't until those words come out that the exact knot upon his shoulder is noticed. The color comes to her cheeks. "Oh! Mmm." Perhaps it should be assumed by now that a decent percentage of the young people in the Weyr, even those she knows, are tapped. She looks back over towards wherever the other candidate went. Xanathos manipulates one of the buckles making a few marks upon the cloth, then turns his attention to one of the damaged ones, making a few marks around it as well. "Journeywoman," he responds in this thickly accented voice, jotting down a few notes before finally looking up to offer Ceris a slight smile. "It's been a while, dear lady." Larze carries over two bowls of the chilled fruit to the weaver and weaver-turned-candidate. "Interested in a cool snack?" This is probably way too much service, but from the nervous shifting from foot to foot, there's something else on the candidate's mind. "It has. I thought you might have transferred back to Fort, since I hadn't seen you in the Crafter area for a while." The weaver shyly nods at her smith counterpart. That said, there's food to be had, especially with table service. It is perhaps a bit much, but Ceris isn't going to complain, that's for sure. Not this timid crafter. Maintaining that shyness to the other gent, as well, she looks up to the young man and gives a nod. "Yes, please, Candidate. Umm, that one, please," she offers, pointing to the particularly red fruit within his bowl. "No, nothing so permanent as that. I'm afraid I ran into a rather…" Xanathos frowns thoughtfully. "How to put it… Chaotic." He sounds less than happy with the word choice, but goes with it. "Bluerider. Who was doing some things that no sane person should do on a dragon. Which lead to an interesting problem with the stress factors that standard harness buckles can handle. But to get him to tell me just what kind of lunacy he was up to, I had to agree to a change in knot for a bit." A smile curls his lip that's likely more charming than he intends. "I'm flattered you noticed I was gone." To Larze, he gives a slight shake of his head, "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not a big fan of sweet things." Larze opens his mouth to say something as he sets down the bowls..well, bowl…but then there's a call of his name from the kitchen. Squaring his shoulders, he spins on the ball of his foot and strides that way, long legs carrying him off to some other task before he can pose his question. Drat! Maybe another time. Besides, the weavers seem to need to catch up. Looking at only having planned to have the one indicated fruit, the entire bowl being left for her leaves her blushing, particularly in light of Xanathos' stated disinterest in sweets. Her gaze follows the candidate's movements back towards the kitchens. "It won't be food waste if I only do take the one, I hope?" she asks to Xanathos, as if he might know. There's a slow, careful squeeze of the fruit out from within the pile, like a rotund Jenga puzzle. After it breaks free into her grip, and there's no cascade of fruit or excessive touching, she looks up to Xanathos again. "So, umm, did he explain the buckle use?" "I'm relatively certain you can simply place the unwanted portion over with the other food. Something like that is unlikely to go unclaimed for too long," Xanathos comments, though his attention has drifted back to the buckles for the moment. "Actually, yes." His gray eyes sweep around to see if anyone is close enough to overhear, then he motions her to come closer so that he can impart upon her the sordid tail that can only be described as 'The Buckle Incident' in mixed company. A Late Bite has 0 comments. |
02 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Awkward interactions across a trio of young adults well after the dinner rush. |
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Curious Case of Firelizard Training Curious Case of Firelizard Training
"So you ain't been pranked before?" Living Caverns Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. Just after the noon-time meal, the general population of the cavern are those late-to-lunch sorts, cavern-workers doing cavern-worker stuff and kitchen staff cleaning up after the mayham of the lunch rush. In this moderate calm one will find Larze in the corner, face pale enough to make his freckles stand starkly against the ivory flesh. He is surrounded! Trapped! By…firelizards. With jaw set, eyes hard and sweat beading his brow, the elder-teen clutches a bowl of bloody meat strips and dangles one of them towards the throng of lizards. "N-now, you fetch the letter like we practiced and I…I will give you th-this." He says quietly. No one is really paying attention to him. It seems he's been at this for some time. "Huh… is that why all the letters been going screwy?" Quyen asks as she turns from a late lunch pass at the buffet. Meatrolls and veggies stack on her plate for a stout meal to go with that klah of not-quite-warm klah. She walks over near her fellow candidate but picks her own table. Not gonna intrude too close on the lizard throng when she's got her own lunch to eat. Larze's movements are jerky as he flicks a wary look towards Quyen. At first there's a wan smile but it melts away as his mobile features seem to sag with disapointment. "Lost?" It's not that his voice is cracking, he's too old for that, but one of the firelizards, a jovial looking brown, hops closer to him as he's voicing his question. "N-no. Noway!" He has, probably noticed, been the one fate has selected to 'train firelizards' despite the fact that he acts like this around most firelizards. Not qutie afraid but…okay, there's some sort of trauma response from him when he is near them. Enters, windswept and disheveled, P'yr, shadowed by a haze of Bazaar dust. These have been exciting days for Igen in general and such Bazaar regulars as Parhelion riders in particular. P'yr is not very good at exciting days. Finding a pretty rock or an interesting bug is just about optimal amounts of excitement. Stampedes and stampede aftermaths? Way overboard. And so he's a bit dazed right now, as he aims to the buffer for a late lunch after a morning of, presumably, failing to be all too useful around the Bazaar. He's got his own firelizard riding on his shoulder, a pretty brown who surveys the surroundings serenely and then locates Larze and most importantly that bowl, and his head rotates to keep his muzzle pointed in that exact direction while P'yr beelines it toward the buffet, barely missing Quyen. Thankfully there are meatrolls. Meatrolls are good. His face brightens a bit as he helps himself, and then looks around for a table. "Yeah. Like somebody left a letter on my cot. Yelling that I better stay away from some boy I'd never even heard of. Calling all sorts of names, but eventually addressed the recipient as Hester and figured out it wasn't me," Quyen explains for Larze even as she gives a shrug. And her own meatroll snackage is delayed because while P'yr may have missed her, she doesn't miss the arrival of the rider and while it may be P'yr, he is still a rider and so the candidate offers a salute to him. Larze frowns in thought, as though he could recall such a letter, but ultimately gives a shake of his head to give up when nothing surfaces. "Dang. Hope that wasn't cuz of me. You're Quyen, right? I've seen ya." Ignoring the fact that: Duh, of course he has. Still, awkward-niceness is all he can manage while surrounded by the Enemy—er, flock-o-firelizards. He hunches his shoulders and seems like he folds in on himself. When he sees his fellow candidate salute, he jerks back to his full height and salutes. With the hand holding the meat strip, thus slopping meat on his temple down to his cheek. That will also be ignored, because the blue firelizard being trained, irritated at the 'teasing' gives a shrill scream of frustration, grabs the letter and zooms into the air, nearly tangles in Larze's curls and pops into Between to deliver the prize. Sooner done, sooner full belly! P'yr, plate in hand, blinks owlishly at Quyen, Larze, and Quyen's and Larze's salutes, then looks behind himself — yes, he is in fact checking if anyone important is there. He then salutes back, to be safe, or at least, tries to salute, aborts, transfers his plate to his other hand, and tries again, this time with success and no airborne meatroll (to the probably disappointment of every firelizard in the room). He sits close by, though not outright with either Quyen or Larze, but his eyes remain on Quyen while a light frown creases his forehead. Finally he says, "Uh!". He bites into his a meatroll and points the other meatroll half at her knot. "Did you give up on gee-odes?! Whoa!" Meanwhile his firelizard peeps politely up at him, and when P'yr nods vaguely, the little brown takes off, lands on the table next to Larze, peeps up to him too while aiming to set a little paw on his hand, and then aims his muzzle pointedly at that bowl. Quyen looks Larze up and down, meat splattered temple and all before she gives a shake of her head. "Doubt it was from you. The paper was perfumed. And the weird bubbly but angry writing." After P'yr settles, she slips into her own seat. "Give up on them? They're rocks. And always were just a rest-day endeavor anyways. Taking a little detour from firestone. Maybe. But should be back to it one way or another in a couple sevens." When the firelizard buzzes his head, Larze clutches his pearls, or rather grabs his throat and then winces. "Oh, gross." He pulls the strip of meat off his skin just as the rider's brown firelizard flits over close to him. Touching. Him. He holds steady, lips thinning though the firelizard will surely feel the shuddering slightly, expecting…something. "Easy, boy. Uh" Several of the ring of awaiting firelizards hiss, squawk and otherwise scold in a 'hey, wait your turn buddy' at the newcomer. "Youneed to deliver a l-letter." %n narrows his eyes at the firelizard /touching/ him and then points his meat-holding hand towards the small stack of letter. "That bundle goes to Wash-woman Hildra." While he waits to see if the firelizard wants in on the duty, he glances back to the candidate. "Nah, don't wear perfume." It's like he's assuring her, but at least he doesn't ask her to smell him. "What do you do with rocks?" "Oh, right," P'yr murmurs. No comment or prognosis from him re. Quyen's possible medium-term future. He, himself, was never seen to think much about his Candidacy beyond the fact it was a fun new experience, and the outcome thereof was arguably somewhat accidental. "Well, I think gee-odes are very neat," he only says; "maybe you should give them more attention." He is entirely oblivious to the predicament that his flitter is putting Larze under. Said flitter now turns those unreadable faceted eyes to the boy, then back to the bowl with a meaningful little motion of his muzzle. Then checks Larze again to see if he's understood what's expected of him. Like he's somehow expecting the human he is interacting with to be a tad slow, for some reason or other. "By the way," says P'yr, coincidentally, around a mouthful of meatroll and with a mildly worried frown, "where you just saying something about letters?" "I'm a miner," Quyen answers for what she does with rocks, in between bites of her lunch. "Or was a miner?" The white knot on her shoulder declares a much different current job. "Geodes are nice to look at but don't got much use. During a pass, we need all the firestone and the ore we can get. Other things… de-prioritized." And then a look between the two in regards for letters. Larze has to keep a keen eye on the trixy flitter. He pulls the bowl closer to him when the brown muzzle directs that way. "No." The lad is real good with runners. Firelizards should be easier. However, he's having nothing but trouble. "Letter." He points the meat-holding hand toward the letter pile. "LAUN-DREE. Laundry. Wash-woman Hildra!" The way he's squishing up his face, he's probably trying to project some image of the plump, friendly lady. There's a small snicker from a group of candidates at the other end of where the trio is sitting. "Then, come back and.." *POP* THe blue firelizard comes from Between with a small woosh of cold air and dives for Larze. The silvery trumpet is the only warning he allows before plucking his reward from the candidate's hand. "Yike!" He jumps, hand jerking to his chest. Checking his fingers, he rubs them on a rag at his side. Fingers still attached. "Uh, Letters?" He blihnks up at the Dragonrider and offers a lopsided smile. "All I know is the chore is training 'lizards to deliver messages. I always get this chore." He forces a less grim expression to his long face. P'yr stares mid-chew at Quyen, entirely unable to reconcile nice to look at with no use. A smarter man might say something along the lines of, but what's the point of saving Pern from Thread if not to give it the chance to look at nice things another day? P'yr, himself, must be content to let this wounded expression be eloquent on his behalf. He motions a passing living cavern worker for a glass of that spiced juice he likes and then observes Quyen in thoughtful silence. Then looks down at his meatroll. Precious juicy meat like a treasure inside a mundane layer of pastry. His face brightens all at once. Everything fits. EVERYTHING IS CONNECTED. "Well, if geodes are not important, then why is our best food made just like them?" he asks, rhetorical and triumphant. But he is magnanimous in victory, and tips his meatroll in respect at Quyen before finishing it in a few joyful bites. Meanwhile, his firelizard stands undeterred. He is a polite critter, and will not take meat not explicitly given to him, but here's what will happen if Larze does not interrupt the proceedings: the brown will patiently take Larze's hand in his paw, pull it toward the bowl, manipulate fingers individually to close them around some meat, and then he will sit there with his mouth open and his face expectant. It's important to be very clear with humans, he knows: for instance this one here appears not to realize that those letters of his are not, in fact, edible. "Have you…. have you been eating rocks?" Quyen sounds actually, genuinely concerned as she looks over at P'yr like the answer might actually be yes to that. and then more confusion for Larze. "Why do you have so many firelizards? Did you stumble on a whole clutch of them or something?" Larze looks as though he wants to leap to his feet in /horror/ when the firelizard takes his hands. Color, alright wan, drains until he's paper-white. This is it, he's going to lose a hand at the wrist! More stiches at the very least. He hand does jerk back and out of range of teeth and fangs and he grabs up the letter. This, he inserts into the firelizard's jaws. It serves the purpose of showing what is to be delivered AND prevents more scars to his hands. He's sweating and actually shivering a little when he jerks a look to Quyen when she voices her question. He's missed the wonderful comparison to meatrolls (yummo) and geods. Perhaps the dragonrider and he can have a deep conversation when he's not near loosing it. "Huh?" Her question does not match up with what he's doing. "M-me? These are not M-MINE!" The horror of the thought. "I don't wan…er…need a firelizard. These are weyr lizards." THere's probably familiar color bands on legs but not familiar to Larze who just doesn't want to be cut to the bone. "No," says P'yr, patient. "Rocks are for looking at. And sorting by color on your shelf, of course. And for carrying in your purse, but that's if only if they are very pretty and worth it, else it would be too heavy. But look!" He finished his own meatroll, but there's no shortage of such at the buffet, so he goes and acquires a fresh one. He strikes it in half with his knife. Fragrant smoke rises as the juicy meat within is revealed. "See? What is a meatroll, if not… a meat geode? This just can't be a coincidence." Meanwhile, his brown stares up at Larze in utter bafflement over a mouthful of letter. Just in case, because you never know, he gives it a cautious chew, but nope — as expected it's disgusting. So he sets it down delicately, no worse for wear provided that you disregard the toothmarks and saliva, and then sighs a high-pitched firelizard sigh, and flitters back to P'yr. There, he demonstrates again: grab the human hand, pull it gently toward food, then sit there, mouth open. P'yr grins and delivers a small chunk of the geo— err, meatroll into his mouth. "Such clever things, aren't they? It's almost like they can talk!" He looks to Larze, still grinning. "Good idea, playing with them, too. It's good preparation for when you see dragonets. You know. When the eggs hatch." Quyen just blinks at P'yr. "That's like if saying you put on a coat, you're a person geode. It's not the same thing at all. The crystals form inside the space in the rock and not the other way around." And in a very confusing day, she also gives a stare at Larze, her own food forgotten for the moment. "But… if they're not your 'lizards, how are they getting the picture of who you want to send the letter to? Is this actually why all the mail has been going everywhere it's not supposed to be???" One of the bold greens, tired of /waiting/ zooms down and grabs up the letter when P'yr's brown rejects it. /she/ knows what to do. Take letter. Go between and take letter and then return. Snacks-ahoy! If this letter gets to the right place? Larze can only assume. This suddeness has P'yr's mouth slowly opens, and he listens in awe as Quyen generalizes what one might call the greater geode theory. "I'd need to think about it," he murmurs, looking at his half a meatroll in deep thought. "It's more complicated than that, because people can have several layers of clothing. But I think you might be on to something!" For a moment he sits in silence, stunned by the scope and import of this theoretical advance in the oft disregarded field of geodology. The living cavern worker delivers his glass of juice, and he sips from it mechanically. It therefore takes his 'lizard little prompting to get P'yr to feed him more bits of meatroll, which he consumes with a sedate but pointed look at Larze. See? No need for this whole shameful business with the letters. Those gibblets smelled nice, for sure, but until Larze is better trained, it seems this brown is content to settle for this low hanging fruit, as it were. P'yr, himself, refocuses on the youth. "Uh!" he says, and taps his chin. "Did you, hmm, perchance train runners recently? Did you train them to run? All together? In a certain direction? Through a certain place?" His forehead wrinkles in perplexity at the mirthful echoes of bullying that rise from somewhere nearby — a sound he is not unfamiliar with, himself, if not in the recent past. "Do you just think at the runners and they go where you want them?" Quyen asks, a slow shake of her head. "If the lizards aren't yours, then they're just showing up for the snacks. They got like no idea where you're wanting those letters to go and who knows where they've been ending up. Like those threatening letters about staying away from some girl's boyfriend that got delivered to me." And then whiplash back to P'yr. "Like the stampede?" She asks helpfully-or-not. Larze tries to prove his finer level of firelizard training prowess and thrusts a letter out toward the firelizard, "Delivery! Cook Bennen." That goofy 'thinking' look follows but shatters when P'yr asks him abouthis runner trainning. "What? Oh, I trained the recent yearlings a few month ago. I was able to train a pair to pull a wagon tandem." And that is quite an ask for a dumb animal. "Well, of course not with a runner. RUnners are not firelizards! DId it ALL the time with my father's bronze lizard Bauze and he sent me to the healer more times than I have fingers and toes." THe likely suspect for his firelizard trauma. He gives Quyen a 'no way' look and rolls his eyes. "Then why by the first egg did Brit, thorn and Thad tell me about it and show me how to do it?" The letters before him really are the size for 4 rather than 1, but Larze doesn't care. Given the task, he is going to DO IT! "What stampede? Runner stampede? What happened?"He's had his head so far into the worst of chores times four he doesn't know what end is up. P'yr makes a hurried two-handed hushing gesture at Quyen, sending a concerned side-glance at Larze. He was trying to conduct this interrogation subtly. "No one said anything about a stampede," he then tells Larze while sending Quyen a pointed look uncannily reminiscent of his firelizard. Not that it matters, since Larze doesn't deliver anything that could pass for a confession. Ah well. P'yr stands, rubbing the crumbs off his hands. And sighs. "Well, I need to get back to it," he says, without making it clear who he's talking to now. He hoists his firelizard up onto his shoulder. "Come on, Pebble, break's over." And, "Will you be okay over there?" That last bit, now, is clearly targeted at Larze, and there's a shadow of worry barring P'yr's forehead again. Like he can tell, dimly, that not all is right with the youth. "There…" And Quyen catches the not so subtle glance from P'yr and doesn't enlighten her fellow candidate about the stampede. Not yet anyways. He'll find it out sooner or later. She does however snort at the revelation of who gave the 'firelizard training' task. "Chores are given by the Headman, or one of his assistants. Or the Weyrlingmaster or his assistants. But if another candidate tells you to do something that sounds weird, you might want to consider consulting the chore roster yourself. Just to be sure." Larze narrows his eyes about the stampede and says, "I have runners in the market. May I go check on them. My father will kill me if anything happens to them." Probably not an understatement. Then the color fades somewhat when P'yr asks if he is all right. "I'm great. All is well. No one has reported that I'm falling down on my chores have they? Even if I'm having trouble with this firelizard training, no one can muss up latriens and scrubbing the dragonhealer's quarters. Easy!" He smiles the first big, toothsome smile he's had since the pair came to 'join' him in his own private purgatory. Turning to his fellow candidate, he says, "I know, the Headman, or assistants, but some candidates are," he lowers his voice to share only with his fellow rather than the dragonrider who may have heard bad reports about the quality of his work. "… overwhelmed. I'm just helping. It's fine." He waves a hand, making one of those real big toothsome smiles. "Everything is great. I swear." Sometimes, there are threats more dangerous to report some extra duties. He gives Quyen a pleading look. "I don't want to be sent home to my father. Okay?" P'yr's next glance toward Quyen is one of gratitude, but the focus of his attention remains on Larze. "Maybe don't go to the Bazaar unless the Weyrlingmasters or Headman Edric said you can go," he puts in, looking concerned. "Even if your Pop says to, I think. Unless your Pop is Headman Edric, of course." His forehead wrinkles further. "Same for chores. If you're not sure about the chores, you talk to the Weyrlingmasters. They know how to help. You wouldn't be the first." He has an apologetic sort of grin now. And then sighs, and salutes — although he's not the one who is supposed to — and adds, "Essie says I'm running late, sorry. You guys be good, yeah?" And bam, he heads out with no further pleasantries. On his shoulder, that little brown of his — Pebble, then — looks at Larze the entire time, until the rider vanishes out. There would only remain floating behind, tickling the Candidate's hindbrain, the acrid and unpleasant flavor of wet paper. "Does the Headman even have children?" Quyen can't help but wonder outloud. Before she then starts eating her lunch with gusto as if she hadn't just said anything. A wave given in between bites of meatroll. She gulps them down and looks over towards Larze with a bit of pity. "Have you… did you only train runners with your father? Were there not any other apprentices about?" Larze's brow furrows. The very real, very dangerous wrath of his father versus making whater is going on with him stop by speaking up? He knows of the spoilage of wrath from his sire. The possibility that the Headman or Weyrlingmasters might send him home at this point because he didn'tspeak up? Terrifying. His throat works and he nods his head in polite submission to the rider and he salutes him properly. "Yes, Sir." When rider, and firelizard, depart, he licks his lips and reaches for his juice, taking a big gulp of it to wash that 'taste' out of his mouth. That's going to take a bit more than a glass. Probably. Turning to Quyen, he thinks over her question and then shrugs. "Our Cothold didn't have no apperntices. Dad was a Hearder Journeyman when he was a lad so he takes care of the stock. Since he came ill, he has me on the task. ….'afore I went and got searched. His last letter was pretty heated that I didn't finish the sales cuz I went and got search." He frowns and asks, "Do you think I did right? DId your folks care you took the white-knot" "So you ain't been pranked before?" Quyen states more than she actually asks. As for the matter of her own folks, she's silent for a good long moment, poking at the vegetables with a fork and chasing them across her plate. "I'm from Crom." She states as if that would answer how her folks feel about anything…. or how much she talks to them. Larze frowns and answers, firmly. "No." As though he'd never allow such a thing. "I've many sisters and I'd NEVER let them be harassed. Nor anyone else. The very idea…." He sighs quietly and admits. "Maybe a few are having some pokes. Whatever. They ain't hurting me so that's good." So, a few rough pranks rank super low of his meter of what counts to 'report' to anyone in authority. "Crom is cold. Right? I've been learning about places on Pern. My sire was real proud we were all educated in our letters and numbers but he didn't want me off to the crafters. Cothold is too small…anyway…." It's not important, clearly. "Do you miss Crom? How do you like the heat?" This is interesting to the elder teen who has always known the heat, sand and wind. "They ain't harassing your sisters, they're harassing you," Quyen points to the cluster of firelizards about Larze. "Stick to your assigned chores and keep you head down and you'll do alright. If somebody is too overwhelmed to finish their own well… they should own up to the headman or maybe they ain't cut out for Weyr life?" The crafter in her associates Weyr-life as dragonridingriding and just dragonriding still. "And Crom is…. not much of anything. Cold. Stony. Shithole. Da and some others stuck out a claim in the colony. Mining cotholds are…. rough." Larze answers firmly, "But I am a -man-. I can…" His voice trails off as he bites back his words and actually listens to Quyen. Letting out his breath, he lets his shoulders fold in and he bows forward, looking determined and stuborn. "Why should I? I don't do their chores….their attention is worse. I deal with more. Someone in power scolds them and they know it's me whinning about it and then they…what? Find me in some dark corner and rough me up? It's three of them boys and a girl. Why not just let them…do whatever. I … didn't know this firelizard training thing wouldn't work." He puts the bowl of scraps in the middle of the table and pushes it out of range of getting attacked by firelizards and scoots his chair, and the stack of letters, back." He aks, "Have -you- ever been bullied?" Because, it's important to know how that dangerous game actually works. "Beside, ain't the dragon going to pick? If they aren't suited, dragons won't pick'um. Trust dem dragons." He nods in understanding about the cothold, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Tunnelsnake Gulch ain't much either. Maybe not as bad as your home cuz of the cold but….rough." "Are you?" Quyen asks with a deadpan when Larze states he's a -man-. After all, she's just a woman. "You're getting pushed around cause they think you're a going to allow it. That you don't know better. I'm not saying tell on them but…. you don't gotta be their lackey. Besides, how often do you go around dark corners to worry about being caught there?" As for the question of if she's ever been bullied, she gives a nod. "I survived being a girl as a miner apprentice…" Larze's draws himself up, just a little and answers, "Of course I am a man!" This is a troubling experience, being in this new place, away from home and out of father's tough thumb. He makes a face at Quyen. "I don't do it, allow it, so someone else will have to deal with it. Brit has something against me. Whatever. It's no big deal for me. I can take it. I've taken much more than some Holder boys trying to prove something. Eggs will crack, they'll go home." He blows out a breath and eyes his empty juice glass, still tasting that wet paper sensation. Cursed firelizards. "So, you don't want me to not tell on them, but you want me to not do as they are asking?" He sounds baffled. "Fighting is going to get me sent home, Quyen!" Quyen holds up her hands. "I'm not saying to fight anybody. But I am saying stop doing dumb stuff that has those idiots laughing at you. Stick in a public place and what are they gonna do? The barracks are crowded. Chores are almost always with somebody else. You eat in the caverns. The baths are public even…." A shrug. "Don't see why you're making this so complicated." Larze huffs but doesn't rise to anger. "I didn't -know- the firelizard training wasn't right. Father's firelizard always did what I said..after a fashion. But I was sick of them picking at me so I took their chores. You report them, they keep picking, or worse when no one is looking." He gives her a 'you know what I'm talking about' look. "I was trying to stick to chores and having meals in my cot so they couldn't catch me out. I made friends with this candidate Grizzala, only to find out that she'd become part of their lot. I…don't know who to trust." He cracks a small, honest smile. Quyen just shrugs. "You do you, I guess. But you're gonna have a rough couple sevens." She's really not much help aside from the advice to 'not engage with bullies'. Larze nods and says, "I appreciate your advice and…I appreciate you want to help. It'll be fine. Why does the weyr actually /have/ a firelizard training period if one cannot actually do so with a 'lizard that isn't yours?" He rolls one shoulder and then completely changes the subject since they are at loggerheads regarding how to handle his 'condition' of bully-infection. "So, what do you think of the eggs?" He sort of side-eyes his fellow, so as not to seem /too/ interested. "There's…. not a firelizard training period?" Quyen says with a shake of her head. "You train your own firelizard, if you want them to be useful. If not, guess it's hard to tell them from the wild ones always hanging about." A shrug there. "And eggs are eggs. They'll hatch." Perhaps the miner-candidate isn't the best one to go to for advice, if one expects something philosophical anyways. But by now, her plate is clear and so she's getting up to return her plate. "Take care." Larze opens his mouth to explain what he meant about the eggs and makes a small mumbling sound, but it appears the candidate is heading out anyway. Perhaps it doesn't matter and his expereince amoung the eggs will have to be his own. That's fine. "Ah, you are right. Eggs are eggs. " Because, you can't argue with the facts. Curious Case of Firelizard Training has 0 comments. |
02 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Larze is doing 'chores', Quyen doubts and P'yr importantly theorizes. |
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Twice Touched Eggs Twice Touched Eggs
"What's everyone all…freaking out about?" Sands The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be. It's a marginally cooler day than most at the height of Igen's summer - but, with the threat of a sandstorm on the all-to-near horizon, that might be a mixed blessing. Khu's presence here is largely for the sake of the eggs; she's examining a few here and there, taking notes along the way. Her peripheral existance is likely a familiar one by now, but she is otherwise unobtrusive. An AWLM is herding candidates forth with a familiar litany of rules: "No yellin', no pushin', no fightin'," they drawl, gesturing to the eggs, to dam, to sire. "Don't hog an egg, either. If someone's nearby, you move to let 'em touch, then you can come back to it. If you're feelin' overwhelmed, there's water and such in the Galleries," a gesture indicates the spot of rest. "Bow to dam and sire and then get on with gettin' handsy." With the eggs, that is. That part is probably implied. Hopefully. Larze has been, maybe, a more reclusive candidate than all the rest. (Most of the rest?) Being a traditionally middling sort of boy/elder-teen, the tall, lanky youth would never think himself the best at anything, not even at his reclusiveness. In fact, he's just been working, and so he's missed out on any earlier trips to the sands. So, here is Larze, eyes as big as plates and full mouth gawked open to catch vytols. The snickers of a several seasoned candidates go ignored as he peers around him like a tourist, nearly tripping over his own feet just getting to the area close to the clutch. "Ya big dolt!" — "Yeah, he's going to fall and squash an egg, hey, Runner-apples, watch where you're going! That's my dragon in those eggs!" And more such hissed comments from the 'usual suspects' come from a cluster of boys near him. Those comments too, go ignored. The AWLM does a bit of tongue-clicking and motions the candidates onward with a firm, "Get on with it, or I'll see if the Headman needs some extra hands in the latrines - or worse." How much worse? At least two candidates immediately go pale in the face with experience. A few of the younger, more obedient candidates are fairly quick to scatter, lest they be caught in the crossfire. Khu glances up only briefly, her expression inscrutable. Her notes and her examinations continue. "That'd be YOU she's talking about, Lard," hisses one of the boys, but that's it. Far be it from him to get in trouble-they are the scatter-eers. There's plenty to be done on the fringes and the AWLM meanders a bit, pausing to check in on one of the younger candidates that's looking a little frantic at the edges after touching one of the eggs. "They'll all feel a bit odd in the head, lad," the AWLM gently points out. "Go on and touch another. I hear that one's a bit gentler." But, it's hard to see which one is being pointed at. The candidate goes, though, after taking a few moments to steel himself. Larze, for his part just rolls his boney shoulder and sort of hunches to try to look shorter and, shrink into less of a targer. VERY hard to do when one is 6'4, unless…well, the eggs are there and he can maybe just put one between himself and the Assistant Weyrlingmaster…Mistress? *gulp*. He's very, extremely careful of his plodding steps as he side-eyes his favorite egg but steps to Strange Fortune Egg instead. He glances over at the Gold dragon and then, overhearing the words to the nervous youth, his nose crinkles up. That cannot be right. Surely. He hesitates a moment longer, giving another attempt to shrink himself as he bends down and down and slides a finger over the egg from where he's trying to 'hide' behind it. Faintly, faintly, there's a distant sound - something rattling in water? it's hard to say - until you're greeted with a question mark that emblazons itself in your psyche. It's neither before your eyes nor at the back of your head but, rather, strangely centered in the heart of your thoughts. What questions are you most wanting to ask? What do you desire an answer to? Or, perhaps, more importantly: what questions don't you want the true answer to? Slippery psychic tendrils press and prod at the edges of your thoughts, questing their way to get at the core of what you really want to know - after all, how will it know what you want and need? How will it know what to be? Hiding will do no good in the end, because it will seek to see all - until it grows tired and retreats, the question mark fading and with no answers bubbling to the fore. Another candidate steps away from the eggs and looks to be on the edge of hyperventilating. Khu runs interception this time, the wingleader-slash-dragonhealer gripping the young woman's shoulder and pulling her aside to meet eye to eye. Words are low-murmured, the tone vaguely reassuring from a distance - but there's a firmness to the set of the brownrider's mouth that suggests something a little more resolute. "Go, sii. Try again." Maeyrra - for that's the young woman's name - nods with initial uncertainty before she sets her shoulders with renewed resolve. Back to the eggs! Larze's mouth opens and his lips move and then snap closed with a click. He hunches in more, head tilting and he fixes his attention on the eggs. There's no one close enough to hear, but his mouth moves, clearly whispering something to the egg. A confession it seems. The sound of the fleeting candidate jerk his head up and he blinks to clear his head, shattering whatever spell the egg held over him. Well, at least he's not bolting. Good. That's good. He shoots a look over at the Usual Suspects<tm> but they seem to be making bets on someone going to tuch the egg that sent the Maeyrra fleeing. Not in their crosshairs, he edges through the eggs, not touching, but admiring them. That's okay. Right? Getting familiar and comfortable on the sands? Rend The Flesh, Scar The Spirit Egg is the one that Maeyrra's definitely not touching again. Don't mind her, she'll be at the Sweet as Hunny Egg for a bit (until she realizes she's not exactly the target audience, but hey). Khu, unofficially conscripted as assistant to the AWLM (an AAWLM, if you will), turns her attention to the merely meandering Larze. Nothing is said, but the burden of her regard is heavy as she watches him make his way through the sea of sand and shell. Larze will keep that egg in mind. Oh yes. And though the trio-of-trouble do not appear to find a victim to fulfill their beg yet, they do not go to the egg either. He's keeping an eye on that egg, but he seems to feel the weight of regard from the AAWLMistress and his shoulders hunch every so slightly under the pressure. It brings his eyes to the The Curse of Mediocrity Egg . This he can relate to. This simple egg amoung all the radiant choices. He reaches out to smooth his whole hand over this one. "It's not what's on the outside that counts anyways." He assures the egg. Why is it such a bad thing to want to be mediocre? To be middle of the road? To be average? Everyone else seems to be striving for a legendary life, don't they? But what's so wrong about wanting just enough? Those questions filter in, weaving themselves like a cozy blanket around you. It feels more and more like being bundled up next to a fireplace in the dead of a Telgari winter, with a nice mug of something warm at hand and maybe a pile of cookies to nibble on. It feels cozy. Comfortable. And, sure, you probably won't have any grand tales to tell about your experience with this one… but is that such a terrible thing? Leave the trauma, existential dread, and suffering for the rest. This one just wants a big hug, a snack, and a nap - and it fades some time later, drifting off to a drowsiness that threatens to take you with it until the connection is broken. When Larze goes to touch an egg, Khu turns her attention to some of the others. She's a master of flapping her hand to make things happen and she tries it on a few others that seem to be dawdling. Another candidate peels away from the Sands and the expected AWLM herds the older lad - it looks like this might be his last opportunity before he ages out - to the galleries to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. MMmm, yeah. This is it. Larze ends up with his cheek actually resting (very) lightly against the top surface of the The Curse of Mediocrity Egg. This one he can relate too, and he even licks his lips a little, stomach grumbling randomly at something the sense from the egg has brought to his mind. One corner of his lips curves up and he lifts his head up, quickly scanning for trouble from his peers, gold, bronze dragons, or the Assistant Weyrling Master. All clear. He straighens up, blushing as he dusts off his knees. Ouch. When did he actually kneel down there? He gives a goofy smile and quickly moves away from the egg, motioning to Maeyrra to go check that egg out. It might not be her thing, but at least it won't sendher bolting. Lingering contact brings a resurgence of those warm and cozy vibes. It's like the feeling of reading about the adventures of others - but from the comfort of one's own home, where it's safe and nice and perfectly pleasant. Sure, there's nothing eventful happening - but even this one seems to know that life out there is eventful enough, with all the work and responsibility and needing to do things and talk to people and, really, if it could just drowse away here with someone and spend a lifetime in relaxed repose? It would. It definitely would. Because it doesn't want to think about the fact that there is no free lunch. Avoidance- yes, avoidance is the key to a good, comfortable life, isn't it? Oh, but that's veering a little too close to dangerous territory and it pulls away again, as if shaken by its own revelation. Gauging from the nose-wrinkling of Maeyrra at the Sweet as Hunny Egg, she's definitely done with whatever that egg has to offer. She catches Larze's eye and shoots him a half-smile that hangs, uncertain, before she starts to head his way to get a good look at the egg he's at. She'll wait, though. A glance to the AWLM confirms that, yes, she will wait until he's all done - and then she'll have her hand at it. Larze is still nodding his head along with the senses spilling from the white egg. He rubs a hand over his cheek with the fondness of someone might who has kissed a lover. Aw. It's sweet. Except that he's not paying attention to the Usual Suspects, the trio of nearly-too-old-to-stand from Bitra- Brit, Thad, and Thad's brother Thorn. A leader canine with two minions. Always stronger in number. And for some reason, these kids have it out for Larze. "Hey, Lard. You going to faint? Don't faint on the eggs." Looking caught, Larze doesn't stand straight, he crumples his shoulders forward and allows his wild curls to sheild the frown on his lips. Shards, shells and all the Crackdust he could choke on. — "Yeeah, hey Lard. Lard." Brit swaggers over to Larze so he can keep his voice to a hiss and hurries on before the AWLM can nab the trio. "Hey, go check out that egg." The butcher's boy jabs a meaty thumb at the Rend The Flesh, Scar The Spirit Egg. Larze narrows his eyes and rolls back one shoulder as he sets his jaw. Without a word, but a nod to Maeyrra, the elder-teen takes the order. He always does. Like clockwork. And off he goes to lay hands upon the egg that sent the girl running. He's not going to be afraid. Never show fear. Something cool seeps into you, insinuating itself into your very soul. It's cold and colder still, but not unpleasant; oh no, no, this is the feeling of power, of nerves of steel, of dragon's strength. It suffuses you to the core, this icy grip, and it is unyielding. The clench and press of it is intense, but there's no discomfort - with this kind of power, after all, what is pain? What is discomfort? It means nothing if you now have the ability to freeze and shatter your enemies with a touch. What would you give for that? What would you give to raze the spirits of those feeble wretches and raise them as your own, mindless and obedient servants? What would you sacrifice to be able to fracture their hearts and souls and remake them as you see fit? The whispers intensify - but so does the feeling of coldness, until the moment that you feel frozen in place and your thoughts don't feel like they're your own. Eventually, the whispers fade and the chill subsides, draining you of all the promises it's willing to make and leaving you hollow with the residue of what could have been. "Shi," Khu's voice cuts across the rest, low-murmured but with the weight of authority - she might not be an AWLM, but the knot on her shoulder is no less significant. Her notebook is gone now; stashed away, along with whatever she's been recording about the eggs. "If you are not here to touch the eggs," dark eyes hunt for the trio - Brit, Thad, and Thorn - in a bid to pin them down, "then go to the galleries. The Sands are not for pissing on." The click of tongue on teeth follows, sharp and chastising. "Yes'm ma'am," says Brit, the handsome man offering a brilliant smile as he puffs out his chest. It probably got him places with girls back home. He jerks his chin and the trio slide away to touch eggs, but stay close enough together to peer over at Larze, all eager to see if the cot holder teen will give them a show. The brownrider is indifferent and it shows, neutrality setting the line of her mouth into something unassailable. Brit's charms are lost on the likes of Khu. Her interest is only in making sure they disperse to some degree, though she's not yet roused to fold her arms over her chest. Her ire's not quite at that level. Rukbat forbid that it does. The AWLM finishes with a few other candidates, sending some to the galleries while others continue to mill amongst the eggs - so far, so good. Where Larze is all gaunt arms and legs, that 'hunger pang frame' as penned by Lin-Manuel Miranda certainly applies to the youth in spades, Brit is short, stout and muscular. Quiet and modest vs loud and boasting, hard working vs layabout. It's no wonder the two are like oil and water. Not looking back, Larze attends to what the egg is /telling/ him. HIs eyes narrow and when he's not met with blood and violence, he sort of bows over the ovid shape. Rather than bolting or looking afraid? His eyes widen and his lips part. He's sweating, who isn't, but something rather less stressed about it. This egg is something new for him. When he straightens, he leaves his fingers on the shell and only when he steps back does he let his lingering touch finally slip away. He doesn't look back at the trio so he misses the scowls. NO show? No fun? THey grumble together and Brit yanks his hand free of the egg, not seeming to have any resonses of thoughtfulness to anything he's touched so far, and strides his fleshy legs as fast as they will go and lays hands on the egg, glaring at Larze as though the youth has wronged him or taken something from him. Somewhere along the way, Maeyrra's moved on to To Forsake Love for Power Egg - and, now, having lingered perhaps a little too long there, she's opted to step away with a few others. It's left her visibly disturbed - but not shaken, precisely - and she sneaks a wary look to the egg before a shiver trips down her spine and she takes a few more steps away. The AWLM speaks to her in low tones before the young woman retreats. As for Khu, she seems to be back to egg-observing, though with no sign of her notebook now. A glance to Larze and the trio of trouble seems to satisfy her curiosity on that front, but it'll be on the AWLM for now to handle any further friction. Larze rubs his hand over his stomach and up to cover his heart, as though there's an emptiness there. He's only a few steps away when he looks back at the egg, long fingers rubbing over his heart. He sees Brit is there and his lips thin. THAT figures. His posture stays upright though, some echo, nearly lost, lingering from the touch of that egg. That sensation didn't stick with him with the other eggs. As Maeyrra makes her departure, he gives her a friendly (though private) smile and small wave to her. Running his hand through his sweaty curls, he avoids Thad and Thorn to head to the A Fool's Gold Egg "That's for girls, Lard'o." The hatched-faced Thad leers. Before Thorn can pipe up, a loud squawk echoes up from nearer to the Rend The Flesh, Scar The Spirit Egg. Brit, arms flailing, takes one step back and properly falls on his ass after the outburst. A small giggle rises from a tiny girl almost too young to stand, though she quickly schools herself and hurries to focus on eggs. Furious, Brit shoots a look at Larze. This is his fault after all. Tricked, the butcher's boy springs to his feet, his small, muscular frame bristling for a fight. But his minions are there, mururming to him, probably warnings about 'no sharding fighting'. After a moment, dusted clearn, Brit jerks his chin at Larze in a 'we'll talk about this later' before turning to saunter off to another of the eggs like he owns the sands. Riches await with but a touch, as a sea of golden promises emerges in your mind's eye. All you need to do is touch - and, a moment later, it seems that the promises come true. Not all things are about physical power, after all; so few seem to understand the power of wealth and riches. And, yet, there's something that rings hollow here, too, something that's fundamentally missing. What good is all of that wealth if you can't enjoy the life attached to it? For with the gold comes a miser's mindset, to hoard and hoard and hoard until your mouth goes dry and your belly is empty for want of a drink and meal - and no desire to relinquish your grip on the one that's likewise got a hold on you. Do your hungers drive you thus? Do you desire things and material wealth? Do you crave it, as the body craves food? For a moment, just a moment, possibilities flash - a life of having everything, but at what cost? - and then it's gone, with gold replaced by bitter ashes and a gnawing ache of hunger in your gut that subsides some time later. Larze's nose wrinkles. The feelings in his body so very familiar and constant. When his hand comes away from the surface of the egg, he rubs his fingers together as though wiping off something oily. His eyes scan the sands, peering at this girl and that since he was told by the trio that they would be for this egg. He looks at the egg again, but steps back, thoughtful. He looks back to the AWLM to see if she will school him from the sands, as he moves to the Coils of Vengeance Egg, running his fingertips over the apperance of the tunnlesnake bejewling the surface. "Pretty, right?" he asks a very pretty girl, a wealthy weaver-brat who nods and dimples up at Larze, patting the egg before her with affection. Possibilities unfold before your very eyes at initial contact, with a quick surge of something that pulses through you. Anticipation, perhaps? Intrigue? Potential? It's the taste of a legendary future that clings sweetly to the tongue; the whispered reassurance that your life will be better, bigger, more remarkable than all of those others. Pay no heed to those weaklings that sneer and snarl, for they'll be groveling at your feet one day, oh yes, yes, they will. They will shrink before your shadow and beg your forgiveness for generations to come. But, of course, there are two sides to every coin, aren't there? And while it drips the precious poison of power into your ear, doubt insinuates itself into your mind - after all, who would offer such greatness, such strength, such presence… for free? What would you give? What wouldn't you give? It seems curious to know both aspects before, eventually, it dribbles away, taking all of those whispered promises with it. Weaver-girl turned candidate flips her golden braid over one shoulder as she watches Larze. When he's turning to the egg, she glances over at Brit and his cronies and taps the corner of her eye before pointing to Larze. She's all dimpled smiles when Larze draws his hand away, eyes glazed. He moistens his lips, expression lost for several more moments, not really seeing the girl in front of him. There's the enchantment on him still, but he has to shake them away because The weaver-girl: Grizzala, is starting to narrow her eyes. She brightens when he gives her a big, toothsome smile. "You should see that one." She motions to the A Doll of an Egg. Larze hesitates at the egg. "I don't know. That one is creepy." "Don't be an avian like that white egg. Bock-bock. COme on Larze." All dimples and fluttering lashes, she shrugs and flips her hair before seeming to lead him in that direction. Larze sighs and looks for the trio but they are busy all the way across the sands. He trails Griz. DOn't be afraid. Don't show fear. He eyes the egg, clearly disturbed by the images. Then, at last. he reaches out and touches it under the pretty weaver-girl-candidate's watchful eye. Immediately, you're struck by the feeling of being watched. From all angles and all sides, something is watching you. There is no escaping the weight of that scrutiny, no way to slip from that collective sight or hide from view. You're all but naked before this one, whose regard bores through you without consideration for your potential discomfort. Where the others promise power or riches or comfort, this one is just interested in how you might fit it. What are you made of? Are you strong? Weak? Clever? Stupid? Are you aesthetically pleasing? Does it even have a sense of aesthetics? Impossible to say. Its mental branches rattle and it's clear that it's missing something - for there's a gap there. A space. But is it the right space? Will you fit it? Or can you be made to fit? Questions abound until, at long last, those staring eyes turn away, drawn elsewhere and granting you precious moments in which to escape. Larze leans over the egg and whispers to it. He's very clear and for those who can read lips? 'I'm not afraid of you'. is uttered. Grizz isn't a lip-reader, but she's watching him with glee. Apparently this egg scared /her/, if the AWLM remebers such a silly little vytol. Larze is still eyeing the egg very seriously until, at last, the focus of will shifts away from him. Satisfied and only after a longer moment passes so he can be sure that he's understood, does he take his hand away and pat-pat the egg. There's no beaming smile for him when he turns to Grizz. "What's wrong?" He asks, looking a little crestfallen. "What's everyone all…freaking out about?" That makes her huff, toss her head and she stomps off, heading for the AWLM to ask to be excused. As the population of egg-touchers further shrinks - and Grizz is granted permission to depart - the AWLM finally spares a glance for the dam and sire before turning back to the remaining candidates. "You get one more egg, candidates, and we'll call it a day." Sure, there's no immediate sign that the parents are displeased, buuut- apparently the AWLM is clued in just enough to head trouble off at the pass. Khu? Khu's already gone, but there's a weirdling blue firelizard perched - to be very generous with the definition of the word - on the edge of the galleries railing. It's probably best that the touches are coming to an end for Larze. He rubs the center of his brow as the effects of strange sensations he's expereined after touching the eggs. Real? Imagined? The heat certainly isn't helping either. The tall man gives a nod, looking around to see that he's almost the last one on the sands. Even the trio has left with Grizz, probably to stir up some extra trouble. There are so many people in the stands too. His throat works, gulping dryly in the shimmering heat. He turns to move towards the exit, but the Be Careful What You Wish For Egg catches his eye. It's right there. As he passes, he runs his hand over the surface in passing, not intending to 'stay'. You're suddenly gripped with a feverish intensity, a driving need that you have no name for. It pulls your stomach into a knot and your senses into a state of hypervigilance. Suddenly, you are both alone and not at all, not with that sudden, fiercely paranoid awareness of all of those eyes on you. Was that young woman's smile a secret sneer? Were those other boys actually plotting to hurt you? Kill you? And, suddenly, there's a solution, something that feels like it seizes your hand in a nightmarish grip. All you have to do is wish. Just one wish and the problem will be solved. Just one wish. But how? That's not for you to know. For, already, as soon as your mind brushes the idea, you're aware of a curling finger, of something unspeakable happening, of a nightmare being born. There is no changing it. There is no taking it back. You did this. Whatever it is, it was all you. What this one leaves in you likely won't surface until you're lost to slumber, images dredging up from the deep, wicked places of the mind. The paranoia that infects you will burn out eventually - or will it? The fever breaks and contact shatters, leaving you and you alone - and those deep-buried recollections that will emerge later, like obscene, viscous bubbles to rob you of true sleep. Larze's breath stutters from him and the hand rubbing his head reaches for his throat as the air is stollen from him. For someone who enjoys the macabe and frightening nighttime stories by the hearth at winter, this is both delightful in how horrific it is and…simply terrible. Sucking in the air in a deep gulp as the constriction of his throat lessons, Larze fights to school his features. He jerks his hand away from the egg and looks around, turning completely in a circle before he's facing the stands again. There's so many people up there. So many watching eyes. Brit, Thad, Thorne and Grizz…not exactly together but, their cold little eyes focused on him. No…surely…and yet… He hunches his shoulders a little more, hanging his head to watch the progress of his steps as he heads from the sands, trying to get as far away from prying eyes as possible. "Off with the lot of ya. Get some water, get some rest, then get back to chores after you've got your breath and thoughts together." The AWLM is quickening their pace in getting candidates off the Sands, now, with a wary eye for the clutchparents - but, perhaps, more of an eye on those eggs that seem to be leaving at least a few candidates uneasy and sweating. Larze's eyes are a pair of those that glance back at the clutch dam and sire and then the eggs, lingering on the ones yet unexplored and another …. explored and staying close to mind. "Thank you," he calls. To the AWLM? to the dragons? THe eggs? Who knows. Then he's moving with the group, in fact, his long strides carry him to the front group. Not to water, nor to rest but there are things he needs to tend to. Twice Touched Eggs has 0 comments. |
02 Mar 2024 05:00 |
More eggs are touched! |
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V || A Letter of Love V || A Letter of Love
This letter isn't mistakenly sent, but it isn't to Rhaya, either. It is left out, though, as if finished and forgotten to safely tuck away. Rhaya may find it next to one of her sketches of their little daughter, each one she's found time to do precious for how rare it is for anyone on Pern to have a portrait of themselves when a baby, if any at all. Little Deanna, I look at you and I'm amazed you're here. That you are a part of me and a part of your mother. That you are ours. We have no idea what we are doing (reassuring, right?), but we want every good thing for you in life, and we want you to know how happy we are that we get to be your parents. I have to tell you, I mess up a lot. I don't ever want to mess up being your dad, but experience has taught me to not think so highly of myself. I already didn't get you enough diapers. I already put your baby clothes on backwards… more than once. I will make other mistakes in the turns to come, but I hope with all my heart they are not the kind to ever make you feel alone or forgotten. I will do everything in my power to love you, protect you, and be there for you, whatever you need. I know your mother feels the same way. She loves you, her little girl. Let me tell you about your mother. She is radiant. Beautiful. I don't know how she'll be wearing her hair by the time you can read, but right now it is long and curly and fits her so beautifully. Her smile still makes my heart flip-flop. Not just that, she is smart, and sharp, and witty. She is so much stronger than she believes about herself, but I know she will believe in you, and she will help you find your strength to face the world someday, like she has. I am so proud of her. I love her, and I love you. You both are my girls, and I will fight to always be the kind of man you both need. Thank Faranth I have Kenzieth. Your dad, How many days has this letter sat out for Rhaya to find? How many days has she walked past it in a blur? Life with an infant is a series of broken moments: broken only because the day gets carved up by baby's needs and Rhaya barely has time to sleep, much less process what's written on the hides. It's gotten scooped up in a mess that she's only just now come to find as Deanna lay sleeping soundly and she, Rhaya, is too restless to nap. How many sevens has it been now since giving birth? How many days has their lives revolved around the cycle of life? "What's this?" Rhaya mutters as she lifts the hide and squints at it, her eyes blurry and not working right from sleep. "Little Deanna…" At some point reading it, she falls heavily onto the edge of her giant poof. Deanna is safe in the center of her bed making happy baby smacking and sucking sounds. Of course, it takes only a quarter of the way for Rhaya to burst into tears, as her hormones still run havoc in her body. And having a baby has changed so much about her that she wonders if she'll ever feel herself again. Shaking fingers run over the letters, tracing the words D'gan wrote to their daughter. Intent burns like fire in her heart as Rhaya vows to herself to be worthy of such words. She will not give to her daughter all of her insecurities. She will tell her daughter how beautiful she is no matter what. She will do everything differently than her own witch of a mother. In fact, D'gan's mother has been such a help that she sometimes wished she had her for a mother and not her own. "Dear, what's wrong?" Rhaya dashed the tears from her eyes and met D'gan's mother with a bright smile. "Nothing, nothing," she reassures. For nothing was wrong. No, everything was so right. His mother was staying with them, helping them out, and she was so, so grateful. Has it been six sevens yet since Deanna's birth? Rhaya safely tucks away D'gan's letter in her sketchbook and stands, "Would you watch her for a little bit?" "Of course." Rhaya found the energy to bound out of the weyr. As bedraggled as she was at this moment, she was going to let D'gan know just how much she loved him. But first, she was going to go by the healers to see if it had been long enough. And then? D'gan better be ready. V || A Letter of Love has 1 comments. |
01 Mar 2024 06:00 |
Rhaya, Deanna, D'gan's Mother |
Rhaya finds a letter of love. Extra cuteness, sappy man-love-writing, D'gan-is-the-sappiest-and-bestest |
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A First (Cursed?) Touch A First (Cursed?) Touch
"Curious indeed, I wonder…" Sands The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be. It's hot and the Sands just feel all the hotter for it. The hour is a poor one, but it can't be helped; the eggs are hard and ready for touching and candidates must touch them - cursed or not. Khu isn't on the docket as anyone of real authority - a wingleader, yes, but the eggs aren't of Ixzhulqvoth and she has no direct link to the candidates - but she is here all the same. It's her role as dragonhealer that has her drifting along the edges, surveying things. An AWLM, however, is present and is presently (ha!) herding a gaggle of candidates toward the Sands with equal measure of apology and authority. "No roughhousing, no yelling, no sudden movements," they intone, gesturing to the grand collection of eggs that dwells amid mirage-ripples of heat. "Don't hog the eggs, neither; if someone wants to touch, you make room. If you need to take a break, there's water'n snacks in the galleries," which offers some precious reprieve from the oppressive heat. "Bow to dam'n sire," comes the conclusion, "and then go on and touch 'em, gentle-like." Quyen is surprisingly herdable for a non-herder. She listens attentively to the AWLM's instructions, head bobbing along with each item, mental notes a taken. It takes her a while to actually work up the nerve to approach the eggs, perhaps watching some of the other candidates go first and get an idea of what gentle looks like before eventually she approaches that utterly nondescript Choose Your Own Legend Egg. First contact brings a refreshing ripple of coolness, a breath of fresh air that cuts across the oppressive heat and stillness of the Sands. And then you feel it, that chillness that insinuates itself along your nerves and veins, trickling into the very core of yourself as a person. What is your legend? What mark will you leave on the world? Or is the world even worthy of the mark that you're able to leave? Questions dribble down and down, testing your mettle, sampling your worth. What legend would you write of your life if you were able to control the narrative? For this one has such grand ideas… such grand ideas… but it soon slips away a moment later, all those half-formed thoughts, those incredible dreams, tumbling from your hand. Shuseran wipes his brow as sweat trickles down his forehead from the oppressive heat of the Sands. He makes his way to the adult dragons, bowing respectfully. The Weyrleader has some free time, as chaotic as things have been since the incident in the Bazaar. Now that the eggs are hard enough, he figures he'd get some time watching the candidates as a nice palate cleanser. While also not lifemate to the clutchsire, his knot does have some priviledges that go with it, so long as he remains in the first-time dam's favor. He gives his own respectful bow to Pariisamith, and settles in on the side near where some of the water sits, just in case a candidate or two need a break physically or emotionally, and smiles over at Khu in greeting. Zekaraiya would pause to reconsider accepting that challenge, were he not too busy shifting feet on the hot sands — why the heck is it so cursed hot in here? — and trying to get the instructions on dragon etiquette down. Whatever happens, he's not going to find himself facing the angry maw of a dragon. Bow performed, he'll wander amongst the clutch, a long shadow amid the group, until he comes across Coils of Vengeance Egg, where long fingers hesitate, then settle, to see what he may see. Promises, promises; this one will offer the world to you, even if the world is not its to give. What do worlds matter to eggs, anyway? They are their own, all encompassing, wholly encapsulated. So, it's terribly, terribly easy to deliver reassurances that anything you want, this one can provide. What do you want? What is the one thing that would make you whole? Make you satisfied? What would you do anything to have? Just pay no mind to the sour aftertaste that comes afterward or the way it burns a little against your skin. Nothing in life is ever truly free - and who can say what the cost of this one might be. The discomfort lasts for but a moment, then it's gone, leaving you with your thoughts once more. A bitingly crisp salute is snapped to T'rin, with Khu adding a mild, "Rukbat's graces to you, sha," before she resumes her egg-oriented examinations. A candidate is already moving away from the eggs, wide-eyed at the sight of one of them, and she takes the youth aside to speak in low tones of reassurance. Perplexing. Quyen stares at the shell for a minute but getting into a staring contest with an egg is probably a futile endeavor seeing as the egg has no eyes and is still a long time from hatching yet. The egg does win the contest as she doesn't touch again and instead turns to loop around the rest of the clutch. Next touch turns up the heat as she touches a hand to the flame of The Risen From The Ashes Egg. The heat rises, building to something impossible for a split second - can you smell something cooking? Is it you?! - and then it levels off again, embracing you in smoldering warmth. The scent of myrrh fills your nostrils and you are made aware of the transformative power of fire - how it can burn away impurities and leave things whole and renewed. Or- oh, the possibilities unfold like some great avian's wing - what if one could be reborn in the blaze of glory? Wouldn't that be worth the heat? The pain? Would you suffer a funeral pyre if it meant you could come out on the other side as something more? The heat builds again until, abruptly, the spark goes out and all that remains is bitter ashes on the tongue and coolness under fingertips. Oh yes.. he's supposed to salute dragonriders now. All dragonriders. Shuseran salutes the Weyrleader… and the Wingleader, both of whom he's already met, then wanders over to the Where there's a fire someone's bound to get burned Egg, marveling at the odd figures gracing each side of it. He reaches out a hand to tentatively touch the egg, tracing the figure that's astride… something?? Power surges through you in a blinding moment of awareness: for everyone has something they want to avenge, don't they? Wrongs they want to right? Vengeance to deliver? But who defines what is right and what is wrong? Is it you? Someone else? This one offers a flash of potential - a promise that you can have what you want, but at the measly cost of giving up your very essence in the process. But would you give up so much for unrealized potential? What would you give for the chance to do what you felt was right? It fades soon enough, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Clean crisp and proper, a bow should be at a percise angle and held for an exacting amount of time. Longer for the Queen, less for her consort. Salutes are presented to any riders present, crisp and proper. A very specific mixture of very specific actions. Xanathos might just smile at the pagentry of it all if it wasn't inproper to do so. After waiting a certain period of time, his measured steps take him to the 'Here's Looking At You Kid' Egg which he sets a hand upon. And, just like that, you're aware of the world around you. It's not that you're seeing it, precisely, though you might think you were… but, rather, you're suddenly conscious of where everyone is. If you concentrate hard enough, you might be able to imagine where everyone in the world is. Could you see all of Pern through the lens this one offers? Could you see into the future? The past? Would you, if it could offer such a thing? The prickly feeling of being watched suddenly suffuses the entirety of your being and a flare of paranoia bleeds through you before centering in the egg - and contact is broken, just like that. Zekaraiya jerks back that hand with a low sound that may be a grunt, may be a growl, and looks around to see if anyone noticed his unnerved reaction. "The hell," he mutters softly to himself, "is in these things, anyway…" Rubbing fingers, palm, and wrist in order rid himself of that faintly burn (was it physical? Mental? He may never know), the now-disturbed wildling moves again, hoping for a better experience from Sweet as Hunny Egg. HEY HUN! Images briefly flash before your eyes, cartoonish renditions of hugs and smiles and hands clapping. Don't you want to make your own hours? Carve out your own time? Do your own thing? Well, this one can offer that kind of future! It'll just come at the cost of buying your own oil, food, and- oh, wait. It hasn't yet refined its sales pitch, its mental reach being too saccharine and insincere. It doesn't take an expert to see through that thin veneer of enthusiasm, but what truly lies beneath? What dark, coiled horror resides within its temple of cheaply-made goods and precarious piles of marks? You only get a glimpse before it sends you away, promising to give you more information next time. Surely you'll sign up then… Quyen coughs after touching that ash-y egg. Enough so it looks like she's almost about to leave the sands but no… just needed to get some water. Luckily there is some close at hand to help prevent folks from passing out on the sands. Refreshed and breathing normally again, Quyen approaches the reflective surface of The Simple Solution Egg. Cool and metallic - that's not how the egg feels, but what you feel in that space in your brain where touch-experiences originate. The sensation is disarming - calm and collected and not at all jarring. There's a power there, a truly dangerous kind of power; the knowledge that, with this presence, you can destroy almost anything. All you need to do is take aim, fire, and your problems? They'll all go away. Tired of doing chores? It'll wipe the chores roster away forever. Exhausted with scrubbing latrines? BAM! No more latrines. That caprine bothering you? You get the picture, surely. There's an easy solution to all of your problems, if you don't care about petty things like consequences - and this one absolutely doesn't. After a while, though, its power wanes, the silver tarnishes, and then it falls apart until all you're left with is Pern's answer to gunpowder. Shuseran's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. This is what touching a dragon egg is like? He wasn't expecting.. well, much of anything. Certainly not that. He pulls his hand back and rubs both hands together, looking uneasily at the egg before casting his eyes about for another. He walks over to The Test of One's True Character Egg, which certainly doesn't look like it belongs in the desert, with what is surely a ship? He tentatively touches the flag on the mast of the eggly vessel. Oh, aye, you're here, aren't you? Suddenly, sea salt licks at your senses and you sway, as if adrift on a boat that's barely seaworthy. Where are you going? Where have you been? Only one of those is a question worth answering, but it won't tell you which. It wants to know what it can get to know, casting you out on those black waters all alone while it listens to your thoughts and peppers your psyche with questions that grate against your preconceived notions of self. Are you really as strong as you think you are? As moral? As intelligent? As cunning? Are you a creature of integrity? Truly? Do you think you can reach the treasure that this one offers? But, even if you're confident and true, it matters little; the vessel crumbles and down, down, down you go until you're back to yourself again. As contact breaks a thoughtful "Hrm," slips from Xanathos, "Fascinating." He murmurs, reaching to jot down notes before remembering he had to enter the sands empty handed. This causes the Smith to frown slighty before offering the egg a respectful nod and moving on. What's next? Why the Simple Solution Egg seems the simplest answer. What's the biggest problem that plagues you? Is it the chores? The curfew? The stone walls that wrap too tightly around you? This one offers the simplest of solutions: an explosion will solve all of it. Just blow up the latrines! Explode the barracks! Run away from the Weyr and never look back! The cool entity that dwells in that space of the mind where all egg touchings happen is full of such easy and simple ways to solve life's problems. Consequences? Well, this one has no idea what consequences are - it only has solutions, no matter how outlandish they might seem to a rational mind. There is nothing rational here, just the promise that it can solve anything you need taken care of. But, after a time, it starts to falter, fade, and then it's just you with your thoughts alone. T'rin returns Khu's salute, as well as any others from the candidates who had come forward to do so. Excellent discipline, candidates. There's something both amusing and nostalgic about watching the candidates' reactions to their first touchings. Hands clasp casually behind his back as he watches each candidate carefully. Quyen might not know what to make of the egg, but they were warned against hogging of eggs and so she quickly steps aside from the last to make room for Xanathos, this time her hands staying firmly in her pockets for the moment. Even as she cuatiously eyes up the rest of the clutch. Zekaraiya is drawn deeper into the world of What Is Happening as the many layers of saccharine false advertising roll over him. Quick as he was to withdraw from the first egg he touched, he's quicker still to withdraw from this one. Uneasily, he edges away from that egg as well before it drains him of his few marks and possibly his soul and sidles slowly over to one final egg in the hopes that Unassuming Double-Edge Egg will be a safe bet. Sharp edges cleave the space between one mind and the next, but don't carve past that precarious membrane that Impression seems to pierce so easily. No, no, you're here and it's here and you can almost, almost feel it breathing on the other side, no matter how impossible that might seem. A blink and, suddenly, you're seeing a whole new world, one that feels so distant and fantastical that it might as well be an alien dream - and, yes, in some ways, it really is. If you reach out, you might just touch the strange creatures that pass by or taste the food that lurks so temptingly within reach… but is that what you want? To take a step into a strange world, where your name means nothing? Or do you want to stay here and make your name into something greater? The rift is soon sealed and the other pulls away, staggered a bit at the effort before the darkness descends and it retreats into a restorative slumber. "Oh, I like you much better," Shuseran murmurs, giving the ship egg an extra caress before leaving it to other candidates. He moves on to the Longhorns on a Lagomorph Egg, whimsically tracing the design on the shell's surface. It shouldn't exist - but, statistically, neither should you. Everything is a strange, cosmic accident… and, fortunately, this egg isn't about existential crises. No, it's just an improbability, a fluke, and it embraces that oddness. Are you odd? Strange? A little left (or right?) of center? It won't judge. It can't. It's not even supposed to be here, realistically, and yet it is and it will revel in its subversion of reality until reality puts its foot down. The experience is a fuzzy one, a furry one, a soft one; it's a nice, comforting presence once you get down to the core of it, though whimsy lurks around the curve of its nonexistant horns and amusement marks the wiggle-wiggle of its imagined nose. Go ahead. Enjoy the weird - and not just its weird, but your weird, too. It's important. Still, it's not long at all before the contact breaks - it must, because this one doesn't like to stay still, despite being an egg, and it moves on, leaving you to bask in the bizarreness of the world alone. "Unexpected," Xanathos's gray eyes study the egg a moment then look back to the previous one he touched. "Curious indeed, I wonder…" His gaze dips to where his note taking equipment would be and he sighs. "No matter." A nod to the egg, then measured steps carry him off to lay a hand upon Deceptive Expectations Egg. At first touch, all seems… okay. At first. Until it's not. Suddenly, everything feels a little darker, a little bleaker, a little more miserable. It feels like you're sweating profusely - and is your nose all plugged up? Do you feel a soreness in your throat? An unhealthy dose of existential dread, perhaps? Is fear clenching a fist in your guts and refusing to let go? The longer you touch, the worse everything feels, until that last moment, that split second between 'I can't take this any more' and the removal of fingers from shell, that something else springs up: hope. Hope for a future. Hope for a chance. Hope that all the bad and terrible things will pass. Hope that you will find the one thing that will make you feel complete and whole and fulfilled. Such hope grows and grows threatening to fill your chest and heart - and then it wanes, like a long and lingering sigh, wistful and nostalgic and blissful, all at once. A few other candidates make the cycle between eggs to galleries - and galleries to eggs, in some cases. Khu is there to help shepherd, while the AWLM helps to defuse a small and frustrated knot of candidates that want to touch the same egg at the same time. The brownrider flicks attention to the Weyrleader, then to dam and sire, before she finally divests herself of candidate-wrangling and steps aside to make some necessary notes. Curiouser and curiouser; and yet this egg keeps Zekaraiya by its side for a moment longer, contemplating its sheer mysterious presence — though his hands are now firmly wedged beneath his biceps — before he turns to eye the groups in the galleries. Perhaps he can further consider things from up there "How very strange that the eggs seem to want you to look within yourself. Or is that just the dragonets' ways of looking at you closely to see if you're the right fit for them?" He glances at the next candidate waiting for a chance to touch this one, and with a smile, he moves away, looking around before finally settling on a fairly nondescript egg, the Choose Your Own Legend Egg. He reaches out confidently and places both hands on the egg, fingers spread wide. Oh, the possibilities. But which will you choose? Silly candidate, thinking the egg is always responsible for picking the experience! But, then, haven't you already shaped every touch in some way by your very presence? Philosophical asides notwithstanding, there's something here that requires a little bit of a deep dive into what makes you tick. What do you want your legend to be? What kind of legend would you choose? Or would you prefer to leave the land cursed in your wake, lamenting your name for generations? (this one won't judge either which way) What kind of mark do you want to leave on the world? Or do you even want to? Are you the legend that wants to be seen and heard? Or a quiet murmur in the countryside, a local myth that arises once every double lunar eclipse to manifest and bless the people with your presence? It picks around your thoughts and thinking, examining the cogs and gears and your selections with a curator's eye - until, satisfied, it falls away, and it's just you, your thoughts, and a warm eggshell. Shuseran Shuseran withdraws his hands thoughtfully. This hasn't been at all what he'd expected. But duty calls and there will be other chances to touch more eggs. For now, he has work yet undone. He makes his way over to Khu and salutes her again, this time more crisply. "Thank you for giving us this chance, Wingleader. It's been… interesting." He turns to leave, grateful to be going out into the slightly-less-hot desert heat. More and more candidates are starting to take a break from the eggs, while the AWLM helps to herd the lingerers off as well for a water break - they might not think they need it, but they absolutely do. Khu offers Shuseran a glance and a ghost of a smile, something that subtly warps the scar on her mouth. "Of course, sha," she intones with an inclination of her head. "Make sure to drink something. The eggs are thirsty and the sand is dry." Thought-vampires, all of them. "Rukbat light your way, sha, saa," for the farewell is expanded to the others nearby before she, eventually, makes her way back to the Dragonhealer Yard to deliver her findings. A First (Cursed?) Touch has 1 comments. |
29 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Candidates are herded out to touch eggs. Things… go surprisingly well. this time |
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Bandage Rolling Bandage Rolling
"Candidates? Pastries!" Infirmary From the astringent smell of redwort, to the gleam of counter and cabinet, this place positively defines the concept of antiseptic cleanliness. Despite the yawning exit to the Dragonhealer Courtyard, the floors remain scrupulously swept of sand and particulate matter. Back behind the counter where the healers usually are, are shelves full of bottles and jars, as well as cupboards hiding away more delicate items that shouldn't be exposed to too much sand. Beyond the counter, there is the Desk, where patients are checked in and taken to one of the examination areas by a healer. The windows are usually kept open for the flow of air, but there is both shutters to shut out dust storms, and curtains for other occasions. Bandages. Bandages, bandages, bandages. There is rarely a shortage of need of them in a Weyr during a pass and to have an actual shortage of those prepared would be a very bad thing indeed. So perhaps that's why today a small cluster of candidates have been set aside in quieter corner of the infirmary and a steady sound of sheer through gauze can be heard as they cut and then roll up what seems to be acres of bandage material. Currently, Quyen's the lucky one with the good shears. It's a rare day indeed when someone enters the Infirmary for a good reason. But apparently today is that day because here comes Xl'air with a huge basket of individually wrapped (sanitary!) pastries for all the Healers and patients. "Treats for everyone!" he says happily, giving the Healer on duty a charming smile and two pastries as he continues to make the rounds. "Candidates? Pastries!" Quyen does her dutiful salute to the incoming rider. And while the pastries Xl'air seems to be so cheerfully passing out do get her attention, there's a guilty look down to the fabric they've been working on. "But… crumbs?" The Healer on duty seems to agree, swooping in to take his basket of pastries. "Perhaps after they are done with their chore they can have some, greenrider." Xl'air gives the woman a guilty look, and something passes between them in that look that suggests he might be trying to get into her good graces. Or back into them. Still, he settles down into a trader-sit and reaches for some fabric and the worst shears that no one else wants. "How long?" "Crumbs? I hear once they get in somewhere good luck getting them all removed," Quyen says though she also watches as the healer takes off those pastries. For the Safe Keeping. Before candidate shakes her head and returns to her task. "Until the stack of fabric is rolled." The three candidates working on it have made some solid work. The rolls of bandages next to them may be enough to fully mummify a mid-sized green. Xl'air flashes a crooked grin, "I mean how long is each bandage. Or are you doing all different lengths and labeling them as such?" He looks around for such labels. "So how's Candidacy doing for y'all?" He's a chatty one! Talking makes the work go by faster. "Oh…." Quyen blinks and looks down. "I was just cutting the length of the material and then rolling. If they need it shorter, they can always cut it, right? And I'm Quyen, sir." Cut-cut-cut. She means business with those sheers. Xl'air is easy enough, and he just nods with a grin. "Perfect, I'm sure that's fine." Like he knows. "Xl'air. Callyinth's, and still trying to make amends from all the thieving we did while she was proddy." Horror stories for Candidates? Yes please. Xl'air blinks at the Candidate for a long moment, assessing if she's kidding. "Oh, they can," he says in all seriousness. "Mind the teeth and talons, lest they make off with your best stretcher…" Perhaps why he's trying to get back into the Master's good graces. "I don't have a best stretcher…." Though Quyen does look back to where one is hanging up on the wall. "All my belongs can fit in a trunk. In the barracks, in the caverns. Be hard to see a dragon fit in there?" Xl'air is quiet again, watching the girl, and then he laughs. "Like your sense of humor," he says, snipping off more bandages and rolling them with an ease that speaks of having to do this chore quite a bit. "Where you from?" If Quyen was indeed joking, the girl has a killer deadpan. Though she does crack at least a little bit of a smile as the rider laughs again. "Minecraft. Crom before that." Snip snip. "You always been at Igen?" Xl'air ahhs. "Minecraft. Hard work. And nah, Igen has not long had the pleasure of our company. Ista, is where she was shelled." "It is," Quyen dips her head in agreement. "But colonies were harder. Ista… to Igen. Seems like a sharding big transition. Though sand is sand I guess…" Xl'air laughs. "You'd think," he teases brightly, but he certainly doesn't seem upset to be here in Igen - or here in the Infirmary cutting bandages. Finishing one more bandage he hops nimbly to his feet. "Nice chatting with you, Quyen. Best of luck on the Sands." He's reached his limit of work for the day. Oh right… Sands. Quyen gulps a little as she looks in the direction of the Hatching Caverns. "Right… thanks. Good luck with your pastries, rider." Bandage Rolling has 0 comments. |
26 Feb 2024 07:00 |
Rolling bandages in the Infirmary. |
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Do What Now? Do What Now?
"This isn't going to circle back to the 'what happens in my weyr stays in my weyr' comment is it." Smithy The Smith's area is certainly not the prime real-estate in the crafter's section of the Weyr: but, true to Smith form, they've taken what they were given and made the best of it. At the tail end of a maze of winding streets, an iron gate is set within adobe brick walls, opening up into a narrow courtyard. Cracked cobblestones and paths overgrown with native grasses mar the place, though the influx of Oldtimers brings signs of improvement. A few gnarled trees provide shade over stone benches for people to sit and talk. In the back corner of the courtyard, where it can be shaded by the surrounding buildings, is a rather large copper still. There's chaos in the Bazaar and, sure, some of it kind of vaguely reaches the Weyr, the impact of it likely won't hit for a little while. Thus, for now, all things seem to be fairly normal within the Weyr, particularly within the crafting areas where the growing din is likely to be drowned out by the sounds of people hard at work. Which brings one to the here and now, with Q'dir attempting (badly) to juggle a couple of broken buckles on his way to the Smithy, while Haqisardith skulks outside, his straps strangely situated around his neck - largely because they happen to be missing some buckles. But why? It is a mystery. The bluerider pokes his head in after dropping a buckle for the third or fourth time and looks around, looking intent on finding someone or something or, possibly, someSmith. Walking and sketching are typically a pair of actions that mix poorly at the best of times. Then you mix in the addition of a bucket and unless you happen to be named Stanly things are not likely to get much better. As such when Xanathos winds up catching a broken bucket with the top of his foot a certain amount of hopping and swearing that Fortian accent of his follows. But hey, at least he hasn't gotten slapped yet. Yet. Slapping is always a possibility, even if that possibility might be below 1%. For now, though, no slapping seems to be on the agenda - but the day is young and Q'dir's kinda spicy. He spots the stumble, the hop, the swear, and waits until the Smith's righted himself before he makes good on the approach. "Hey, sorry- uh. Do you know if these can be repaired? Or will I need to get new ones?" He's clearly betting on the 'be confident' approach. The buckles are warped and one of them is cracked pretty badly; all of theme are held out to Xanathos like he might have the magic touch. Xanathos mumbles a few really colorful local words under his breath before rubbing his foot and gingerly testing to see if it will hold weight. "This wouldn't happen to belong to you, would it?" He says holding up the rogue attack bucket. Intending to compare it to it's possible compatriots that the Blue rider apears to be poorly… No wait those are buckles. So, it couldn't be… He blinks studying the buckles in question. "What did you do to these poor things?" "Buckles for me, not buckets, my good Smith," Q'dir is quick to reassure with a flash of a grin that skews boyishly lopsided - and sets the scar in his cheek even deeper. "And if I lost a bucket down here, then it would have a story to tell." A bit like the buckles in his hands, of course. "Oh- see, that's a whole story-" But he's momentarily distracted by something in his head; the glossy eyes give it away. Past him, at the doorway, a blue snout briefly jams itself inside, then pulls out, but only so the owner of that snout can try another angle to look inside. Don't ask how the blue is compressed into the courtyard. He fits, so he sits. "-uh. Wait, what were we talking about?" Resolving not to comment on the BBD (Big Blue Dragon) poking itself in and out of places it shouldn't by rights be able to fit. Xanathos decides to instead focus on the problem at hand, no wait that was the bucket, the second problem at hand then the buckles. Wait no that was derailed by the third problem a certain Blue Rider losing his train of thought. "I do believe you were talking about the epic travels of a broken bucket before getting the equally riveting story of just what torture you have been putting these poor buckles through. I mean look at this bend." He holds up one of the buckles, "What possible collection of forces did you submit this poor thing to! Do I even want to know what goes on in your weyr!" It takes a moment for the competing forces of human conversation and draconic intervention to be sorted properly in Q'dir's brain, so he's quiet for a moment or two before seeming to snap into the conversation properly again. "I think the bucket's story is that it wasn't riveted right," are buckets riveted? he's a gambler, not a Smith! "and maybe that's why it's here, trying to get your attention. As for these," now that the bluerider's back on track again, taking one of those 'oh right, yes' kind of breaths: "well, first of all, what happens in my weyr stays in my weyr," and, oh, that's a cheeky grin, "but- well, I was testing something and they didn't really pass. Anyway." Was there more? He seems to have gone blank again. This time, there's a big ol' eye in the doorway. A dragon eye, to be precise (and still attached to the dragon; this isn't a horror game!) Riveting Bucket stories and the horrors of 'what happens in my Weyr stays in my Weyr' aside. Xanathos arches an eyebrow at that cheeky grin, then just shakes his head. Sounding a little pained by how disorganized this encounter has been thus far. "Exactly what were you testing that lead to this. Half of these are complete write offs, and the ones that can be fixed would definitely not be up to," A pause where he seriously hopes this does not circle back to the weyr comment. "Whatever you have been up to. You're going to need something with about twice the strength." Or more lube, one of the two. Too late. The conversation is off the rails - which is a real feat in a world without trains. "I suppose it's not important now," Q'dir replies, blowing out an exasperated breath. "It sounds like we need to get new ones. Stronger ones." His voice trails off into a distracted mumble and he shuffles a bit to a side, not-so-subtly allowing that looming eye to get a broader range of perception. "But I can get those in the Bazaar," famous last words, all things considered. "Ah- you know what? I'll tell you exactly what we were testing-" a flicked look goes to the blue behind him, then back to the Smith "-but I can't do that unless you answer something for me, first." Eyebrows lift in a wordless, but universal, 'deal?' expression. "For whatever you have been up to you're most likely going to need custom ones. I would be highly surprised if you could find ones that will fit in your harness that could put up with that kind of stress in any old Bazaar stall. Shards even custom ones would likely take a bit of trial and error to work out." Xanathos frowns slightly, doing some rough sketches as he ponders the problem. At the sudden shift in the Blue Rider's temperament however he frowns slightly. "This isn't going to circle back to the 'what happens in my weyr stays in my weyr' comment is it." Eyeing Q'dir with poorly hidden suspicion. "Well," is drawn out a fair bit in answer to the Smith's last words, Q'dir eyeing Xanathos with something that borders on sheepishness - but there's a glint of mischief in his eye that ruins the illusion. "Okay, look. I know it's awfully forward of me to ask, considering I don't even know your name, but-" Yes, the Bitran in him rolls strong on his tongue, but he's got a Fortian's skill with sleight of hand and, just like that, there's a white knot amongst the buckles "-if you want the real story, you just have to agree to Stand for the clutch on the Sands. Haqisardith feels like taking a gamble and I'm easily influenced." There's a moment's pause, then: "Annnd, if you do, then maybe you can help with designing the buckles. I'll pay you well." Xanathos rubs lightly at the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. First the green rider and now a blue rider, are all riders like this. "Let me get this straight. You're up to likely questionable at best experiments that lead to harness damage that quite likely could have killed whoever was using them. But instead of telling me what you are up to. You are gambling on me wanting to waste my time playing Rider hopeful just so I could maybe find out what ridiculousness you were up to and maybe try and fix it before you kill someone? You do of course know how ridiculous that all sounds right?" "Yes." Q'dir's reply is absolutely, resolutely, completely deadpan. The buckles are pocketed; only the white knot remains, as if representative of the whole, mad situation that's rapidly unfolding. Not even the buckles want to be seen. There's only one question left to answer - and that answer might lead to a conclusion to the chaos. Behind him, there's a low chuff from Haqisardith, as if he, too, is adding his perspective. Or maybe smoke got up his nose. "Faranth help us all." Xanathos facepalms at the response and starts to rub his temples. "Take a walk in the Bazaar, what could possibly happen, it's not like you'll get attacked by a bucket and then run into a lunatic with bent buckles." He mutters to himself. "And now I am talking to myself. Maybe I do need a change of pace. Fine." He takes the knot, frowns at it, and fiddles with it until he gets it just so. "But if the story isn't worth it. You don't want to know what I'm going to make to thank you for this nonsense." "Perfect!" Q'dir's expression brightens and his grin springs back in full force. "And you owe me," he adds, pivoting on a heel to point at the blue who, in turn, just chuffs again before retreating. This also means Xanathos's self-mutterances go uncommented on. Perhaps this is for the better. The bluerider declares to the dragon that's no longer there: "I won that bet," though what bet? Why? When? He flaps a hand to send that thought off into the ether. "C'mon. I'll at least get you to the barracks and pass you off to someone else to get you settled." And he will recount the tale of the Buckle Incident to Xanathos along the way, a story so sordid that it can only be described as "The Buckle Incident" and nothing could possibly come close to doing it justice. Do What Now? has 0 comments. |
25 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Xanathos is dealing with bucket problems and Q'dir gives him buckle problems. Xanathos is Searched! |
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Frenzy on the Hoof Frenzy on the Hoof
"I don't fancy being trampled, that's worse." 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. A herd of runnerbeasts directed by a dozen or so mounted travelers travels outside the Weyr from the western bed of dunes, taking advantage of a drooping Rukbat. Hundreds of legs move at a brisk pace, some of the more spirited ones trotting in parts though any sprinters are quickly kept in check by outside cutters and those travelers with several whips. Coats of many colors following the ghost of an old route, for a recent sandstorm's cleansed most of it. If any dragons or Weyrfolk spot the rising of gradual dust or the presence of so many animals on the move, no one gives much thought to these transports more than the vagrants they are. Fayze does her best to hurry along as best she can from vendor to vendor since Ze'ran is along for today's shopping spree. "Do you suppose this shade of blue goes well with forest green?" she asks her twin brother while holding up a scarf. Before she can utter another inquiry, though, a rumble beneath her feet is felt before it is heard. It is, for the the most part, ignored. "Ze'ran." she scolds her brother. "Pay attention." For Dzidra, days are spent training and evenings for fighting, with precious little time in between for sleep and eating. Thus, the rising cloud of dust far beyond the reach of the Bazaar doesn't register, if she's even able to see it. She's carved out a sliver of her day to get some food - not for her, but for her family - and she has a cloth sack filled with an assortment of things to be transformed by culinary alchemy into food. The last stop is to get some kind of meat and that stop draws her near the butcher's quarter to squint at the offerings strung up on hooks for display. Nesyari is enjoying a period of respite of working for food. Despite all the sand in this place, they still have the most interesting of things and Jahlah did ask for something and she's currently checking out some of necklaces. "Oh, I dunno. Mother might object to some of these." she murmurs to herself as she moves on to a display of carvings of various painted animals "Now these might be interesting." There is certainly enough of a selection that even mother might not object to one of them if Jahlah decides to display it and she starts bartering for a dancing runner and makes no mind of incoming livestock. It's livestock. "No, you're not getting a runner," Ramita says with the exhausted air of a parent that has repeated these same words over a hundred times. That no seems to do little to deter the young teen walking with her, Demitren evidently recruited to handle carrying the vintner's bags on this shopping trip. He sounds like he's about to go into a rebuttal when the moving sandstorm that is that herd appears. "SHARDS! With that many runners, the price is gonna be going way down, don't ya think?" The boy seems fascinated, Ramita seems more concerned. Coming out of the cantina are the proprietor and his wife cousin, who some people persist in identifying erroneously as his wife. Topiltzin is talking: "Noise is just runnerbeasts, probably," as Teicuih nods while trying to get flyaway hairs out of her face. She's carrying a single pool cue, nicely and recently polished, and looks disappointed at the number of people nearby like she can't get a good test at swinging it about in the air — which the bartender also picks up on. "And you can't hit anyone for causing a disruption, this is the middle of the bazaar. Everyone's a disruption." The pair move further away from the Cantina and into the fray, complete with pool cue: they're clearly on a mission. Forgive him if Ze'ran's eyes glaze over if he hears one more comment about coordinating colors. "Yes, a thousand times yes." Surely Fayze can't tell if he's lying through his teeth, though what does he know about fashion sense when their mother buys nearly everything for them. A whistled trade of sounds filters through the man's ears as he walks in street clothing, a query with Iandeleoth turning up nothing. He knows little of Igen's ways, but V'iss is learning - if only because Igen seems to have the kinds of things that Jezebel likes to make her pastry magic with. The bronzerider is milling amongst the spices, brow furrowed with mounting consternation over what the difference is between two strains of saffron - aside from the barest difference in color. He opens his mouth to ask that very question when his eyes gloss and his attention seems to cut elsewhere, his head turning toward a point that will almost certainly be a problem. Canny, canny, Vuzjavalasith observes from some point on high, but what he sees might mean nothing - or everything. Annoyance, located at Igen's pens, begins to chirp like a metronome to an audience of caprines. Within the blind spot of the watchrider's station, the herd is sharply spun toward the central bowl of Igen Weyr and as they cross its border arches, the sound of hooves by the hundred precede them. Then, the sprouting white cloud of dust from the ground up. They spill into the Weyrbowl and actually pick up speed despite the justified trills of dragons. Dulcinea meanders through the bustling lanes of the Bazaar, tracing a familiar path towards The Songbird. As she navigates the throng of patrons and vendors, her gaze is drawn to the unusual disturbance-the rising cloud of dust that drifts and swirls with an urgency alien to the usual ebb and flow of the marketplace. Pausing, Dulcinea squints towards the source of the commotion, her brow furrowing slightly as she tries to discern the cause. Happily taking the carved runner that's been carefully wrapped up and deposited in her satchel, Nesyari looks around a little as she makes her way through the various stalls her eyes still on an interesting deal that she can bring back to Taski. At the thundering sound of hooves she turns "What in the…" she murmurs as she takes note of the dust cloud "Why in the…" A look of confusion crosses her face as she takes note that they seem to be coming in a little fast. This can't be good. Can it? There's always a need to visit the Bazaar, isn't there? It's a trek made more convenient on dragonwings and Yaszha takes advantage of Zheraszth's without shame. The greenrider is picking her way along through a stretch of leatherworkers with raw materials for sale when the low rumble of something causes her eyebrows to knit. She turns her head in the direction of the bowl and a quick communion with her lifemate confirms that something's rotten in the bowl - and it's not rotted fish or sheep butts (for once.) Her task is abandoned and she doesn't bother with putting up the pretense of interest as she steps away from a deeply confused vendor who is a few mental steps behind her revelation. Her next task becomes: find the next open door before no open doors can be found. "Ze'ran. Are you listening?" Fayze can sense when her twin brother is feeding her a line, and so she huffs a sigh. The scarf is purchased with the exchange of a few marks and she accepts the new garment with a bright smile. "I'm sure mother will love this." she coos over the new scarf. But. When the rumble beneath her feet cannot be ingored, she pauses in her step and looks at Ze'ran at her side. "What is that?" The sound of the runners appears to catch Tomas Haask by surprise, an eyebrow raised as the sound of hooves comes ever closer. Maybe he'll just slip inside this storefront. Don't mind him, getting out of the way, clearly. It's better to be safe than sorry, particularly with the amount of sand out following the sandstorm. There's no way to know it's coming this way in particular, no, not at all. "Maybe I can't hit anyone," Teicuih Tlatoani observes sharply, gesturing with her non-cue hand toward the misdirected herd of runnerbeasts, "But I certainly can complain about that!" Topiltzin cannot argue either, nor can he actually speak up: he's just staring, eyes widened, trying to see things that might make a difference through the dust and chaos. It sounds like hoofbeats, it doesn't look like a normal sandstorm: Tei's right that it's bad news. "We might want to get back inside," he finally offers, and she holds up that hand toward his face. "No. I want to see where this is going." ("You're an idiot." "Hush.") It sounds like trouble. It probably smells like trouble, too. Dzidra dials in to the energy that's starting to ripple through the shifting crowd. Concern has a taste that feels a bit too close to fear - and panic. She unconsciously sucks her teeth and shakes her head at the butcher; her mother might tan her hide for not bringing back a chicken or a wherry haunch, but she can deal with that. She spins on a heel and heads back in the direction of the residential terraces at a good clip - not yet running, but not far from it. As the distinct sound of runners' hooves grows louder, drawing closer by the second, Zariah, standing a few paces away from Tomas, weighs her options in a fraction of a second. Then she mirrors Tomas's action, gracefully moving towards the same storefront. "Seems like a wise choice," she comments lightly, her voice carrying a hint of humor as she steps inside the shop. Before Ze'ran can say that Zeyta would be very likely to burn that scarf and dances on its ashes, the bronzerider hears the warnings in the several dragons antagonized over a great many runnerbeasts thundering through the Weyr entrance. "What in green blood of Faranth…" Iandeleoth shares the sights he sees and confusion's stamped on Ze'ran's face. "Drovers and runnerbeasts…" that have no business being within a Weyr. "We need to get off the streets. Now." A sudden clamor rises above the usual sounds of the Bazaar as a trio of panicked runners burst through the main thoroughfare, their hooves clattering against the sandy cobblestone. Pedestrians scatter, diving for the relative safety of sandstone arches and open-air storefronts. One of the runners, its coat slick with sweat, narrowly misses colliding with a stall selling intricately woven baskets, sending wares tumbling in its wake, but that it seems will only be the beginning as the ground begins to tremble and shake. With the changing flavor of the bazaar, Nesyari starts to look a little frantic and that look turns to a bit of panic at the apparent stampede and she looks around as people start scattering. "Sweet mother of dragons." she murmurs and starts to find a path of least resistance as she gets turned around and then jostled around by people and ends up going with the general flow. The warm, sandy cobblestones beneath her feet seem to tremble with the distant thunder of hooves, a sound growing louder with each passing moment. With a mix of concern and curiosity, she shields her eyes with a hand, the other resting lightly on the strap of her bag, her posture poised yet relaxed. Dulcinea's heart quickens as she realizes the potential danger, yet her expression remains calm; panicking will only get a person killed. With the fearlessness and believed immortality of youth, Demitren seems to be heading straight for the trouble, even loaded down as he is. Ramita however, is calculating and all signs clearly point to TROUBLE, lays a hand on her son's arm. "We need to go…. now." But her own choice is to try and avoid the crowds by cutting through one of the alley ways. Whether or not Zeyta would burn the scarf Fayze just bought is irrelevant when the low rumbling sound of runnerbeasts suddenly becomes very real upon the streets of the Bazaar. She reaches for Ze'ran's arm and manages to grip it with a tight squeeze before what he tells her sinks into her thoughts- she has to move. Now. The dust of the runnerbeasts hooves begins to cloud the street and she darts into an alley where she (hopefully) dodges the frantic hooves. "Ze'ran!" she yells for her twin. And there it is. He's not so far off from where that basket vendor is and that's more than enough to snap him into the moment with a quickness. V'iss spits a swear that's drowned out by the burgeoning shouts - and that Vuzjavalasith will chastise him for, regardless - and then the foreign bronzerider is motioning at the vendors near him with a bellowed, "Get to safety! Get indoors or up on the rooftops! Go! GO!" The vendor hesitates and the Southerner grabs him by the arm and hauls him a few steps until survival instinct kicks into high gear. The merchant runs. All V'iss can do is try to get some others to follow. As for him? He'll just do his best to herd them. His own survival runs secondary in the heat of the moment - another thing that his bronze will berate him for, but he'll weather that storm when it comes. So kindly, Tomas lets the people inside know, "You might want protect yourselves for a bit, gentlemen. Stay in. It appears there is some chaos outdoors." He gives a knowing glance over towards Zariah and then peers out of the doorway again. The recent sandstorm certainly made things a lot worse for visibility. Ze'ran gets tugged by Fayze into the alley before they actually see any ears or wild eyes of the animals. "Listen to me," lowering his head so it'll fill Fayze's sight. "Stay here, I don't think they can fit," eyes flick to the width of walls around them. "Guide anyone close by here with you, I'm going to see if the guard needs help!" AKA he gets to break into the fray while Iandeleoth's line of 'caution' nearly knocks into him. "Stay put, I mean it!" Yeah, he knows you, Fayze. Rooftops? Now that's an idea. Nesyari has no problem with scrambling up heights, providing of course she finds one that seems appropriate enough to clamber up on. and curses a little under her breath as she's knocked to one side a bit, though luckily that propels her a bit towards one of the buildings. There. A shop. Yaszha hesitates before ducking inside, with some of her green's better nature finally yanking her back into the moment. "Come on, you two. Yes, you! And you!" She points at a few gawking souls with their bags of shopping and directs them inside. It's a spell of sorts, one that often works in times of crisis: point at a person and tell them to do a thing… and they'll usually do it, if one says it with enough authority. Yaszha has plenty of experience in that, at least. A few more are directed accordingly, her jaw tight, and her eyes open for any runnerbeasts set to stampede her way. Now it's a good thing Teicuih has that pool cue — Topiltzin, who is taller, has taken it from her and is using it to direct crowds like a beacon. "Go over that way," he tells a group of kids, pointing the cue, before urging a few others back into the Cantina: "It's not likely to be damaged. Tei, go inside." Teicuih's stubborn, refusing, and ends up scrambling up on top of a low roof to have a better vantage point to yell direction at a couple of stupid teenagers that ignored Yaszha's initial order: "Stop trying to get closer and get out of the way!" Hopefully she doesn't slip off that unsteady roof in the process. The initial shock of the stampede sends a ripple of panic through the Bazaar. Shouts and cries fill the air as vendors and patrons alike scramble for cover. A woman clutching her child darts into the shelter of an open-air caf, knocking over a display of handmade goods in her haste. The fear is palpable, a living thing that feeds the chaos, as a runner, its sides heaving, charges directly towards Ramita. Zariah nods in agreement with Tomas's warning to the shop's occupants, appreciating his quick thinking. "Best to stay clear of any trouble," she adds, her tone underscored with a hint of caution. Her gaze following his to the doorway, where the aftermath of the sandstorm blurs the outlines of the Bazaar. Poised on a rooftop overlooking the terrible river, Lokeiv's at a safe vantage to see all, if not to know all. He spots a few people streaming toward the alleys and other ways that lead up to the rooftops and, after a moment's hesitation - conflicting emotions war visibly on his face - he finally moves to the edge of the roof he's on to look down. Nesyari comes into view and he motions quickly, "Up here! C'mon!" A few bazaarbrats are already making their way up as nimbly as caprines. Fayze's pulse is beating far too wildly to disobey her brother's orders, and so she nods her response to his demand. "I will." she reassures him. Then, realization dawns on her. "Wait, where are you going? Ze'ran!" It might be too late to call her brother back into the alley way and so she looks around to see who might need immediate help. A child across the street is crying in panic and she looks at the boy with wide eyes- does she go, or does she say? The decision nearly tears her apart. A few more seconds pass as the thundering of runnerbeast hooves drowns everything else out. So much movement, so much dust. Fayze remains torn until she bolts from the alleyway and across the street to the boy. Ramita can probably feel that mother's pain except her own child should have the sense to get himself to safety, but instead she was having to coral Demitren along with her, slowing down their escape to an unfortunate degree. The hoofsteps get louder and louder until a glance over her shoulder she sees one of the beast charging up right behind them. A shove is given, pushing her son closer against the wall and a few bottles breaking in the process. Neither of the Steens get downright trampled, but it's a near thing, Ramita getting roughly bowled aside by the passing beast and there being nasty crack as she reaches out to try and catch herself on a wall to avoid falling completely to the ground. Her way home is soon blocked by the crush of people seeking refuge from the stampede and Dzidra's progress slows to a crawl. She cusses low, cuts to a side, and tries another tack to get home. One of the bags rips along the way, spilling cabbages and tubers and fingerroots into the pathways and her swearing intensifies. So much for dinner - her mother will have to be satisfied that her daughter will be home safely. Hopefully. Eye's widening as she stops momentarily to watch one of the runnerbeasts heading towards a woman, Mesyari shakes herself out of watching the possible wreck and looks up at the voice. Cursing the kirtle she's wearing the restricts her movements more than anything, she is clambering up towards Lokeiv coughing a bit over the increased sand and dust in the air. Topiltzin ends up deciding to be brave — he's jumping in to grab a boy who appears to have been lost in shock, looking deer-in-headlights at the oncoming hooves. Teicuih is cursing at him in the process, jumping down from the roof to try to help but keeping herself a little bit further away since she has some slight common sense. Those men on the backs of runners, the ones who funnel the herd square into the Bazaar, are wreathed in headscarves and bathed in all the same film of pale dust— indistinguishable. At first, their whoops and cries precede them, and then it all mixes into the buzz of screams, cracking wood, and unshod hoofbeats echoing through the community's close confinement. Fayze, unable to ignore the boy's cry for help, charges across the street and into the throng of stampeding runnerbeasts. Blinded by pure adrenaline, she makes it to the other side without getting injured and manages to scoop the small boy into her arms. Where is his mother? Father? She doesn't have time to care or ask questions, and instead holds onto the boy while slipping into another alleyway. Ze'ran can't yell at her for this. Nor her mother. Right? She coughs through the dust, holding the young boy tighter, while hurrying away from the chaos. "I got you." she breathes to him. "You're safe. I got you…" Flanked by his two firelizards on each side, Ze'ran cuts back out into the street, clears a broken handcart and catches up with Ramita once he can sort of see through the haze of a dying day and the screen of kicked-up dust. "You alright? There's an alley right there." Guarded by Fayze, probably. A black runner bolts across the marketplace, dodging patrons and stalls with unpredictable twists and turns. Its erratic path leads it directly towards Teicuih. The foreign bronzerider continues to herd people as best he can, grabbing and hauling when the din grows too loud for words to be of much use. V'iss shuttles a mother and her children off toward an alleyway - he can see it, anyway, but they'll have to sprint a fair stretch to get there - before he turns his attention to an old woman who is clearly too dazed to be able to move on her old. "Forgive me, granny, but-" he stops when it's clear she probably can't hear him and he settles for risking a 'pick up the old lady and drape her over his shoulder' maneuver. He should be able to get her to safety before she beats his back bloody with her bag of knitting needles and yarn. Her shouts for him to put her down go unanswered until safety is in sight. No good deed goes unpunished. "Yeah, yeah! C'mon!" Lokeiv leans down, extending a callused hand. He has the whipcord leanness of a creature that's always on the move and neve quite eating enough - but he's stronger than he looks. If Nesyari can get his hand, he can haul her up to safety. The little boy is scooped into Topiltzin's arms in he end, and whoever's child this is is getting returned to them having possibly been given a bit of comforting rum: but for now, having already raised one little boy himself, Topiltzin is simply holding him and offering comfort. "Shh," he says, brushing hair from the crying child's face, "you're okay. Shh." He's missing what's going on with Teicuih, who thankfully isn't a complete idiot oh wait, no, she's definitely going to try to catch that runner. Unsurprisingly she fails, and is knocked into a group of others, landing hard on an arm that gives under pressure with a loud crack. As the thunderous sound of hooves grows ever closer, Dulcinea steps decisively towards the nearest stall, her eyes scanning the chaos for anyone in immediate danger. "This way, quickly!" she calls out, her voice steady and commanding. Her keen eyes catch sight of a ladder leading to the rooftops, momentarily unguarded and inviting as a possible vantage point or escape. But as a runner, its eyes wild with fear, barrels through the Bazaar and the ladder is knocked askew as it runs through the vendor stall next to it. Dulcinea's focus sharpens as she assesses the new obstacle, quickly moving to help the vendor up from the debris. "Are you alright?" she inquires, her tone laced with genuine concern. Ze'ran is probably going to be royally pissed at her for risking everything for a child, but Fayze doesn't care in the moment. She slinks further into an alleyway with a child held tight to her chest as the chaos that is runnerbeast hooves thunders through the Bazaar. She has no idea where her twin is right now, and she blinks rapidly to keep tears from running down her cheekbones. "You're alright, dearheart. I've got you." she tells the child in her arms. "This way…" The force of the stampeding runners is like a tempest sweeping through the Bazaar, leaving destruction in its wake. One particularly large runner crashes into a ladder propped against a building meant for rooftop access. The ladder snaps under the impact, clattering to the ground just as someone attempts to ascend for safety. Splinters of wood scatter across the cobblestones, and amidst the chaos, the runner, now free from the obstruction, sets its frenzied sights on Nesyari and her attempted escape. One shop seems to be full and the others nearby are already shutting their doors out of an abundance of caution. Yaszha yells at a few of them, but it's easy to feign ignorance when the air is filled with screams and thunder. "This way! You three!" Most have already dispersed, but a few yet remain in this stretch of the Bazaar and the one-eyed greenrider snaps her fingers at the trio - three brothers, from the look of them - and jabs a finger toward another shop further down that doesn't seem to be closed just yet. With luck, the salon's owner won't mind a few extra people stopping in for a visit, even if they're not getting a haircut. Reaching out with her own callused hand Nesyari seeks that bastion of safety and use it as her way of ascending the wall upwards. Course, there's that moment of dangling that makes one's heart stick in ones throat. Even more as that runner heads straight towards her. In that brief moment she hangs there, watching as it comes towards her and then she's frantically scrambling to find purchase and kicks out a bit as the runner rushes past, her feet and legs colliding with painfully and then using the runner as a way to push herself upwards towards Lokeiv as well. Ramita hisses as she rights herself and clutches her arm tight to her chest. "Ceapan will pay… for whoever let those runners out of hand." The bazaarmaster may not have been personally responsible for this current disaster, but already the Steen's plotting sternly worded letters twisting this as a serious lapse his team should have prevented for how much bribes tithes they collect. "Nonononono-" A breathless staccato of negation, Lokeiv's tongue stutters with wide-eyed fear. A shift of stance has him flat on his belly, his arm stretched out a little more - as long as it can get - as if he could just snatch Nesyari free from the doom that's flashing before his eyes. Desperation lengthens his reach, his breath caught for a moment until the disaster passes and he can breathe again. Behind him, bazaarbrats scatter on the rooftops, likely to seek shelter elsewhere now that they're above the tide of terror. Amidst the turmoil, a runner's sharp hoof catches the edge of a woven rug laid out for sale, dragging it along as it gallops. The rug's intricate patterns are quickly coated with dust and dirt, its beauty marred by the stampede. The vendor, powerless to save their merchandise, can only watch as the runner, along with the ruined rug, heads straight for Yaszha. In the fray Topiltzin had vanished; it was back into the Cantina, where he was ushering a number of bruised people, small children and looky-loos who could use a drink. When he re-emerges he can't find Tei, and he's trying to call for her without being too loud and causing more fuss and shying runners. It's due to her shriek at the nearby falling ladder's sound that he locates her, just as she's brought herself to her feet and is walking briskly toward the Cantina where she began: with pain-fueled adrenaline and with an obviously broken arm, she nearly collides with Yaszha. "Pardon me! Sorry!" is hissed out, the tone due to the pain rather than an actually being rude. Meanwhile, trying to get back to help her (since all he heard was her scream), Topiltzin manages to roll his ankle, swears loudly, and pulls himself up next to Ramita: "Ceapan will hopefully make whoever that was pay. He's not that much of a moron." Another way home is blocked and Dzidra is forced to start shouldering her way through the crowd with a survivor's stubbornness. Her other bag is lost in the fray - two nights of fighting and she'll be able to buy more - but that's the furthest thing from her mind. Eventually, she finds her way to a ladder and hauls herself up, using handholds to brute force the way, rather than risking a ladder that looks half-rotted anyway. Demitren is tall enough to at least offer an arm to Topiltzin since twisted ankle may need more assistance escaping than Ramita's own injured arm is. She's got her right arm cradled tight against her stomach as she gives Topiltzin a glare. "There's no hopeful about it. If he can't find who was responsible, then it's on his head." And it's not on her to do the investigation! As the runaway runners continue their frenzied dash, one particularly agile animal leaps over a small cart, landing gracefully but with fear still evident in its stride. Its coat is slick with sweat, muscles rippling beneath the surface as it darts through the crowd. Merchants and shoppers alike scatter in a desperate attempt to evade the oncoming peril. Amid this disarray, the runner's desperate eyes lock onto V'iss, who is caught in the direct path of the frightened creature. She's in the midst of checking the area when the rug-bearing runner thunders her way. It's just Yaszha's bad luck that the beast is coming on her blind side, leaving her literally blindsided when it plows into her. The blow looks like a glancing one - it spins her like a top on one leg until she falls and one of the hind hooves catches her shin and snaps it. The blinding, white pain of that injury is enough to obscure the reality of a broken arm and wrist. The fall was bad; the runner was worse. All she can do is lie there on her back with stars in her eyes and Zheraszth's voice hissing needles into her brain to keep the darkness at bay. Ze'ran tagteams with a guardsman to set up something of a barricade now that the runners have nowhere to go and are sweating and following the bazaar's odd angles and courses at random, their unity broken. "Do you think it'll hold?" The guard asks. Ze'ran's chest contracts a quick, "no" with a bitter smirk he cuts short to check in on his sister within the alley they just recently sought refuge in. A hand bleeding from nothing he remembers, he's twenty paces from his destination when the runner that laid Yaszha out leaves the scene. Eyes looking in reverse track the downed woman. "Lie still — guard!" Attempting to summon a second to help carry her prone to the alley temporarily. Battered and bruised, but alive Nesyari is finally on the rooftop "Thank you." she says as flops down with a wince, but she can't help herself from moving back around to watch with abject horror at the scene below and at the men driving the runners through the bazaar. "Do you know who they are? Or why they are doing this?" she asks in a bit of a pained voice. Bazaar politics are not her forte, she's not here often enough for that. The old lady is dumped off - not soon enough for either of their likings, quite frankly - and V'iss is able to peel away to try to collect a few more people- but that's not what's in the cards, is it? Not with that runner running rough in his direction. There's not much he can do about a desperate animal charging at him, but the bronzerider's fight or flight response never was properly wired. Two things happen in short order: he punches the runnerbeast and the beast knocks him over. It's not quite a fair trade, though: the wet crack of snapped ribs and expulsion of breath leaves him dazed just long enough that the ground feels pretty good. But he has to get moving again - and he will - but he needs a moment. In a desperate attempt to escape the crush, people scramble towards the rooftops, using ladders, crates, and even each other to climb. A runner, blinded by fear, smashes into one such ladder just as one of the street brats reaches for it, hoping for a vantage point. The ladder crumbles and the boy is left grasping at the air, their escape route now blocked by the frenzied runner charging through. With panic in his eyes, he freezes and desperately needs saving, maybe by one Wingleader, who is now helping the hurt greenrider. Choices, choices. Perhaps someone else is near enough to keep the boy from being the next on the list of injuries. With arm casualties left and right, Teicuih at least isn't alone, nor is she one of the absolute worst for wear; she does manage to raggedly drag herself the rest of the way toward the Steen-and-Tlatoani corner, offering Ramita's determination a weak smile just as Topiltzin is thanking Demitren for the help: "Much appreciated, lad. Faranth but we're a crowd — " "I almost got hit." "You probably almost got yourself hit, and arms are not supposed to look like that — I'll survive but that needs a Healer — " While she may try to argue it's just a bad bruise, the arm is absolutely misplaced, misshapen and beginning to swell. Tope gives Ramita a 'help' expression: please mom-voice this person who is essentially the same age as you! Not that there's any way to get anyone to an infirmary now, what with the bowl still unfolding in madness as the runnerbeasts continue to descend. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lokeiv doesn't flop back - rather, he settles into a crouch that allows him to peer over the edge at the chaos and destruction below. He flicks a look to Nesyari, a trace of his natural skittishness manifesting in an anxious tick at the corner of his mouth. "No clue," he says after a moment or two. "I wish I knew, but- whoever they are, they had to have paid off the Bazaarmaster and his assistants, I'd think. There's no way they'd get in otherwise." It might be pure speculation, but he seems to believe it's true. "You okay? Didn't get too hurt, did you?" He saw that wince. Words pull her out of her precarious dance with unconsciousness and the greenrider turns her gaze to Ze'ran. Her tongue slicks out to wet lips that suddenly feel numb and dry, but no words come right away. "Just need a hand up," Yaszha finally says, wiggling the fingers of her good hand. Her other arm looks all kinds of wrong, but the break will hopefully be clean enough to heal well. "Be my crutch and get me to Zheraszth. I can make it the rest of the way." Yes, of course she can, with a bum leg, a bum arm on the same side, and no chance of hauling herself on the green no matter how low she can get to the ground. "See your cousin and myself to the Pit," Ramita does lend that mom-voice to Topiltzin's aid. Oh woe, help the injured elders. "We can at least have some comfort as we wait for a healer in the viewing balcony." Snacks, refreshments, and quite possibly very irrate family members as well. Amidst the chaos, the Weyrleader comes in flanked by Issa and a couple of the Weyr Healers. Dispersal is instant once they hit the Central Bazaar, and his figure is almost lost in the crowd of people moving to and fro, assessing injuries and insuring no missing persons. T'rin flicks open his herb pack, and kneels next to the one of the women sitting up against one of the storefronts. Both Amarante and Diomedes are very good at chaos, so they're definitely into the mayhem as quickly as T'rin directs. Nothing but a flesh wound. Nesyari shakes her head. "No, I'm good. I've had worse." she murmurs. Much worse. Still her egs are likely to be a pretty rainbow soon enough. She peers down at the mess that bazaar has become. "Shards, I can't even imagine what this will cost. Still, I can't thank you enough. I don't fancy being trampled, that's worse." She shakes her head some. "Guess, I won't be getting much in the way of things to take back home." Not far behind Amarante and Diomedes is one greenrider who can't forget that she isn't a Trauma specialist anymore. Weighing into the chaos, Madisyn is almost giddy - well, as giddy as anyone should be in a mass causality event - as she begins to work her former craft on anyone she can get her hands on. "If you're sure," but Lokeiv is naturally dubious. He glances at her legs as if he might see the damage lying beneath, but he doesn't have x-ray vision. "I'm just glad you're okay." Another smile, skittish; nervous. Uncertain, in some ways. Whatever his thoughts are, he keeps them shuttered and, instead, finally pushes to his feet and offers Nesyari a hand up. "Unless you're an opportunist, it'll be a while before anyone has shops open." A slight shake of his head follows. "I need to check on a few places, but- uh. You can come with me, if you want." "No chance." No healer, but even Ze'ran's calling that one as he curbs any more of his own hand blood from dropping onto Yaszha. The guard comes over and crouches to assess the blow on the woman's shin, "this looks bad. Should we—" The space Ze'ran's occupied empty in his response to the bazaarbrat, not quite going to make it in time. Kadan veers in front of the runnerbeast's nose, scratching the soft flesh until the roan beast half rears and Ze'ran almost runs into it at a full tilt. Quick-thinking, the bazaarbred boy gets out of dodge, while Ze'ran flings himself away backwards, landing in what was Mosaud's juice tent. It takes a few moments, but V'iss finally wheezes a good breath in, even if it burns and it hurts and maybe that's what finally gets him up and moving. The bronzerider can't get a full breath in once he's up and on his feet, but he finally takes the teachings of his bronze to heart and retreats for now. He'll get to the Weyr's Healers eventually but, for now, he needs to regroup. "Try me," Yaszha hisses to Ze'ran, shifting to prop herself up on her good elbow before a wave of pain and attendant nausea forces her onto her back again. She breathes slow and steady through her mouth, first to stave off the threat of sickness, then to try to gain some sense of equilibrium - but, by then, she finally tips into the precipice of unconsciousness. She'll only stay there for a few seconds at a time, but her memory of this day will be like swimming in a black sea that periodically breaks with an image here and there. She's easy pickings for the guards or Healers - or both - to carry her off on a litter at some point. Once Ze'ran's picked himself up from a rough landing, he goes back to at least help load Yaszha onto a litter now that the healers and overall order are starting to trickle in. The round up of semi-wild runners comes now, with the off-duty wingleader now moonlighting, under the watch of two moons, as wrangler. Giving a nod, Nesyari murmurs "I'm good." She looks at the offered hand and takes it to help herself up. There's a flicker of a wince that she works to hide and stands, a little shaky, but she's on her feet. "I don't think I'd have it in my heart even if I were an opportunist." she says as she looks at the destruction and then looks back over at Lokeiv. "Umm, sure, I'll follow." The once vibrant marketplace now lies in disarray, the aftermath of the stampede evident in every corner of the Bazaar. As the last of the runners gallop past, leaving a trail of overturned stalls and scattered merchandise behind, the air, once thick with dust and the cries of panic, now settles into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the soft sounds of pain and suffering from those who weren't quick enough to escape. In the midst of the wreckage, a sense of unity begins to take root. People reach out to help one another, lifting heavy debris and salvaging what can be saved, salvaging remnants of their lives and livelihoods from the rubble. As dusk blankets the scene, the toll of the day's events begins to be counted -not merely in terms of shattered possessions but in the irreplaceable loss of life. And that cost, unfortunately, will be a high one. Frenzy on the Hoof has 0 comments. |
25 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Fayze, Ze'ran, Dzidra, Nesyari, Ramita, Topiltzin, V'iss, Dulcinea, Yaszha, Tomas, Zariah, Lokeiv |
A herd of runnerbeasts is driven into bazaar streets for reasons as yet unknown. |
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Needing a Pair of Wings Needing a Pair of Wings
"Do you have many sandstorms like the one we just had?" Archives A remarkable legacy for those with the eyes to appreciate it, Igen's Archives are modest, in proportion to the weyr's similarly modest status; but though they be small, the room itself is mighty, with grandiose portent to the high, vaulted arches. These walls hold many treasures past their prime, from instruments to examples of older flying gear and agenothree tanks. The meticulous task of re-scribing old records is continually ongoing, with faded and disued hides replaced on a daily basis. The chairs and off-kilter tables seem to be heritage of a time long past, not in line with the rest of the vision of this room; but in all weyrs are budgets, and perhaps you've found one of Igen's budget cuts. In the quiet of the archives Shuseran sits at a corner table holding a book with a cracked cover, turning the yellowed page reverently, oblivious to anyone else in the room (It was empty when he came earlier). He wonders if other Weyrs and Holds might have such treasures as well! This book of ancient meteorological information might be dry reading to most, but to him it's fascinating. It's still the hottest part of the day, leaving the Weyrleader T'rin to seek refuge in the coolness of the Archives. It's also relatively free of the sand that raged through the out of doors in the sandstorm the past day. Dry, clean, cool. Unlike his usual trips to the Archives in the past several months being for anything and everything herb, today's is another topic, as instead of going to the herbology books, he finds himself enroute towards the historical Records on Fall formations. With it being largely empty otherwise, the bronzerider passes a nod over towards Shuseran, and a quiet, respectful-for-the-Archives "Good afternoon, journeyman." The section isn't far from where Shuseran sits, and T'rin is quickly going through the spines and scrolls seeking for the particular text on the agenda for the day. Shuseran looks up, startled by the voice. He may not know the Weyrleader by sight but he certainly recognizes the knot. He raises an eyebrow, wondering what brings the highest Weyr official to these musty archives. Surely he could have someone look up anything he might want to know? A Weyrsecond, perhaps? "Good afternoon, Weyrleader," he says quietly, his raised eyebrow betraying his curiosity. If Pern had library cards, T'rin's would be excessively worn out by now. The rider's fingers trace just a whisper away from the texts themselves until they hover over the item he was looking for, and they go in for the kill. Yoink! The volume, penned near the beginning of the Pass, is pulled into the palm of his hand. Standing in place, he's swiftly flipping through the leaves. Half of his attention on the subject of the text, and the other half on the journeyman Starcrafter, T'rin turns his attention on him a moment. "How is your study today?" he asks, never one to keep completely silent within the Archives. Shuseran responds quietly, "Good, good! You have quite the treasure trove for me here. I've been spending a fair bit of my free time in this corner. The only thing better would be to spend it in the air, learning your weather patterns firsthand. Do you have many sandstorms like the one we just had?" "Mmm, yes," T'rin replies as he finds the page and slips in a ribbon to hold the space as he takes the few steps over towards that corner table. Sorry, Shuseran, you have company now. "'Tis the season for sandstorms. You'll find they increase mid-summer and go through autumn." He gives a motion towards the scarf that sits loosely around his neck. "If you don't have one yet, invest in a good shemagh, and don't skimp." Now that he's settled into the seat, he opens the book at the page he kept. "Sirocco often keeps busy, but if you haven't talked to Wingleader Khu yet, she can often set things up for Starcrafters as they need." "Journeywoman Alsha said she'd set something up for me." The emphasis on woman holds a note of disapproval, and the tone of the sentence, frustration. T'rin's lips purse slightly at the minor disapproving tone. His eyes move down to his text and he makes a side comment of, "Remember that journeywoman Alsha earned her knot, as has Wingleader Khu." If disapproving of one woman in his line of work knotted, he might as well mention the other one he would have to work with. "That said," his tone goes back to general, albeit quiet, conversational, "if you haven't heard back in some time, you could reach out to Sirocco Wingleader Khu yourself?" Shuseran inclines his head in acknowledgement of the light reprimand. Of all the people to stay on the good side of, this is certainly the one! Besides, what would he expect of a female crafter? That she'd follow through on something she said she'd do? Although, he knows he could have— should have— gone back to her and requested her assistance with that again. That was sheer stubbornness on his part and he well knows it. "Oh, I did meet her." He decides not to add /and here I am, still on the ground/. Should he have expected more from a female Wingleader? Please. He gives the Weyrleader a resigned smile. "I'm sure both have been much too busy." He keeps his tone mild this time. "I might have an idea to rectify that," T'rin begins, having not done anything with his book than open it to the page he anticipated. Digging into one of his belt pouches, he pulls out a stark white simple knot, and place it on the table between them. "If you're having trouble scheduling with other dragonpairs, want to potentially be part of your own pair? Would you like to Stand for Pariisamith's clutch?" Shuseran stares at the white candidate's knot, stunned. Is he really being offered the chance to Stand at a hatching? Him, a candidate? He looks up, meeting T'rin's eyes, his look going from surprise to deep yearning. How many times had he dreamed of this, from childhood to… when he heard there were eggs on the sands here at Igen. "I.. You think I could? Impress a dragon, I mean?" He reaches for the knot, taking it and staring at it wonderingly. "I think so, but honestly it's up to the dragonets overall. There may be people who are perfect candidates, but their dragon had not shelled yet, so they might Stand two or three times." T'rin offers a reassuring smile as he closes his book. He's going to have to borrow this volume for the time being. "But if you accept that risk, your lifemate may be on the Sands. Do you accept?" "I.. that is.. Yes! I'm willing to.. to Stand." His hand closes around the knot. He's seen how many female riders they have here. Surely they need more capable men Standing, better choices for the dragonets. Would that give him a better chance? Perhaps, perhaps. But to even have the chance, the chance to Stand! And by the Weyrleader himself! Surely that means something. Surely that means he's truly a good candidate for, well, candidacy! The smile he gives T'rin is genuinely delighted, a boyish giddiness swirling in his head. "What do I have to do?" He has no real idea what this means, except that when those eggs hatch, he'll be there on the Sand in a white robe, waiting for a lifemate. "Excellent." And there's a reason he closed his book. T'rin gets up from his seat, tucking the volume under his arm. It's coming with him. "First off, follow me," he states with a smile. "We'll get you set up with the candidate barracks now." At least the man will have the afternoon and evening off. Tomorrow will come the duties; the new candidate has some breathing room before he suddenly has a whole load of new duties and responsibilities. Needing a Pair of Wings has 0 comments. |
25 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Some research resulted in an offer of a plain white knot. |
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Let's Make a Deal Let's Make a Deal
Fort Hold Great Hall This grand room is the largest in the entire Fort Hold area. It soars over two stories in height, and serves as both a dining hall and as a place of entertainment for the residents and guests of the Hold. A door in the northeast wall leads to the Fort hold Tavern, the Dancing Dragon. How long has Cahia been here? Time blends together into a simple life but a happy one, baking, cooking, learning, and taking long walks with her new friend Rellian. This evening she's doing what she does - baking and setting out foods, minding the Apprentices in her charge, directing restock of the food stations, keeping a close eye on…everything. So much has changed since the last time Tiergney ventured to find Cahia in Fort's bakercraft, turns ago. Though she may have some of the similar trepidation — hesitancy — as her previous visit, she comes not without good news necessarily, just. Well, she'll see. The woman hadn't wasted time to send a notice she was on her way, she just caught a ride when she could find an afternoon to leave the bazaar. Things seem to be gathering like an ominous storm cloud, there, and while she may have a sense of foreboding in leaving today, she is also relieved. To get out of it — but most of all to see Cahia, even if some of what she has to tell her doesn't feel excited. Enough rambling preamble! In comes Tiergney, letting down her hair and loosening her traveling jacket, looking all around the great, great hall of Fort for where the bakers are at work. Her daughter isn't difficult to spot, and with a smile, she slips closer to Cahia, but still enough out of the way to allow her daughter to see her and come when she can. Oh yes, the parallels are not lost on Cahia when she spies her mother's arrival, and with a quick smile and wave, she tends to her work for a few minutes more before wiping her hands on a cloth and hastening over. "Mother, is everything okay?" No notice, no warning, no…nothing. "Well…" Is that answer enough? "Nothing's wrong," necessarily, from some angles, but Tiergney's smile looks just a little forced when she turns it to Cahia, and tries to give a hug that is part greeting, part reassurance. "I know I'm interrupting," for Cahia was in the middle of working, but, "do you have just a minute to talk?" Cahia is starting to get those anxieties fluttering back, making her stomach clench in painful ways despite her mother's hug. "Of course," she says, looking around and then waving to a Journeyman that she's taking her break. She ushers her mother to a quiet corner in the cavernous hall, sitting perched on the edge of a chair, hands folded in her lap tightly. Tiergney sits, as well, linking her fingers together atop the table in too much resemblance to a business-type meeting. Even if this isn't. "I'll just get to it, but I do want to hear how things are going for you here." Her daughter looked happy when she first caught sight of her — and she hates to think she's about to dash some of that. "Everything is fine with the bakery, and the Bazaar," in general, she supposes. She looks down at her hands while she tries to find her words. "Bacah — " no, she corrects that, for in this they are a united front, "well, Wild Hearts made a… temporary deal with the Akzhan family. Azrael…" now, a glance up to see if Cahia is familiar or has heard of the head of the family, "agreed to help… Wild Hearts and your bakery. As Bacah's resources were getting a bit thin." Can Cahia hear the but in her sudden pause. Cahia remembers Azrael. She probably still owes him marks for his cleaning but he never sent her a bill so… "What kind of help?" she whispers. "What kind of deal?" She flinches when she is told about Bacah's resources getting thin. Her fault. And she doesn't even really know the guy. "I'm sorry." "No, no, it's not — it's not your fault. It's just the… Bazaar right now." Tiergney reaches over to give Cahia's folded hands a quick, reassuring pat. "It's that family," her voice sharp, slanted, referring to the Haask. "He's taking over what Bacah's men were doing, watching the bakery — also Wild Hearts, too. For a turn, that is all I agreed to." She sighs. "I hope that's how long it takes for it all to settle down." Her lips pinch tightly on her next pause, then she continues, "Wild Hearts must give the best of the runners gathered to the Akzhan to train, but for the bakery…" — thankfully it isn't nine marks a seven — "I think it must provide… some of your baked goods at Azrael's discretion." That clause in the agreement much more vague than what Wild Hearts' owes… she falters, though, with that sort of obligation, looking up at Cahia to see her reaction. "I'm sorry to have made decisions about your bakery without you." She doesn't admit Bacah did that, in her stead; instead of her; before she was aware — but her expression looks guilty. Cahia looks a bit…suspicious. "That's…it? Just some…baked goods?" That seems far too easy, from what she's heard of the Akzhan. Far, far too easy. But she gives a quick shake of her head, waving her mother's concerns away. "I left, Mama. I left without warning or word. I… I abandoned my business. You don't have to apologize for stepping in when I failed…" "I don't really understand it," Tiergney says honestly, with a half-laughed exhale that is relief for Cahia's understanding. "I know that Miss June's means a lot to you," or did, at one point. Unless this extortion business has tainted it so much for Cahia. "Do you think you'll ever come back to it?" Cahia looks away guiltily towards the kitchen. "I…I don't know," she admits quietly. "Did you ever think of giving up Wild Hearts?" "It's alright, Cahia," Tiergney rushes to reassure, though her voice is quiet. "Dreams change." To the question turned back at her, the woman pauses again, her expression growing wistful. "Yes, I do. I know I can't run it forever. Sometimes when things get messy like this," or when Mardenas was lurking around looking for Thattik, "I dream of leaving the Bazaar — moving out to the ranch and staying there. I don't think Hasaan would ever go with me," she admits with a rueful smile, for she knows Hasaan + runners do not mix, no matter how good he looks on a runner. "I also don't know what would happen to Wild Hearts if — or when — I do give it up. I once had thought Thattik would take over, but he's too unreliable, and gone," she ends with a shrug and another sigh. "I just don't know. I can't imagine allowing Bacah to have all of it." Cahia nods as she listens, watching her mother and taking in every word. Said and unsaid. "I guess I have to go talk to Azrael, then," she says quietly. When? Who knows! "Cahia!" A Master calls from the kitchen with an urgent tone. "You're needed!" Cahia waves and turns back to her mother, giving her another apologetic look. "I need to go. Thank you for…for visiting. I'll…I'll come back to the Bazaar soon…" "Yes, of course, I wanted to see you," Tiergney smiles softly — sadly? — and stands, leaning to give Cahia a quick hug. "Next time I'll send proper word so we can have longer," because she does want to hear how Cahia is faring. "I'll write to you, soon." She turns and heads back out to the waiting rider. Cahia watches her mother go for a long moment, until the Master's more insistent call has her hastening back to the kitchens. Let's Make a Deal has 1 comments. |
25 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Tiergney visits Cahia in Fort to tell about the deal she made |
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{Vig} Dear Beloved Person {Vig} Dear Beloved Person
Haverick's wagon Dear Beloved Person, I know this message will come as a shock to you, but permit me my desire to detail this endeavor I must put to you. I am Adalia, daughter to a great and powerful person whose name I cannot reveal yet — please trust me! He was recently poisoned in order to get a hold of his vast riches, which should be mine. I am seeking for an avenue to safely move the credits until such time as the murderer can be outed and the riches stay out of their hands. If you are reliable and trustworthy person, as I have been told you are, I would send you the location of where to find these marks, and you would move them securely, as I do not trust that I am not being followed and they would not eventually find where I will hide this. Please, good person, I will offer you twenty percent of the total sum of this fortune for your assistance. However, this must be done urgently and without delay! Due to these circumstances, I cannot say more here. But know that, if you will help me in this, you will have earned a great and powerful ally. And that twenty percent. Leave your reply under the loose stone in the doorway of Izaiah's garmentry, at the end of the Cloth Corridor. This must be done IMMEDIATELY or my life and money are forfeit. I will then write to that spot where you will be able to discover the hidden marks. Rukbat's blessings, Wow, it had everything that could appeal to a trader like Haverick: the promise of riches, a damsel in distress, and the thought he was a good person. It tickled his fancy and made him laugh, and while he should have tossed it — like the break-up box getting worn-in as a right nice foot stool — he didn't. He kept it, and on his travels brought it out as a fun little read-aloud around the campfire with other traders he met up with on his route. Man, he liked receiving mails and deliveries about other people's business and never questioned why he never received any of his own. {Vig} Dear Beloved Person has 1 comments. |
22 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Haverick… thankfully… doesn't fall for it. scam mail, woe! |
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V || Mail's a little Nippy Today! V || Mail's a little Nippy Today!
"And now I know too." Azrael's Office, Akzhan Villa You receive your mail… … exactly as you have expected it, from all the people you are corresponding with. Almost. If not for that tiny little addition which tumbles out of //that particular sealed scroll - an addition that simply reads: "And now I know too."// Azrael stares at the addition, thinking about that particular sealed scroll. Brows shoot up, then lower, then squint. "Huh." Of course, the mail correspondence has been broken lately — he'd had to take care of a messenger himself for getting his missives crossed to the wrong people. This scroll. Fingers tap-tap-tap as he considers which it could be. An important missive to — no. Not that. "Fortuitous if it's that one," as Azrael does want one bit of news to leak. The old, large collection of buildings he's been quietly reinforcing into a new tenement building establishment, well… it would not hurt for that to get out. After all… the Bazaar really does need a good slums… and who best to be it's slumlord than the Akzhan…? "Good. Good." Fly free, little bird of information, fly free. V || Mail's a little Nippy Today! has 0 comments. |
22 Feb 2024 08:00 |
Azrael's mail has an opinion. mail's gettin' sassyyyyyyyy~ |
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Navigating the Unknown in Style Navigating the Unknown in Style
"How are you feeling about all of this?" Sands The out-of-doors of Igen Weyr seems a blissful respite from the oppressive heat of this sandy colosseum. Heated from beneath by volcanic vents, the air above the hatching sands shimmers, lending a sort of unreal, dream-like quality to the area beyond even the magic that happens here at Impressions. Despite its blistering temperatures, the sands are incongruously soft, almost powdery, and flat save for the worn stone queen's bower that rises up to break the monotony and provide a place of respite for the doting mother-to-be. Nhiuzukkath is just about the wrong side of obnoxious lately. The sands are LITTERED with his gifts along with the eggs. First there's the still fresh sheep — for whatever reason, sheep are his beasts of choice — for his queen, and then there's the random giant leather ball-thing he brought in on one wandering. Maybe Pariisamith wanted to play? Be distracted? Then there's the pulled up redfruit tree in front of the galleries, obviously not in season, but still, a gift. And then there's the GIANT ASS boulder he walked in with a few candlemarks ago. Oh, his eggs are safe enough, and he toils with her unrelenting energy, always careful to be there if he is needed, which has left Vh'iyr stranded and annoyed, and basically dragonless. "You are a useless hunk of bronze you know that?" Vhy mutters, hands on his hips, shirt half-done, hair askew and a dragon that looks to be not about to budge anytime soon. "Would it be so bad if you could, you know, take me home? Like once? Did you know I had to try and scale the damn cliff to get up to where my clothes are?" Thus, bronzerider looks more vagabond grifter drifter from the stores than a bronzerider. Where is Kopriva? Who knows, Vhy's trying to wheedle his way into getting to his weyr. Pariisamith has been weathering much of Nhiuzukkath's obnoxiousness with her usual pragmatic approach — and if that fails, perhaps he has earned the beginnings of her vexation. She DID eat one of those sheep he brought (finally) and now … perhaps this is the penance for it? The young gold will NOT want the leather ball-thing sticking around and definitely not the GIANT ASS boulder! It's likely more the source of her displeased rumbling than the bronze himself. Where IS Kopriva? She isn't on the sands, but on her way there and not looking terribly thrilled either. She was having a moment away, to escape the heat and refresh herself; sure enough, she's dressed lightly but her hair is still damp and hastily tied back. Nothing like having a bath interrupted! Her expression is of someone who has already accepted that plans have changed — but won't pretend it doesn't sit entirely right. Kopriva arrives not long after Vh'iyr's attempt to wheedle his way home. Her gaze slides from bronzerider to bronze dragon, unsurprised at their presence … or just WHO might be the cause. "What has he done now? Pariisamith mentioned something about a boulder…" she asks with a sigh and outward glance over the sands. Kopiva goes abruptly still, catching something at her peripheral and then double taking. "Is that a whole… tree?" Did she NOT see that before!? "… Gifts," Vh'iyr drags his fingers through his hair, making the strands stand upon their ends before slowly falling into haphazard array of bronze-touched dark brown mess. "They're gifts." Kopriva's presence gets recognized, of course, but he doesn't turn to face her full-on, instead gives her a side-eye squint. "And apparently, I have a package in the bazaar that I have to pick up that someone mistakenly sent me… oh and I also got caught up in this weird kinky sex mail where one dude threatened to scoop up another dude's anal beads." Yes, Vhy looks Kopriva dead ass in the eyes when he says that. "So it's been a few days, I missed that he was digging up a whole ass tree." The boulder is like… at least as tall as Kopriva is, and quite pretty with striations of color. Nhiuzukkath is asleep now, and looking so innocent with these little snores that sound like wheezy flutters. iiihhhh…eee-e-eeee-eee-eeeee. "He thinks he has to feed her." Nhiuzukkath's right eye cracks open slightly, but quickly feigns sleep once more. "And entertain her with…" … a vague gesture of, "…toys?" He eyes her, thoughtfully. "Maybe your book was too good you didn't see the tree marching by…" YOU KNOW THE ONE KOPRIVA. SHE KNOWS THE ONE! It's written ALL over her too-open expression, despite her efforts not to acknowledge that. DESPITE THE VERY BOOK LIKELY TUCKED AT HER SIDE. Kopriva clears her throat, likely trying to absorb all that Vh'iyr just dropped on her too. There's likely a heavy sidelong look pinned at him, just as Pariisamith is likely staring at Nhiuzukkath and not buying into the sleeping-trick. Not entirely … but as long as the boulder is over THERE and not being touched, the gold will settle. Kind of. Maybe she'll convince the bronze to deliver it to Zsaviranth. She likes pretty rocks, doesn't she? "Gifts," she echoes, pursing her lips when she feels the sudden urge to laugh; maybe the heat has muddled her head a little. "…toys." Or she's still recovering from making eye contact throughout Vh'iyr's recounting of his wrong delivery woes? All that color to her cheeks isn't just from the heat in here! "Pariisamith did eat one of the sheep he brought …" she relents, hesitant to pin any blame — even if it's deserved. Kopriva opens her mouth to add more, then decides against it, following it with a lift of her hand to wave it dismissively. NEVER MIND~ As for gifts… or not gifts? "Strange days for a lot of us, so I've heard? I … think I am thankful that all I got was a — a love letter clearly for someone else, a weird box that was … wet. It was leather for reins, harness and leads," Don't read into that too much, LIKE SHE DID. "And another two parcels today. One was mine, at least." NOPE, not mentioning the book~ "Someone named VaoVao is out there really into some kinky ass shit," Vh'iyr notes with judgement. "And someone was talking about scooping up marbles and all I could think were anal beads after VaoVao promised to get on his knees and beg." Vhy gives Kopriva a look. "So yeah, weird few days and apparently I have a packase somewhere in the bazaar that's too inappropriate for me to get. And it makes me wonder if VaoVao has found out who I am and send some poor rando a ball gag. VaoVao seems the type." Listen, Vh'iyr is a young man with an active (and judgy) imagination. He could never understand the MAGIC that is Nik'las and Va'os' bromance mixed with husband-husband an free lovin'. "So I lost track of Nhiuzy in all that mess and so we get this." He eyes the tree. "He might take away the boulder, or he might bury it, I don't know. I'll try to see if I can't stop him from…" Vague gesture to the sheep… the BUTTLESS sheep. One has to wonder where all these hind ends go, because the bronze does not eat the business end. NOPE. "What was your other gift?" Attention shifts from the dragons, the eggs, and sands to goldrider. "That book?" Does Vh'iyr inch closer, curious? Kopriva does not judge and, apparently, does not kink-shame! Even though it's CLEAR AS DAY that her mind is trying to wander — definitely wanders at some point. Which is making it very difficult to keep a straight face AND maintain any form of eye contact with Vh'iyr. Maybe it'll be mistaken for sheepishness? She is not, however, clutching any imaginary pearls here! Kopriva does end up rather dumbfounded by the end of it, chewing at her lower lip to keep from laughing. "… wow. I … huh. Has everyone just put that much faith in messages being correctly delivered? The letter I got by mistake was, um, sweet." Sucks to be you then, Vh'iyr? "No names though. Are you going to go and get that package?" Kopriva is mildly distracted while framing that last question, attention drawn away as Pariisamith pulls herself to her feet. The young gold is only making her usual rounds, movements relaxed and confident even around the hardening eggs. "He will have to stop… once the Candidates are brought out. She might put an end to it by then…" Kopriva remarks, a little absentmindedly. Satisfied that the gold's mood is mellowing out, Kopriva is still only half paying attention to Vh'iyr. "Hmm?" Her weight shifts, as does her hold, without realizing, on the book; maaaybe it looks like she's offering it to him? "It was a nice white-gold box with a variety of tea blends inside, from Ezra Steen." The gift, that is. NOT the book! From the way she smiles, Kopriva is delighted by it. Vh'iyr would judge his mom on a good day and go do whatever he wanted at the same time. He's just judgy. "Yeah. Eventually." Right now? No, his dragon hasn't moved and he's lacking some key material from his weyr. It really sucks to have a home aloft in the skies if your elevator won't take you to the top. "Will he? Or will they have to dodge his offerings? If they can't move around a few trees, boulders, and corpses, are they worth our eggs?" He has high expectations of their eggs, see. "Who's Ezra Steen?" Vh'iyr isn't a fixture in the bazaar and truthfully wouldn't know an Akzhan from a Steen on a good day. Instead, he plucks the book from Kopriva's hand, "Whatcha reading?" Did he invade her personal space? Oh yes, and if he gets smacked for it, then he well and truly deserves it! Nhiuzy's "snores" stutter a bit… amusement?! Who can say! "Are you drinking hot tea in this sauna?" he asks, incredulous and somehow respectful of such an achievement. "So what's do you like to read," of course he lands right in the middle of the book, hazel-green eyes shifting from Kopriva to the words on the page. "… Vh'iyr," Kopriva sighs, but there's no real bite of annoyance to her tone. It might be leaning towards exasperation though. "I think the Weyrlingmaster might have some issue with that? And Pariisamith doesn't want rocks or leather … leather balls?" No, no, keep it together! She knuckles her brow with her free hand, grimacing as she tries verbally side-stepping out of that. "She'll likely make him move those." Is it a fact or warning? "He's —- hey!" Kopriva was about to elaborate, but then the bronzerider is abruptly in her space, surprising her and allowing the book to be snatched! HOW DARE~ Vh'iyr will get a smack to the arm, but it's half-hearted at best. Pariisamith pauses in her movements, head turned their way before rumbling low — and drifting over to the "sleeping" Nhiuzukkath. Now it's HIS turn to be poked and prodded; she will tap-tap a front foot against his flank. Up, up, up! "No, I'm not drinking tea here!" Kopriva's voice wavers with some amusement — or nerves, as her eyes dart to that book and back to Vh'iyr. "They do make iced or cold versions of tea…" But that rambling is besides the point, right? "Umm…" She stalls on the topic of WHAT she reads, because she is deciding whether or not to smack that book right out of his hands — TOO LATE. Vh'iyr probably, with his luck, lands on one of the steamier chapters. It's Weaver themed, use that imagination~ Nhiuzukkath's behavior is future-Vh'iyr's problem as right now Vh'iyr is caught up in this book of Kopriva's. While Nhiuzy plays dead on Pariisamith, twitching a little with her pokes, bronzerider stares at the book as if he cannot believe what his eyes read. At about the time, bronze dragon pops up in play antics with the gold — well away, of course, from their brood of eggs — does Vhy lift his eyes and stare at Kopriva, a deep, resounding humor rising up with his brows. "You know," somehow Vh'iyr manages to keep a straight face, but if the tension in his posture is any given indication, he's probably straining an abdominal muscle doing so, "you can go to Rosie's if you want something more," dot, dot, dot, "tangible. I've heard they have men, too." Or do they? Vh'iyr assumes they do. "Or another brothel. Experiencing is much more fun than reading." And that's all he says on the book in question, snapping it closed and handing it back to her. "And I don't think," voice pitched low while laughter dances in his eyes as he leans towards her, "the veins are like threads." Maybe weaver analogies were a miss or maybe he skimmed too hard and mixed up words. Either way, he's being a cock-sure little shit, complete with irreverence in his smile. "So, Priv," once she's got her book back while Nhiuzukkath flicks his tail at Pariisamith's haunch in rebuttal play and to be a little shit, "If it's dripping, don't fuck it. It's not a good sign." Sly, sly, slyyyyyy is the smile tugging on oh so boyishly charming lips. Kopriva begins to tense up too, even while Vh'iyr keeps that straight face of his, having just … submitted to the eventual outcome rather than panic-smacking the book. "There's other brothels?" she blurts out, only to blush furiously and immediately wave her hand again while trying (and failing) to click her tongue in feigned annoyance. FORGET SHE ASKED THAT. DON'T ANSWER, IT WAS RHETORICAL! She will SNATCH that book back and it is returned, securely, securely to her side. As he begins to pitch his voice lower, Kopriva gives him a wary side-eyed look, only to lose the battle first and begin to laugh. It might start more as a stuttered exclamation, and it's a wonder how far that blushing of hers can spread. "You're terrible," she mutters, for Vh'iyr's take on the book's analogies. Her voice is still too flustered for it to even remotely hold any heat or truth. It's followed up with a good shove of her hand to some point of his body, if he doesn't evade it. Sly is not met with shyness! Okay, some shyness to cover for the fact she might not fully grasp what he's hinting at. "I don't even want to know…" she half groans and begins to take a step away; those sands are hot underfoot! "What brought you to the sands, again?" Kopriva will STEER things, if she can (oh, let her have some hope), back. Even if part of the answer is obvious! Pariisamith, for her part, will take her revenge on Nhiuzukkath by trying to pin his tail this time. All while concentrating the light in her mind to laser focus — maybe literally. Annnnd, maybe she tries to convince the bronze to take Vh'iyr back home. Something about both of them needing to be refreshed and at their best, because if something happens, well… who would bring the gifts? Help with the eggs? "Of course," Vh'iyr side-eyes Kopriva. "Rosie's isn't the only game in town, nor is Rosie's the only one of it's kind. Wherever people have a need to fuck, someone will take profit from it." He seems to have little opinion one way or another on a brothel, though the bronzerider seems capable of finding a warm bed to sleep at night without need to pay. "For all manner of… tastes." He waggles his brows to really drive home the overt innuendo. Which spreads into a devil-may-care grin and a nudge to her arm. "You meant to say, I'm amazing." Yet the wicked glint in hazel-green eyes indicates he's well aware of his plight in life, which is to be terrible in the worst best ways possible. "You don't even want to know what?" his voice drops to a low purr as if to provoke continued shyness from the goldrider, sidling up to her with that shit-eatin' grin. All he needs are little devil horns and the spirit of his demeanor would be complete. "When you get to that part, Priv, I'm here, at your service, to answer all your questions about the unrealities of the dick portrayed in that book." Look! He even adds a cavalier bow to the whole arrangement before he looks to his bronze, who's happy to tustle with his clutch-sister-turned-lover-turned-mother-of-his-soon-to-be-born-babies. The heat of her winnowed brightness to particular point AROUSES (harhar) Nhiuzukkath's attention with LAZER focus. Oh baby, she PLAYS with him. Almost as if she directs such pinpoint beam of light attention and he rolls after it, wiggling with her, but also reaching for that little bit of light. "Oh, me? Well, aren't we supposed to hang out here or something?" A different glance angled at Kopriva, then to the dragons, "Oh and to convince his lordship to get his ass up so I can get to my weyr and actually get dressed." It'd be nice to not be a stores-hobo and his leathers? He's going to need them eventually. "It's hard getting him to move away from… and I hate forcing him." A flicker of emotion crosses Vh'iyr's features, serious in it's brief breath of life. An attempt is made NOT to roll her eyes at his brow waggling, but Kopriva doesn't fully succeed. She scoffs at the nudge, but there's a hint of a smirk at play before she tempers her expression. Which fails in the next breath with Vh'iyr sidling up, all grins and cavalier bows (and lack of devil horns) and she can't quite look AT him or keep looking away; all while struggling not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered laughing again. He'll earn another push-nudge in return, before she's moving with a little more purpose. Those sands are hot! And there's likely somewhere better to stand that won't threaten to burn the soles of their feet. "You're pretty confident," Kopriva half-tosses over her shoulder, if he hasn't kept pace. Her confidence isn't entirely there, with a little hiccup in the cadence of delivery but she quips: "Didn't think you were an expert in the portrayal of dicks?" Pariisamith will play equal parts fair and unfair, allowing Nhiuzukkath a few 'victories' when the bronze reaches for that light. She will occupy herself with keeping the bronze's attention, though soon enough the instinctual need to tend the eggs will override all. Maybe, too, a restless need to stretch her wings and take a brief sojourn outside — but that will be later. "Yes," Kopriva agrees, expression sobered to a more slanted smile. "You can, all you want…" But? She bites back that one reply, in favor of another, with a hint of a worrying frown. "I didn't know he was being that…" Stubborn? Hyper-focused? It's dropped, exchanged for: "He has been good with the clutch. With her." A nod to both dragons, though her gaze never quite leaves Vh'iyr. "… eccentricities aside." THE GIFTS, she means. "I happen to be in possession of one," Vh'iyr remarks, a touch sardonically, "Which makes me a pretty decent expert." Of course, every man is different and so who knows, maybe there's a veiny, drippy beast out there… too much? Ahem. Loping easily along beside her, a smirk may find her look over her shoulder, but he's done prodding poking annoying her for now. Nhiuzukkath's attention span drops pretty quickly when hers does, for the eggs are always his number one. If he could tend each one a thousand times a day, he would. He is so careful with them, too, using the gentlest of paw-nudges in the giant egg-buried litter box that makes up the sands. THAT EGG, the one that caused all the problems, even gets lovingly attended too, but is kept BURIED. Good luck touching that one. "Yeah, well, I've never — we've never done this," half-shrug sends hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, which hang too low on narrow hips given he lacks a BELT. That would be in his WEYR. Ahem. "Nhiuzukkath is always difficult to wrangle, but it's worse… now? I think, when they're not so soft, maybe he'll loosen up. He tells me they are fragile right now." He doesn't look away from Kopriva, necessarily, but let's his gaze drift into a middle-ground of nothingness. "It's like flights. Everything new becomes the same damn challenge as weyrlinghood all over again. Until we work it out, until it's not new anymore. Until…" Shoulders rise, cresting up to jawline while gaze drops to the sands once their feet reach the point the galleries start. "Until we find a way to create balance. I'll eventually get to my weyr, I am the rider, he's the dragon. He just needs…" Help? A hot poker to the bum for incentive? Something like that. "But he," now his eyes come to rest on Kopriva, demeanor unaccountably serious now — a rare moment. "Priv, he is so happy. This," chin nod to indicate the whole of the sands and Pariisamith and the eggs, "makes him — gives so much emotion it's near overwhelming." It can't be avoided a second time and Kopriva does roll her eyes for Vh'iyr's sardonic reply — just a little. She'll shake her head, biting back the smirk that threatens as the conversation between them shifts. Just as the bronzerider no longer pokes touches on the earlier topics, Kopriva is pointedly ignoring the too low settle of his pants. Her gaze is on him, quiet and reflective while he speaks. Once they're on the threshold of the galleries, she'll step just enough to allow them both some reprieve from the sands and turn to face him. What to say in response to all of that? Kopriva's gentled expression might say plenty, as does the light smile. One that remains, even when she looks towards the sands and both the bronze and gold. Pariisamith is tending to some of the eggs, shifting the sand around some, leaving Nhiuzukkath to do the same; there is trust, despite the earlier displeasure. She can see how gentle he is and does not chase him away from sharing the task that brings the bronze such happiness. THAT EGG, is mutually agreed upon to stay buried~ "… hopefully," Kopriva speaks up at last, quietly to start. "He will settle soon enough for you both to find a middle ground. I'm glad that he is happy." A hint of amusement, a hidden smile. "I could do without the surprise gifting but I'm not sure how much of a say I have in that, since Pariisamith is," she pauses, head tilting slightly as she mulls over placing tricky-enough emotions into words. "He may frustrate her sometimes, but his dutifulness … She is pleased with him." Kopriva's expression twists for a fleeting moment — maybe not quite the words, but the best she can do in the heat (ha ha) of the moment. Her attention drifts for one last glance to the sands, but the gold is still very much preoccupied and so she turns her gaze back to Vh'iyr. "And what about you?" Softly asked, almost hesitant. "How are you feeling about all of this?" Vh'iyr does not react to the eyeroll, not when other topics take such a large space in his mind. Namely, the dragon-sized one sitting on the sands with his mate carefully, gently tending the eggs. Faranth forbid anything bad happen or any Candidate get too far out of line, for he suspects Nhiuzukkath's rage would be instant, hot and might come with a gust of hot breath and show of teeth and a growl to scare grey into the hair of the person who caused it. For now? He's a docile kitten, happily tending, tending, tending. "I could do without a lot," again, sardonic irony tumbles through the words from Vhy's lips, "But yeah. I don't particularly want to consider what will happen when the carcass starts stinking." Luckily, so far, they've managed to get the bodies off the floor before that. There's a first for everything, however. "Good," a look flicks Kopriva's way, "I was concerned that he would win a goldflight and the goldrider or gold would dislike him. Push him away. He is too…" Soft, isn't the right word, but. "It would have soured him, I think, on trying again if the experience had been different." Yet, Kopriva goes for broke when she asks her question, and Vhy once more digs his hands deeper into his pockets, dragging them a little lower down on his hips while thoughtful exhale blows out of his mouth. "It's an experience," he's truthful, "and one, well Priv," another shoulder-nudge, this time with a canted smile towards her, "Can't ask for a better goldrider to go through it with." Clutchmates, firsts, everything. "I am enjoying it, if I'm honest." Which he so rarely is, but in this moment? He shares that with Kopriva, "Even if I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, but we kinda both don't, so it feels like exploration with a friend." "I don't think anyone would," Kopriva will interject lightly on the topic of stinking carcasses. Really, that is maybe the largest concern. Pariisamith has eaten some of what Nhiuzukkath has brought! One or a few less to deal with. She is quiet again, while Vh'iyr speaks, but with her full attention on the bronzerider. There is a dip of her head, a subtle acknowledgment for the concern, a slight hint of understanding. Kopriva had her own concerns, but none are voiced here; just a shared look. His nudge to her shoulder is met with a fleeting but broader smile, a little hum that is not quite a chuckle. Truth and honesty are respected and returned: "Same," Kopriva replies, "Couldn't have asked for a better outcome." Her smile, then, tips a little more to a bright grin. It doesn't quite fade, even as the conversation keeps to a more sober and serious vein. "Well — for both of us not knowing what we're doing? I think we're doing pretty well. Or at least no one's told me," To her face. "That I, or we, should be doing anything differently." And there is none of her usual worry or insecurities in her expression; maybe it's lurking still to pounce at a later time. Kopriva darts another look to the sands, to confirm before offering an invitation. "They might be a while yet with the eggs. Did you want to come and sit down?" It's not like there's a lack of seating choices! Though Kopriva has probably picked out a little slice nearest the sands for herself. Small comforts, but no snacks (currently)! Once again, the negligent shoulder shrug accompanies Vh'iyr's crooked grin, "Yeah. We're pretty badass." When he darts a look at Nhiuzukkath — who's happily doing what Pariisamith wants him to do with the eggs, while also making sure they're covered up and also sometimes attacking her tail because it is so damned alluring. And enticing. And so damn pounceable!! Ahem. Still, irritating or not, one cannot fault Nhiuzukkath's devotion to both gold and their massive brood. "Sure, I got some time. I think I'm going to try to find that bazaar package today since apparently I am going no where up." Nhiuzukkath will take him to his weyr later after he's thoroughly embarrassed himself hobo-style with anyone and everyone he encounters. Hopping up on the galleries, he sits on the back of a chair with his feet in the seat and turns a wicked grin on Kopriva, "So, Priv, do tell me what you think about the book you're still clutching at your side…" And thus begins an afternoon of ribald teasing intermingled with serious words and the beginning of pride for their dragons, for walking through the uncertainty of it all, and by the end of it… well? Vh'iyr manages a saucy grin and exaggerated saunter inspired to bring a laugh out of Kopriva before they both, finally, part ways. All in all, an interlude of friendship and deeper conversations inspiring respect and (surprisingly perhaps) a mutual understanding. Navigating the Unknown in Style has 1 comments. |
22 Feb 2024 08:00 |
Kopriva & Pariisamith , Vh'iyr & Nhiuzukkath |
Vh'iyr seeks out his lifemate for one, very simple request and finds a whole lot of 'gifts' (including a whole tree)! Kopriva finds him and together, they navigate what it means to sands sit and the emotions both dragons and humans struggle with. smutty book innuendo, steamy book themes; language, irreverence; it's vhy~ XD |
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Misdirected Missives Misdirected Missives
"Four apple jelly-filled pastries for Hannah… from Casla." Whaaaat? Council Chamber Once disproportionately grandiose, the recent regimes have scaled the gaudy aura of Igen's council rooms down to better match the fit of the work executed within these walls. Spartan still, with foreboding stonework and a heavy wooden door, the innards of the room are swallowed by a giant round table, an ancient creation of fire-hardened wood carved with the three dunes of Igen. Comfortable chairs surround that monolith to authority, all similar but two, grandiose things left as memories of a past mentality. The walls are lined with elegant old tapestries, depicting scenes of ancient Igen glories. Diem has a bit of downtime in between meetings and she spends it sipping klah and signing off on a few hides that have been waiting for her. It is incredibly hot and bright outside, which has her feeling thankful for working inside where it's somewhat cooler among the stone walls and corridors. A hand lifts to tuck some dark colored hair behind her ear as she reads over another document that requires her attention. T'rin enters into the Council Chamber back first, nudging the door open as his hands remain preoccupied with a hot steaming klah - damn the climate outside the thick cavern walls - and holding a few hides only slightly curved against his torso. Care is taken to ensure he doesn't drop them or bend them; 'tis business, after all. "And a very good morning to you, Weyrwoman." (He's been an 'Acting'. He'll spare her the semantics.) Clear of the door, there's a smooth rotation towards his chair and off he goes to settle in. Most of the hides lay flat upon the chair, but the top one is neatly folded, hiding the contents within. "It's a good morning, indeed." Diem says while signing her name to the document she just read. "How are you?" The hide is set on top of a stack she's labeled as 'finished' before reaching for her own mug that's gone somewhat cold in the last candlemark. It tends to happen whenever she's busy- which is a lot more these days. Some klah is sipped and she leans back in her chair while T'rin settles into his. "I am good," T'rin states with a smile, settling into his chair and crossing his ankle over his knee. Without too many eyes on him, he can afford to be a bit casual in his business. "And how are you?" Frankly, his pile of documents is particularly small today, so he starts his round with pulling his mug a bit closer to him and leaving that little stack upon the table. Diem takes a sip of klah and then lifts her shoulders into a small shrug. "Not bad at the moment. Ask me this afternoon after I meet with the Headman about supplies." She conceals a wry smile behind her mug as she takes another sip of klah, this one a bit drawn out as she savors the quiet of the council chamber. "With Kopriva on the sands, Nasrin and I are splitting her duties. I remember when Zsaviranth was a first time clutchmother and the anxiety that went along with it, so I want to make sure Kopriva isn't worrying about any administrative tasks. She has enough to think about." The klah mug is set down on the table once again as she regards T'rin from her seat. "Do we have a report on the number of candidates that have been brought in yet?" "I trust Edric will be forgiving," T'rin replies with an amused flash of a smile. As the details of the weyrwomen's arrangement with the latest clutchpair are disclosed, the Weyrleader gives a few understanding nods and pulls a sip from his klah thoughtfully. "I am going to trust you all there. Luxeraeth has managed to clutchpapa once, and while I did manage to get some duties off on my 'Second, I needed some work to manage the stress, so I enjoyed the freedom to bury myself in hides on my schedule, as I needed and could, rather than someone else's." After another sip and the latest question, he leans forward to put his mug down and rustle through the documents in front of him. The folded one atop the pile slips to the side of the grouping, unable to maintain its position by nature of not laying completely flat. "Yes, right here," he states as it slips from between other documents. "As of last night, we're at…" He scans the data in front of him through the pause, and then states cheerfully, "Fifty-two candidates at the moment." "I'm sure if Kopriva wants to peruse the latest tithe reports to pass the time on the sands, she'll let me know." Diem says with a smirk. "Then again, she probably wouldn't be able to concentrate with Nhiuzukkath serenading everyone within earshot." Naughty Nhiuzy and his caterwauling. How does Pariisamith put up with it? The thought is swept to the side in favor of the current number of candidates when T'rin reads from the document. "Not bad at all. I suppose we'll-" The door to the council chamber opens and one of the weyrstaff carries a delicate looking box that's more flat than it is tall. "What's all this?" Diem's brows rise when said box is placed in front of her with a card on top, and so she looks at the weyrstaff member with acute curiosity. "Arrived for you just now, ma'am. From Benden." He gives a respectful nod to both Weyrwoman and Weyrleader before quietly slipping out of the council chamber. "Benden? Let's see." The card is collected and the note inside is read with a bit of confusion. "Four apple jelly-filled pastries for Hannah… from Casla." Whaaaat? T'rin redirects his attention towards the door and the delivery brought in for the Weyrwoman, the raised brow of curiosity clear on his face. The misdirection causes him a few straight blinks of processing. "H-how? Weyrwoman Hannah is also at Benden." That's reality though, mail a package down the street to find out it ends up across the continent before it finally makes it back to the same neighborhood in which it came. He slips the candidate report to the side of the pile. Diem is speechless for a moment before she huffs a laugh at the very sight of the pastries. "I have no idea!" she says to T'rin. "Do you want one? I mean. I'm not going to send them back to Benden." Sorry Hannah, sorry Casla. Nimble fingertips open the box so she can get a better look at the confections inside. "I… think they're good to eat?" They don't look squished. They don't smell bad, either. "How strange." Giving one final set of blinks, T'rin finally joins in with the amusement of the situation. "I'm sure we can send them both some of Miss June's as replacements, if need be," he offers. "I'll take one. Why not?" He stands from his seat and leans over to look over the pastries, reaching in to carefully take one in hand. "Speaking of possibly misdirected mail…" As he sits back, his free hand pulls the folded note from beneath the candidacy report. "Alas, I don't know your drink, else I would," he muses in offering, the folded note that once graced the top of his documents presented back towards Diem.
T'rin seems to be taking it casually, at least, taking a slow bite of the pastry after she takes back the note, and washes it down with his klah. "I'm also not the best at mixing drinks. I leave that honor to a friend of mine. That said…" He pauses to offer a reassuring smile. "I don't know who it was meant for, and I won't say anything." "Oh, that's good to know." Mirth reaches Diem's eyes once again after T'rin's confession. "Do you have a small bar in your weyr? It'd be a perfect spot to practice mixing drinks whenever your friend is unavailable." The note is slipped into a folder underneath a stack of hides before she wipes her sticky fingers on a cloth. As for who the note was destined for, well. She smiles a little at the thought and clears her throat ever slightly. "Was meant for an old friend of mine. He's a terrific bartender and owns his own tavern in the Bazaar." "I have a small bar at each of my weyrs." T'rin still retained his old one after moving a few things into the Weyrleader's weyr. There's some pitfalls to moving an entire wall herb garden. "And there's the Whirliebird for a slightly larger selection. I'm still rather intimidated by making drinks for other people to this day." He takes another bite of the pastry, nodding his approval. "Sorry, Hannah," he comments, then takes another sip of klah to wash it down. At her statement, he raises a brow again. He knows a good portion of the bartenders and owners in the Bazaar, but that by no means narrows it down considering how many establishments of various repute are available within the walls of the Weyr. "Mmm," he replies. He won't pry, and he's guessing a firelizard or trusted friend will make up for what yet another Runner failed to do. Diem is quiet while finishing the last few bites of her pastry and decides against devouring another one. Instead, she brushes her hands together before reaching for her own mug for another sip of klah. "I'll write to Casla and let her know of the mix-up." she says after a moment. "Will also send along some treats from Miss June's as a peace offering." Since the apple confections will not last the candlemark. "Or maybe I'll deliver them myself." She brightens at the thought. "Any chance you want to make a trip to Benden this seven? I could arrange a quick visit-" "Benden? I can do that. Solo or duo, it's been a while since I've been up North." And frankly, with the current heat, the pleasantness of a milder Rukbat for a few candlemarks is very tempting. T'rin finishes off his own pastry, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his fingers with. "I might also see about purchasing some game while up there." "Then I'll make the arrangements for later in the seven." Diem says with a pleased smile. "I don't think we have any meetings that can't, or shouldn't, be rescheduled around that time. If we do, I'll let you know what dates work for the following seven." A planner, she is. Always and forever. Straightening in her seat, she sweeps a few crumbs from the table top into the palm of her hand so it's not a complete mess when the rest of Weyrleadership arrives. "It'll be fun. You'll get to meet our Casla, too." A beat. "Have you met Casla yet?" Her gaze looks over at T'rin, curious. "I have," T'rin cheerfully responds. "At weyrwoman Linny's Turnday a few Turns back, actually. She brought Benden wine. As it was not whiskey, I took it off the weyrwoman's hands for her." Wink. It certainly did not go to waste, a bit with him, and a sizable amount dedicated to other Weyr things. "I look forward to seeing her again." On that note, and hands free of pastry, it is back to business and he starts working through the next official element in his pile, offering it over towards Diem for her review and discussion. There's only so much time before the others do arrive and more meetings begin. Misdirected Missives has 4 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Morning meeting meets misdirected mouth-pleasers and momentary mortification. Also, a future field trip. Slightly backdated |
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Once Lost Once Lost
"Take me to him, boy!" Bazaar Sidestreet No matter the time of day, the darkness here is almost absolute, adding a certain je ne sais quois that borders on the treacherous. Here and there, cobblestones have gone missing and leave holes that are perfect for snagging the feet of the unaware. The stench is also criminal, a mixture of urine, rotting meat, and other things best left unexamined in the heaps that pile up next to the back doors of certain of the bazaar establishments. It is the seventy-sixth day of Summer and 107 degrees. The small dark cloud has grown rapidly over night, covering the blue sky. It blows a furious rush of hot, stirring wind. In a moment, the daylight is gone as visibility plummets. The clouds of burning sand mercilessly flog all living things as the air itself turns against you. Every living thing chokes on sand and dust before escaping inside. If ever one existed meant for marble halls and luxury, it is Naveah: for even here in the warren-like maze of sidestreets she stands out. It's in such subtle (or notsosubtle) ways of holding herself wherein she casts herself higher than those of the bazaar, as if they were beneath her in some way. She, too, is pristine in her dress, in her toilette, so pale blonde hair cascades in a shimmering fall held up by sparklie little barrettes. A blue dress today encapsulates a nod to luxury if not truly luxurious, though she wears it as if it were the FINEST of silks. Her folly, of course, is the inability to read a room, to read the stares the women give her with her exposed, pale skin — so pale as to be noticeable — and her haughty armor exterior. And the men who stare at her for a variety of different, more uncomfortable reasons to which Naveah is so very good at ignoring. Still morning with Rukbat rising from the bedclothes of the eastern horizon, light settles watery and pale, but warm enough to bead sweat with a promised sandstorm on the horizon's edge. Somehow, Naveah gets turned around and ends up here on a dirty, near-empty sidestreet and facing unwelcome faces of those who see this silly girl with all her silly frivolity step into their domain. Up at the crack of dawn, N'yx prefers to beat the heat before it climbs to a million degrees by early afternoon. Or before a looming sandstorm is due to hit the area sooner rather than later. He's dressed in a lighter set of leathers with his wingrider knot pinned to his shoulder as he makes his way down a sidestreet without much care for his surroundings. Cradled in the crook of his arm and held close to his side is a wrapped breakfast sandwich that smells like greasy fried porcine meat- the breakfast of champions! As he rounds the corner, he almost smacks right into Naveah in all of her finery. "Whoa, sorry…" Mmmmm, a breakfast sandwich sounds divine. Too bad Naveah is busy screeching at the sudden interruption when she nearly backpedals into N'yx in her haste to get out of the sidestreet. Luckily, no collision happens — at least not right now — but she whirls on the dragonrider, her eyes flicking across his face, down his chest, and too his boots. "Watch where you're going! You almost flattened me!" Never mind at the sound of her belly rumbling when the hit of such decadent sandwich hits her nose. Blue, blue, blue eyes find N'yx when she tips her head back to stare at him, eyes narrowed in hauteur — and yet, her eyes flick to his knot. "Dragonrider?" Perhaps she bites back a different retort so as to not antagonize a dragonrider. A hand reaches over as if to steady the girl he nearly collided with until he thinks better of it. She spears him with a verbal reprimand and N'yx straightens a bit, that free hand of his lifting and drawing back to help ease her anxiety. "Sorry, didn't see you there. I wasn't looking where I was going." His arm lowers and he takes a teensie step backward to give them both a little more space, atleast until he knows that she's not going to slug him. The parchment wrapped around the sandwich crinkles when he tries not to squish it against his side anymore than he already has. "N'yx, brown Varkeivath's." he confirms with a nod. "Are you-" He quickly takes in her appearance from head to toe. "Lost?" Naveah doesn't look like she's going to slug him, but she definitely seems to have ruffled feather, though she looks down the sidestreet and inches closer to N'yx, if only to go around him. "Are you carrying a sandwich like a baby?" she asks, instead, eyeing the crinkly sandwich before lifting her nose in an atttempt to disguise her hunger, but it's in her eyes. Food is scarce when you spend all your earnings on things instead of living. "I'm not lost," but she is, and it's pretty clear. "I'm still getting used to the bazaar. I'm," nose up, chin out, "new… here. Just moved a few months ago to this horrid, wretched place of sand, sand, sand, sand, and more sand!" The dark cloud looms in promise of yet more sand. "But someday, I will be taken away from here." Dragonriders are people of note, of legend, of stories. And dirty street people are not, so she might inch a little closer. Even if he's inching away. N'yx looks down at the sandwich again and then meets Naveah's gaze with something of a wry smile. "Yeah, I guess I am. I just don't want to squish any grease on my jacket or else I'll smell like breakfast all day, ya know?" As she inches her way closer to get around him, he inches in the opposite direction like they're circling each other without seeming awkward about it. "Ah, you're new to Igen? You must be, what- Lady Keroon's youngest daughter? The one that can ride runnerbeasts better than any Herder?" His wry smile turns into something a bit more teasing when he realizes that she's not actually going to slug him yet. Naveah would love to claim she is a Lady with Blood, but alas, she cannot. Not with her Benden accent which comes out more when she's not screeching at him. "No, I'm from Benden. My betrothed is Felix, and I am sure he is on his way to come and get me." Despite her sister's warnings, for she sent a letter demanding such. Yet, there-and-gone again is a flicker of unease for that letter. For the idea of Felix coming and what it may mean of their past and what they might run from. Shaking her head, she sends morning light sparkling off the pretty barrettes holding it back from her face. "To smell like breakfast would be horrid, but you look ridiculous holding it like a baby. You should just eat it and be done with it." And share it, but she doesn't say that. A glint of mirth makes its way to N'yx's eyes when she corrects him on hailing from Benden and not from Keroon. "My apologies, I should never assume." The mention of 'Felix', though, sparks a detail in his recent memory and it takes him a moment to place where he heard that particular name- and then it hits him like a ton of bricks. The letter. Which means… "Oh." he says at first. And then with feeling when realization dawns on him: "Ohhhh! Felix? The Felix from Benden?" The sandwich is still held like a baby because WHY NOT. "You shouldn't," Naveah says, nose up in hauteur, "Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" She hammers home on that accidental potential sore spot. Until he says Felix's name and not at all like how everyone else says Felix's name to her. Condescending, pityingly… no. "Wait." She lunges forward her hand up as if to make a play to grab him or his jacket or something. "Do you know Felix?!" Is there light of hope in her eyes at this? Some spark of getting rescued? "Oh! Felix has sent you hasn't he?! If anyone has a dragonrider at his bidding, it is Felix." A boy, albeit a wealthy one, who is likely diddling the help in his fancy manor, truthfully, right about now. "He's coming to take me out of here!" JOY! Naveah forgets about his sandwich-baby and might even accidentally cause it to squeal with that crinkly paper. "Take me to him, boy!" Imperious demand, that. "My mother died when I was a baby." N'yx says, but doesn't further add that she also came back from the dead the past when he was eighteen. He pivots slightly as if to protect his sandwich when Naveah lunges toward him and the parchment crinkles when he squishes it just a little against his jacket. "That must mean you're… Naveah?" He tests the name to see if she confirms his suspicion, but something tells him that's exactly who he's talking to. When she demands to be taken to him, N'yx's triumphant grin morphs into a frown. He's going for sad and crushed~ "I'm afraid I have bad news." "Bad news?" Of course that's the first thing to register in Naveah's hope-driven mind, and only when she steps back an out of his space do other words penetrate through the haze of hope of getting free of Igen. "I am Naveah," while still vaguely woven along the tones of snotty snobbery, something in her stills as if he's about to rip away her world. His explanation about his mother did cause some flicker behind her eyes, but Naveah is far too stubborn and up in her own head to ever apologize. Especially not right now. "What sort of bad news?" She navigates the question carefully, girding herself as she layers up her protective wall brick by brick. "I'm so glad I found you, Naveah." That much is true! He's been looking for her since the day he received her letter meant for Felix. N'yx sighs a drawn out sigh, his free hand running through his hair as he casts his gaze to the ground with a slight shake of his head. WOEFUL. He looks woeful. "Felix isn't coming to Igen." He's not lying, per se. Just… maybe stretching the truth a little. "I'm sorry." The brownrider lifts his gaze to look at her while his hand slips into his coat pocket. Is Naveah glad he found her? Unlikely, not when he gives her such heart-wrenching news. Her prickly facade cracks a little when her lower lip trembles, but she allows it only for a second. A pause in the game of Naveah, before collecting herself and raising her chin in a composure as fragile as shattered glass. "He isn't? Is it Hester? I bet she got her hooks into him," fists clench at her side as she uses anger to put a cloak around utter devastation. "Well," she looks down her nose up at N'yx, "what did he tell you to say why he isn't coming?" Though somehow the effect is not nearly as good as before, for vulnerability haunts blue eyes. "Well," N'yx's hand remains inside his coat pocket. "You'll be happy to know it's not because of Hester. Nope." When his hand slips out of pocket, he holds a folded letter between his index and middle fingers that might look a bittt familiar to her. Because it's her letter. Her letter meant for Felix. "It's because he never got the letter you sent him." Said letter is held out to her and his smile tugs at the corners of his mouth again as he looks at the girl. "You might wanna send it again with a firelizard that knows where it's going…" Naveah was about to flee and weep into her pillow, but in a flash, horror fills her eyes when he produces her letter. "You read it?!" Now she does lunge at him again, and snatches her letter right out of his hands. "You read mail that wasn't yours?!" Cheeks flush as little sprigs of fly-away blond hairs tug in the winds stirred by a far-off storm. "And let me think — that — that…!" Naveah is without words, stumbling into a stupor which is new for her. All her life, she's been good at the snotty let downs, but maybe it's his smile or the relief of knowing Felix hadn't abandoned her. "I knew he wouldn't abandon me. Igen has the worst of everything. You people can't even mail letters right!" But she presses that letter to her heart as if afraid to let it go, now. "You shouldn't," it sounds like a grouse, but it's not… maybe, "read other people's mail, but… " and like she's physically getting fish-hooked to bring up these the words, "… thank you for returning it." Wow, that was painful. After the letter is snatched from him, N'yx looks a tiny bit guilty for having read the message meant for Naveah. "I did, yeah. It was by accident! But, I've been looking for you ever since to return it. Seemed important." He then sweeps his gaze up the street and then back to the wisp of a girl who probably shouldn't be out and about this part of the Bazaar by herself. It's dark and sketchy even for him. "Can I walk you home? Not many Parhelion riders or guardsmen out at this candlemark, unfortunately." "I appreciate it," Naveah states, tone bolstered by her rather healthy amount of internal willpower. She clings to the letter, though whether or not she tries to send it again will remain to be seen. "It was — is. I had hoped…" But she's not in the business of spilling her guts to a random stranger on a sketchy ass street in a place full of not-so-nice people. "Why yes," torn, tattered pride gathers around her like the finest of rags, "I would appreciate that. I did get turned around." Though, perhaps, she might reconsider when faced with her very humble little apartment with her siblings when she considers it from his eyes. "Alright. I'll follow you." N'yx says, unsure of where they're heading. He waits for her to take the lead and he keeps an eye out for them both along the way. "So, who's Rekky and why does he get beaten up so much?" Not wanting to keep talking about Felix, he opts for asking about the other person mentioned in the letter instead. It's a gamble, really. She might slug him after all! Atleast they'll keep eachother company as they make their way toward that very humble apartment in the seedier part of the Bazaar. Sandwich in tow. Once Lost has 2 comments. |
21 Feb 2024 05:00 |
A letter is returned after a bit of drama. |
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Serpentine Serpentine
Azrael's Office This letter comes soon after it was (mis)received. Brand new hide, rolled tightly, secured by a leather band and a pressed seal. Azrael Akzhan, I believe this letter was mis-sent, but as its contents hold a similar interest, I would like to request a meeting, whenever you are available. (Included is the original letter intended for Cahia.) — Azrael ensured Bacah's reply was well received this time, setting a meeting for the following day after the messenger was strongly reminded of the consequences of crossing the Akzhan. Ruthless Azrael may be, but his cruelty lies in exact punishment, not in letting discplinary actions get away with him. No, the messenger will not make the same mistake again. Twice, he failed. Twice, he was punished. The matter settled, the Akzhan Patriarch maneuvered through the game of politics, of families, to settle in his seat of power at the appointed time for Bacah to arrive. Meant to impress, whether in subtle riches understated in desert hues or in the amount of muscle kept to ensure nothing untoward happened to any member of the Akzhan family. Their power lay in the shadowed pull of currencies, flowing like a river under the whole of the Bazaar. They need not flaunt, yet every part of their visage was cultured in the ways of old wealth. Ancient, gilded things meant to draw lust to the hearts of men, but also tell-tale signs of power. At barely twenty-one turns, Azrael controls it all, but his demeanor shows little when Bacah gets lead through the villa and into Azrael's office of heavy wooden furniture and exotic wood-spices barely touching the senses. Almost twice Azrael's age, Bacah has made a life of such meetings. Ushered into the restrained beauty of the Akzhan home, keen eyes make note of not just its decor but the details of Akzhan shadows, footsteps, sounds. He keeps silent, until they are within the relative — he isn't quite so sure — privacy of Azrael's office. Expression kept pleasantly neutral, Bacah — still in the fashion worn most commonly elsewhere on Northern Pern — unbuttons his coat jacket, once inside, giving a little nod and a glance to the Akzhan patriarch to see if there is a specific seat for Bacah. It rests before his desk, where this child-Patriarch sits upon the throne of Blood his grandfather built. Slight inclination of head indicates where Bacah should sit as a subtle flick of fingers sends the remaining people out of his office. "Bacah," however youthful his voice remains, Azrael's eyes are not youthful. Cold blue eyes are ruthless in their own right, and yet, cunning as well. As if here is not yet another Bazaar thug in the making, but a young man who balance the weight of his power on the sword point of necessity, wherein one tip of the pendulum brings intelligence and the other side brings violence. "My apologies for the missent missive. The matter has been dealt with." Auld soul'd wisdom in softly spoken words, but threat underscores it all; make little mistake, the messenger did not fare in the best of his times after his crime of twice delivering information to the wrong place, wrong person. "Would you like some tea?" Hospitalities are not forgotten here in Azkhan. A half-blinked nod of acknowledgement to the nameless ones on their way out, Bacah easily settles into the seat across from Azrael. With a slight smile, he gives another incline of his head: an acceptance of apologies that served him more than inconvienced him, if only Azrael knew. If Faranth answered wishes, she did it in this way. He says as much: "It was quite fortuitous, actually, that you were already… aware of some of the bakery's recent trials. We have similar interests in Cahia and her bakery, you see." Of the messenger he does not weigh in, settling back into his chair, crossing his legs, as if — with the invitation to tea — he is accepting this meeting may not be rushed or brief. "I would love some tea, though, before we get into it." "Of course, life's work begins on the heels of pleasantries," Azrael states easily, yielding little in the way of thoughts, whatever curiosities may be bubbling up. His training as a child was complete in the nature of what it means to have Akzhan blood in his veins, and not merely Akzhan, but old Akzhan. The tea service gleams in ceramic-bright perfection and his hands deftly pour, though where potential custom may play apart, it is in that Bacah's cup is poured first. Full, but not too full. The meeting's pace set to the fill of the cup. When his own cup has been measured, the contents not so easily discerned, but full enough all the same, Azrael leans back and studies Bacah. "Wild Hearts is your domain, the bakery, your business partner's daughter's." Azrael's gentle smile suggests he's done his homework in the intervening candlemarks since Bacah's approach. "One of my domains," Bacah amends with a brief smile, near-concealed behind the cup he's picked up before giving his answer. "My other business ventures are not as visible as Wild Hearts. And my name isn't always attached to them." A dainty sip of the tea; an appreciative smile — this one visible to Azrael — before he is carefully taking another sip. He also does not deny the rest of what Azrael knows of him. "But yes, the bakery is not one of my typical concerns." He has, in truth, been one time and one time alone, to deliver news to the now-absent Cahia. "Not until I was asked by Tiergney to… assist with her daughter's predicament." A thoughtful pause follows a third sip, this one slower, more savoring — or else Bacah's mulling over something. "Which I did. But." Here, here, his smile renews, though canted slightly downward in rueful admission: "As you know, businesses and help can be quite expensive." "Even the smallest of fish have many places with which to nest their eggs," Azrael murmurs, unblinking against Bacah's emphatic-touched amendment. An expression congenial on the surface, the Akzhan Patriarch listens to Bacah's explanation of his business adventures, yet interest or lack thereof is not writ within the surface of youthful, unlined expression. Perhaps he's a mere vacant-brained boy, given to drifting attention spans and daydreams. A finger reaches to touch the rim of the cup before him, forged of bone-china and expensive, gilted in wealth. "Altruism," slip of his voice into the network of words Bacah strings together in a web of understanding, "seems beyond you." Cold blue eyes — reptilian in their emptiness — come to rest upon Bacah, regarding him in much the same way a snake might flick its tongue against a tasty desert mouse. "Ahhh. Yes." Teacup lifted, he regards Bacah unblinking. "Businesses and help are so very expensive, Bacah." His lips shift into a small smile. "And you gain nothing but cost, right? It must be a great hardship." Cadence of his words is almost understanding, almost those of a boy's but for the eyes. The eyes which never leave Bacah's, never seem to blink. Bacah knows better than to assume superiority over or underestimate a man strictly by his age or bloodline. In fact, he is assuming every word choice from Azrael is absolutely intentional. Little does Bacah comment on in the way of most Azrael's remarks; but if they hit their mark — or not — the man exists more in blinked, brief smiles to acknowledge every subtext gets well-received. In the Bazaar pool of fishies, the man's aware he is one very small minnow, or would be seen as such by one of the more powerful Bazaarite dynasties. Even more, perhaps: he knows what he came to ask of the House of Akzhan. "Altruism has its place in every businessman's life," he begins, seemingly a philosophical divergence to the subject at hand, especially with Bacah's expression shifting thoughtful, arched-eyebrow'd and gaze — breaking from Azrael's — distant. "But also its time limit." He leans forward, returning the tea cup to Azrael's tray. Looking back at the man, he puts it without poetic trappings or moralistic musings: "The bakery's too expensive of an investment to protect it long-term from damages from any number of Bazaar misfortunes," avoiding naming any particular families where such troubles have recently come, "and with Cahia out of Igen…" He gives a shrug. "Less so, for me, personally." Another round of a smile, lips slightly pursed. "Yet your note suggested a similar interest in the bakery prevailing." Implication being: if he tries to pass the buck to Azrael, will he catch it? To understand the ecosystem, one must understand its denizens, and perhaps Azrael does. Perhaps he doesn't. Regardless, he watches Bacah as words spin out, wheeling through the space between them. Like fireflies when children capture them in jars and take them home only for them to die, later, in a hand crueler than if they'd been left to nature's mercy. "As you say," the nail of his forefinger taps the bone-china of his cup, "it is expensive, and I do not operate under altruism, interest or not." Another brief smile, "Even if I were so inclined, which I am not." The smile deepens like a snake coiling tighter together, muscles shifting as he leans forward, honey-blonde hair falling so charmingly across his brow. "So what are you offering me, Bacah?" A breath, whispered in nuance, then: "For my protection?" Subtext lies here in potentials: potential for Azrael to take up the mantle protection, potential for Bacah to have something to yield in return, and the potential for weal or woe in a partnership forged of potential power. Allies has a great ring to it, if the price is right. Not necessarily surprised — a family doesn't earn the reputation Akzhans do for nothing! — Bacah measures out the following silence with a contemplative air, his head tilted slightly. Azrael lays out his (lack of)interest — nay, his lack of necessity for such small fish — and the cost required to find and hold the Akzhan's interest, and the man mulls over both the benefits and the costs. To himself, foremost: but also to Wild Hearts, to the absent Cahia, her business. Tiergney. Don't go so far to say the man's smile falters, but it certainly takes on a more forced edge; he can be charming himself, though in such a place as here he does not seek to turn it on. Eyes are a little hardened — not the level of vacancy he witnesses in the young man across from him — while his lips curve, ever-so. "Mmh, yes, that's always the crux of it," he finally agrees, tone smooth and genial as warrants a business exchange. Bacah isn't going to offer up his own private ventures piecemeal to the family — Cahia is not his kin, nor friend, nor even acquaintance — so he bargains with what he has, what he's done before: bargains with Tiergney's business, her heart and soul beyond her family. "Wild Hearts would be happy to share some of its earnings with Akzhan. Marks are a less reliable resource — though possible — but much of Wild Hearts' potential has been in the best of the runners gathered from Keroon's plains or the steppes. Their main trainer left well over a turn ago, and isn't coming back," if Bacah ever has anything to do with it, "and their program has floundered a little in the meanwhile. Yet, their best wages come from the wild runners, trained, and readied to start foundation breeding lines, establish legacies of the wild desert runner." For the majority of the runners auctioned off in the yards are and have always been: cheap and fast marks, sold not to esteemed buyers but those who need a runner fast, want a project runner, or have designs on them for less reputable means. "They would never," he adds, aware the man already knows, "of course compete with Akzhan stock." Azrael lets his hand come to rest upon the desk, giving Bacah the whole of his attention as is polite. "I am interested in the business of Wild Hearts," he lets the gravity of his pause linger in the silence which follows, "both businesses, as you say, as the Keroon holdings offer more potential." Marks are hard to truly wage against in the Akzhan world given their foray into the world of runnerbits and the economy of such. Yet, marks have their uses too. "If they were vested Akzhan interests," how boyish his smile that never touches reptilian blue eyes, "then I would put considerable resources to insure they were never harmed in the execution of their daily business. You would find the Akzhan yoke is light." Promise welled in his eyes, the promise of a light-yoke only in the wake of following whatever rules are necessary to live by. "Of course they would not, but the very best of Wild Hearts would be offered to the Akzhan to supplement our stock." A hint? A warning? A negotiation. "But of course, it would mean access to larger Azkhan infrastructure, so it is win-win, isn't it Bacah?" But is it? At what future cost will this bill come due with? "The bakery," Azrael hasn't forgotten, "can provide delightful delectable at my discretion." Of course, he has zero inclination to ruin any of these potential new businesses. Indeed, Azkhan do take care of what they have a stake in… it is just that the fingers of the Akzhan family grow long, over time, in what they consider theirs. "Mmh," buys Bacah some time to consider, to weigh the words of the young patriarch. Once more making deals where one-half of the ownership for Wild Hearts is absent: yet Bacah is here — in all appearances — on behalf of the other owner's interests, is he not? "Indeed, it seems Akzhan takes good care of what is theirs," a statement of fact — agreement — flattery, whatever it is, he says it with an air of light observation, another tagged smile drifting across his fair features before fading once more. "The best stock is always dependent upon what is collected from the steppes, but, as I said before, the training program has slowed quite a bit without a suitable replacement found, and we know Akzhan has a broader range of resources and a well-developed training program." Racers, yes, not what Wild Hearts ever dealt in: yet. Facts and common knowledge still stand. "As the bakery is not my business, what is required for your oversight needs to be settled with Cahia." Knowing full well she has fled the Bazaar, and at the moment, Bacah cannot recall the name of who runs it in her stead. "But I have found Cahia to be obliging in most things, so I cannot foresee a problem with it." He also doesn't know her at all, so. "I have trainers in my employ would do well to represent the Akzhan stake in the Keroon holdings of your business." Azrael's smile stretches low and easy, almost innocuous but for the eyes and the way he watches Bacah very carefully. Threads of fate wind through this meeting, settling around them as a deal gets closer to bargain, to being known in truth for such foreseeable futures. "Until the owner returns, I will ensure the bakery is part of the overall protection package for all of Wild Hearts." A little flick of his fingers suggests the bakery is but a footnote to this arrangement. "Your business of runners will flourish and I will have a new, fresh flow of good stock." Azrael leans forward ever so slightly, and it is not a move of eagerness that such typically is, but more of a predator slithering in the shadows at something sensed to be quite tasty. "If you agree to parceling out a stake in all of the Wild Hearts business, with first pick of new Steppe runners, I'll provide a month with Rutgar, my best trainer, to train up anyone in your employ and leave Sal, my third best trainer, in the steppes to act for Akzhan interests." It would not do to let a plump business operate purely on their own. He watches Bacah, settling on finally, "If so, I will draw up the agreement for a signature from you and Tiergney." Another smile, reptilian and sly. "I look forward to working with you, Bacah." Despite Bacah not being keen to be thought-of as a mouse — nor whose interests are seemingly being consumed by a serpent — he brings a smile to his face not quite a match for the snakelike one he sees across the desk. "Very good, I shall bring Tiergney up-to-date in our new business venture." He scoots forward in his chair, movements more of a man ready to leave with the coming closure of the meeting than one eager to reach for a handshake. He'll save that for the actual deal, once signed; but for now? He stands, buttoning his coat closed. "Thank you, again, for meeting with me. I can show myself out." At the door he pauses, and half-turns, "But I'd prefer to come pick up the contract myself, next seven. It's been difficult to… trust in the Bazaar's delivery methods of late." A little smile, his last, before he turns to open the door. Perhaps Azrael senses Bacah's discomfort, perhaps he doesn't, yet as Bacah stans the young patriarch relaxes back into his chair. "You will be escorted out," a quiet statement which ultimately will be proven true as men will come to escort Bacah from the villa once he's through the office door. "We shall meet again, then, when I have the contract ready. I will send Rutgar to fetch you when it is time. It would be good for you to meet him and see his skills, for he will be the one training your men." So it will be good to get the necessities out of the way, on that. "May you find water in the Desert, Bacah," a note of dismissal, as Azrael turns to different matters held in the vast array of paperwork on his desk. This business has been effectively concluded as Bacah bargains with Tiergney's heart and soul. Serpentine has 1 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Bacah visits House Akzhan to strike a bargain he isn't sure he really wants to make related scenes: Fear following & Crossed Connections |
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Here's To The Night Here's To The Night
Gilly's Rooftop Tavern A nondescript entrance to a nondescript building will open into a nondescript, darkened hallway, with a locked door and the only choice forward, a staircase that immediately goes upwards. Whatever foreshadowing such an entrance gives, the rooftop — where the stairs lead — opens to a beautiful vista of the Bazaar and its rooftops. The space itself is small, relaxed, and cozy. A border of half-walled stone and potted plants enclose the open-spaced drinking hole, making the jump from rooftop-to-rooftop more difficult — though certainly not impossible. Old rugs lay and layer the stone flooring, with luxe, purple jacquard damask cushions arranged around decorative, octagonal tables supporting glow lanterns, leaving barely enough room for tea or shot glasses. Open only after sunset, Gilly's serves whiskey, mahia, arak, and spiced teas — and no food. Swathed again in the reputation of drink and disorderly, this was not expressly the return invitation he imagined receiving – nor, necessarily, accepting. It’s a gentler venue, then, that Ezra Steen leans against – snug, less likely to have outbursts when they’re not sourced from him, and passingly more agreeable to any Weyr thugs likely to be flanking. Gilly’s. Down below, waiting, the entrance may be less than reassuring, but, knowing what atmosphere waits above, with a twinkle of decorative lights blinking suggestively over the edge of the roof for those keen to notice; knowing, Ezra’s frame is adorned in a complementary canary yellow to the ritzy violet and lavenders of pillows and plants. In the growing dusk of the warm early evening, the soft sunshine of his fitted suit and robe throws emphasis on, once again, dark eyes and dark curls. Shoulder pressed to stone, the heir fiddly turns a couple of rings on his fingers until she’s there – snake friend – the naif. Kopriva. How often now… but nothing slows him, improbable undertaking or continued Weyr association, from offering out a soft palm when she’s close. There is so much of the Bazaar yet to be discovered! And now to learn that there are venues above on the roofs as well as below? It could be overwhelming! The entryway would never have earned a second glance; perhaps she would never have gained full confidence to go alone, even if aware. Kopriva is not ever alone, never fully, but there are no guard shadows or even escorts — not for the full trek. At some point, they split, likely still able to witness her meeting with the Steen heir and then likely remaining within some pre-agreed on radius. When she approaches Ezra, it is with a warm smile and offering of her hand in turn. "I hope you weren't waiting too long?" she inquires. Is she late or fashionably on time? Dressed in complementary colours but subdued in vividness, Kopriva's outfit is typical for the latest styles in Igen for the current season. Her hair has been braided and coiled to a neat bun at the base of her neck — if one can glimpse it beneath the headscarf worn. No veil and no other accessories; not this time. “An Igen evening starts and ends whenever we choose.” Thus: she is anything she wants to be; there will be no record to argue it later. (Discounting two escorts, left out in the cold). Securing this truth, for them for now, Ezra’s long bejeweled fingers enclose – just softly – on the offered edge of Kopriva’s palm. Merely he contemplates her in a moment, his vivid dark eyes now unburdened by spectacle; the next, she’s encouraged to draw towards him a couple inches – nothing outside propriety – but not precisely towards the establishment’s entrance either. “For strange and unexplained reasons, your preferred company were not welcome to join us. However,” a little graze of his hold on Kopriva’s hand encourages her to step in and turn out, to address his other, which has drawn invisibly from his robe pocket and now is held up flat to her; two dangles from his middle finger: simplistic metal coilings on which hang teardrops of filmy white snake scales, encased in a resin-like substance to be ever-preserved, catching the mere evening light in multiple half-moons of barely suggested color. “They did drop this off for you.” Kopriva's smile broadens for that fleeting moment under Ezra's reassurances of the timing of things — or lack thereof. She will keep her hand in his hold as she's drawn forwards and towards him, guided easily. Even when unspoken questions filter readily and unmasked to her expression, her steps do not falter or stop. Glancing to him, her hand will follow the request while her mind still remains firmly curious. Her eyes follow his movement, a little trepidation filtering in and then burned away by genuine surprise. She is all warmth and so (painfully, perhaps), honest in her reactions. Kopriva has her flaws, as many do. "Oh, did they now?" she muses, a breath before turning demure. Yet, whether she was meant to keep her hand steady, her fingers are likely already reaching to touch in acceptance. Never mind what may whisper in the back of her mind. "How thoughtful and kind of them." “I know,” the Steen croons in humble astonishment at such bounty, and he fleetingly keeps hold of the scales, enjoying the turnabout of light, before letting the earrings slip easily into Kopriva’s possession. As soon as the jewelry passes between, all touch from Ezra falls away: her hands, fingers, steps, and accessories are her own. Instead, he merely spreads the now-giftless palm to the waiting entryway in all its misleading appearance. Bidding her enter ahead, wind her way upward first; all the better for the young woman to arrange her own preference of seating. Trailing behind, he’s merely the rumble of his baritone, and the little trill always waiting beneath it to flavor his words in melody, “Evening will turn without them somehow,” follows her heels up the stairs, “Gilly’s has a fine craft. And I’m told I’m very pleasant to look at.” Kopriva's hesitation is only borne of distractedness; once the jewelry is in her full possession, she feels a proper thanks is not to tuck them away, but to wear them. It takes her but a moment to skillfully place them in her ears — which suggests she does wear earrings, if never or so rarely seen with them. She will privately lament the lack of a mirror, but her good mood prevails and Kopriva follows Ezra's guidance once more. Her preference for seating may, unsurprisingly, veer to the closest with the best view, if not right up on the edge of the venue. "I'm sure it will and maybe I'll have to pay a visit as thanks for their understanding," Kopriva keeps with the light playfulness, her steps unhurried as she hones in on their seating; glancing once, perhaps, to gauge Ezra's expression. Or was it for the jest, made? "I will have to take your word on Gilly''s fine craft." And what of the words of others, concerning the Steen heir? There is a smile, but no elaboration; Kopriva is absorbed again in the venue, and the vista now open to them. With only the varied plant pots and trellis decorations that dissuade clamoring between or off rooftops, little stands between Kopriva and a delicious early evening view as glow baskets and lanterns are progressively uncovered, lighting up as though signal flares to each other, beckoning in a nightlife of fame and– more misfortune than the other; but, it sure is lovely from this advantageous seating. Refusing to ever properly sit, if it can be helped, Ezra occupies a nearby arrangement of those jacquard pillows, now throwing complements at them both. He’s leant back from her, showing preference for being able to stretch long legs ahead, crossing lightly at his ankles. It lets Kopriva be alone at the roof’s open, Bazaar-overlooking, edge, and the squat little rounded table, sizable enough for drinks and drinks only, to fit between the two people. Jests, all around, fall to the wayside under a sincerity his company will not understand chimes in rather early for their acquaintance; but there it is, half-hidden by the decorative kohl beneath his eyes. “… Appreciated,” he merely observes. Not that she will have to take his word – Gilly will pour for itself soon enough – but a genuine earnestness on behalf of the scaled creature most of Pern would sooner spear on sight. "Has Gilly's always been a part of the Bazaar?" Kopriva asks, after a significant spell of silence and much of it spent absorbing the visuals around and below. That earlier jest may have gone well above her head, with distractions at play. She may be curious as well, as to why Ezra chooses not to sit, but the timing of that question is not present. Her delay in settling is only caused by her desire to see and experience, before picking out a comfortable arrangement among the jacquard pillows. Kopriva, for all newness to the Bazaar, does have some semblance and grasp of manners and propriety — if better suited for a Hold. Somehow, it's not as awkward as it could be; maybe, she has made progress on figuring out just who Ezra is — but does not yet voice her guess. It's left to his decision to choose. For now, anyways! "I would never have known this place existed." Oh, if only she knew how much of the Bazaar is hidden! When Igen and its penchant for many pillows allows you to lounge instead of sit– well, little question as to which Ezra will choose, as he has now; draped amongst the cushions as though they were the most casual friends in Pern’s brown desert. “On the side of newer,” he recollects for the rearrangement of this particular rooftop, grazing a decorative line of stone with a couple of fingers. Staring out with her, and then skimming a glance off her; the moody dimness of Gilly’s flashes the paradigm of snake flesh at him and he resists a little tic of his mouth in accomplishment. These rare moments when he can play act he has more worth than the alcohol he can provide– bad timing on Gilly’s server; though Ezra visually reveals no regret when requesting a spiced – and spiked – tea. “We’ve just our little place,” he opines on the Bazaar –we representing his culture of people, not a single Family outright – a deep and abiding affection unabashedly soaking his tone, “It was either move to the roofs or…” A casual shrug against lavish pillowing. “… quietly remove the others in your vicinity.” No judgment falls on Ezra either, not from Kopriva, for his request — she is, in fact, intrigued. Enough that she orders similar, after politely inquiring on what options were available. She cannot quite hide all her surprise at the limited menu, but who is she to comment? Once the server has walked away, Kopriva turns her attention back to Ezra. "It seems to be doing well for business," is her blanket observation, a little grasping for the lack of knowledge she has on the Bazaar's inner workings. She can only reflect on what she sees … and assumptions. Her expression shifts, not quite a frown but a little puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand…?" she admits, her tone gentle to suggest no fault on his part while requesting explanation. Oh, but maybe she does understand. Kopriva isn't that naive or oblivious; she's aware there are places she cannot - should not - go, for reasons obvious and her rank aside. “Apologies,” he illuminates swiftly, “A little humor. Only meant that when the Bazaar cannot grow out,” his palms part, “then she must grow up,” and then lift away from each other, fingers spread demonstratively. Every ring of his catches the sparse glowlight, heavy and significant, and glints off his dark eyes. There’s a shift of most of his weight onto one elbow opposite the way to the Weyr and, while he does not markedly glance in that direction, there is the impression he has. “Not as high as you, though.” Stupid cliffs, stupid caves. Briefly, as another server is passing, Ezra reaches partially out in a listless suggestion of a summons; to which he quietly begs the trouble of some fruit brought in for them. Alone again, the Steen narrows in on watching Kopriva, such that the rest of the rooftop bar may seem to dim in comparison. “So. We’ve done our due diligence of pleasantries. What’s on the naif’s mind tonight?” Straight-forward and easygoing, he offers through tone the pretense that it is a bosom meeting, fully relaxed. "Oh," Kopriva's sheepishness for missing the humor on the first turn is fleeting; a little smile, maybe a little blush. Then she is following the movement of his hands and amusement does follow this time, however belatedly. Importantly, it's genuine. "It's clever." She remarks, while taking the opportunity to glance about the venue again and, perhaps, out towards the vista. "Easier too, I think? To use this upper space, rather than go down." Could they? Have they? If the Bazaar has lower levels, it's likely not places a goldrider should go. Kopriva turns sheepish again for the mention of how high she could go. Cliffs and caves, aside. The comment is left untouched, lost in the span it takes the server to approach and leave again. Meeting his gaze, Kopriva chuckles lightly, seemingly relaxed enough — or falling easy to the pretense. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," she muses, "as there's always a lot on my mind. I'd prefer not to ramble on, if I can help it." So, what is it to be, then? Kopriva, in a little stroke of impulsivity, suggests: "What about you? What is on your mind tonight?" “You are.” It rolls easily off his tongue like a rumble of thunder, low yet not embarrassed– sans, too, the suggestiveness possible in the admittance. With a span of physical distance between them, he remains aloof on his half-bed of pillows and stolen round seats, idly rubbing the gemstone of a forefinger ring. “I have this luxury. I know where I am, and what surrounds me.” Chatter, below, wafting up as though already from another world; so tightly does Gilly’s entrap its patrons in the subdued promise of its exclusivity through lack of available space; they’d turned a possible trouble – too small – into a boon. Nearly cannot tell that two roofs due northwest, there are chickens settling down to sleep. Beside linens left out to air too long. Life and luxury knobbing up in a continuous game of Stacking Hands. “My mind turns on when your preference to prohibit yourself first started.” Well! Even with the absence of suggestiveness, that easy-made comment earns a blush from Kopriva. She masks much of that burst of flustered surprise behind another light laugh. There's no witty retort from her, but the exchange goes without awkwardness — or just a little, easily brushed off. Ezra draws her attention again soon enough, not only for the conversation but a small, if furtive, glance to the forefinger ring. "Is that so?" she muses, in regards to his comment of luxury of self knowledge. It is likely too easily read that Kopriva isn't aware in the slightest of the neighbouring roofs or what is just feet away out of the illusion cast by Gilly's decor and atmosphere. There are too many points in time, of late, of Kopriva prohibiting herself and so, unsurprisingly, she answers with yet another question: "And when was this? … ah. With the snakes?" Is she warmer or colder? He brandishes a practical, dismissive, smile to ward off any lingering price of uneasiness for his sincerity – the little there is, or perhaps the more he imagines himself at fault. Focus on his frontward forefinger is a splash of ocean blue, the light, green-touched, turquoise, flecked about with gold flakes and swimming veins of aureate. The thick base of the ring balances a gemstone as thick as, if not thicker, than his knuckle. One returned to him after– some fumbles. “You touched the snakes,” observed, warmly yes, but still a sly closure on her past. Then, that. “Held in your palms a creature capable of ending your life.” If his thread of snake-ish affection remains, forgive him his closeness; it is not on thought of Kopriva’s death. Probably. His eyes, so open to fall into in search, are so unreadable, in stark contrast across the small wooden furniture between them. While none is in sight that second, the thick waft of spice and steam carries into their space, warm and warning. (One should always be wary of what native Igenites deliberately call ‘spice’). “Yet,” Ezra shifts a gesture to them, here. The now. “Afraid.” "I'm not afraid…" Kopriva begins in earnest defense, only to stall in her resolve near the end. Is it the whole truth? Her lower lip is briefly sucked in, while she clearly is reconsidering her answer — just a breath or two. "But, perhaps, I am being overcautious. I'm still discovering much of Igen, let alone the Bazaar and those who live here…" Is she meaning in general or the Families? Like all of the above. "Places like this," she lifts a hand to lightly indicate Gilly's, before it drifts to mirror a similar gesture between them, as Ezra had. "With company I'd normally not find myself in," she smiles here, to gentle already light-worded honesty. Another pause, her head canting just slightly as something occurs to her. "Ah, maybe it would make more sense if … ? I was living in Southern, before," Which might account for her brief trepidation but lack of real fear with the snakes. She pointedly seems to have slipped by commentary of death. "And worked as a lower cavern worker. Before that, a cothold. It was quiet," Sheltered, more like it. Yet as she speaks of it, her features turn wistful in that warmly nostalgic way. "And decent work. Now, I am in a world of constant learning and adapting — to put it mildly." Kopriva, at least, is not completely oblivious, even if most of her perceived flaws are merely her own insecurities. “Fair.” His blithely raised eyebrows in saying suggest he would’ve accepted any answer; for it is hers, and not for him to say. Unconscious mimicry has him canting his head alongside her, physically following the train of thought to which she slides. Little unwrapping of reason passes between them, however. Knowledge of Southern, for him, is nothing more than watercolor impressions. Of her cottons, well: “Then… not decent either? Igen?” By her limited qualifications allowed, though well within jest by the unresolved giggle at the corner of his mouth — something he taps alongside with a long finger. “Never set foot purposefully outside the Bazaar.” Sidestepping a technicality hovering somewhat outside his conscious memory; and he sounds not lost for it but warmly pleased. Thus origins settled, the hint of aroma becomes its source, as two small mugs, made of many angled lines, are set to place. The tea is cleanly and promptly poured by the Gilly’s representative, as no room persists on the little table to leave them their choice of refill. It will be kept on a warmer inside, easily summoned; but, then again, tea is meant to be enjoyed sloooowly — if Ezra’s languid take to it is any indication. With his eyes lowered gently to watch the hot surface liquid react to his breaths. Kopriva will be delayed again in answering, but only for the time it takes for the tea to arrive and the server to leave again; at some point, she offers a soft word of thanks to the one serving them. There is no hurry with her, either. Reaching for the mug, she will draw hers closer but not yet lift it. "Why haven't you?" she asks, circling back to the one thread of their conversation thus far to stand out. Her tone is purely inquisitive, though she is quick to add, just mildly flustered. "… if you don't mind me asking! I don't mean to pry." Her gaze, once settled on him, now turns to her drink, as the mug is brought to her lips after a cautionary breath against the surface. Not exactly a foot in the mouth, but a pause to allow Ezra time to answer or not — and for her to quell lingering (well meaning!) curiosity. “Why would I?” Not quite so readily spoken as to suggest the lifelong Bazaarite had it prepared, but enough to suggest it has been cooked into his skin thus, unchallenged. “Don’t mind,” follows, a lilt more breezily, his original baritone flexing occasionally higher in good, rather than dry, humor. “And that was not prying.” Such as when he chuckles; several high notes of pure good spirit. “Besides,” amongst the speaking, Ezra’s stayed indulgently staring at the rise of spice-smelling steam – so hazy and warming in that state; so elusively not warning of its native kick. “You should once in a while.” His eyes partially raise now, half-lidded little semi- eclipses to witness his naif’s first (probably?) taste of zesty biting tea and its rum lover. Blindly, he slides a couple fingers around his own mug’s handle. “Find something that interests you and– tug.” A flutter of eyes – for his own happiness – to exhale into the tea so close and feel the flavors wash over and in him, bound with heat. He sips, briefly in his own little world; the look on his face like he’s so sweetly pleased with himself, with this, with her there alongside; before it’s masked over by the steam and then the taste settling. "Perhaps not to you," Kopriva muses, far more at ease for the good humor exhibited by Ezra. "There are some who'd find that close enough to prying." Perhaps not that many, but it may have only taken one or two experiences for it to make a lasting memory — and a new worry. Her tea has not yet been sipped, but she does pause to take an intrigued notice to the smell of it. Distracted again, by the turn in conversation, Kopriva will choose to reply first, with a small, if slanted, half-smile. "I've some," Interests. Not listed here and now, in full,, but she continues with an almost teasing manner. "Tea, believe it or not, would be one." And from what she observes in Ezra's reaction, she is likely assuming plenty. Kept to herself, as she turns her full attention at last to that first sip … and promptly looks both delighted and bewildered. Much of which is hidden behind a polite lift of her hand to cover her mouth (and maybe the slight cough for the kick). "… what was the name of this one, again?" Kopriva feigns a little forgetfulness well, while immediately taking a second, lighter sip once recovered. Clearly, two are needed and perhaps a third, before weighing a full opinion! Abound with the good humor she’s taken to, he yet bypasses it to any of her first grapplings with the two-part kick of tea and alcohol. Merely, and without more than that half-lidded glance, leaving her to it, with a quiet appreciation that she tries. And when she asks: “… Spiced black tea.” He coats the saying with a cousin to apology, driving the point that is not mocking her with obviousness. “It’s– how to say…” a couple of fingers pressed together swirl in front of his held mug, tempting the word amongst the mist, “Just the common presentation. You may, then, adapt as you like. I– “ she’s offered a little tip of the mug with a little matching curve of a lip, “use rum.” Though no less dark in the dim atmosphere, which only grows ever dimmer throughout, his eyes are alight with interest and cheer so that their auburn color seems possible. Just in time for a vigor of judgment, at last. “Some don’t deserve it, the way they spoil the blend.” Further advancing the easy crumb path Kopriva has followed to the trail marker of shared interest between them. Ezra dips backwards again from having leant to the table, strength all in his abdomen to ease him down without spilling the tea in both hands. Pillows met, drink warm, his long legs stretched out across the veranda like he owns it; the Steen is a satisfied feline of a man. "Rum," Kopriva quietly echoes, with a downward (if appraising) look to the mug held between her hands. She'd acknowledged the repetition of the name with a nod, but now circles back to remark: "Spiced is … fitting." Is it? One corner of her mouth lifts in a semblance of a smile — amusement, then. Ezra has her attention once again, when he has resettled himself on the pillows. Kopriva tilts her head, slight movement from those gifted earrings she wears likely the only hint to an otherwise subtle gesture. "The rum can spoil some of the teas… Ah, yes. I could see that," she remarks, with a little sip from her own drink as if to further prove her theory. She pauses just for a breath, thoughtful. "Or do you mean others ruin the blend, by not knowing the balance? I — assume there's a ratio?" Kopriva, it seems, can talk at length, when the topic is neutral enough and when she has relaxed enough. She readies to continue, only to hesitate and then exhale, her smile now a touch demure. "Thank you," she offers instead, warm and sincere. "For the tea … and for bringing me here." Sweet little amusement, soft and easily dashed upon the rocks of any of her self-consciousness should it happen, fancies Ezra’s features as he hugs fingers along his tea and observes her discovery. Spice and – elitism. “Others,” he corrects very mildly despite a vehemence for the violence against tea that sits like oncoming thunder beneath his already naturally vibrating voice, “Spoiling it with things that belong nowhere near a proper tea.” She’ll be left to ruminate on that alone for half a minute while he coaxes out another slow, contented sip – the warmth of it traveling vibrantly to his cheeks with a spoil of pink and glow; Ezra’s very unabashedly pleased. And so, perhaps the method by which he can address the exhale of sincerity from her. Initially having slipped past it with an easier critique. Now, though, tea held near his chest, his gaze asides to her again, accepting what token of her demure smile remains so that it is refracted back on her in the enticing depth of his dark eyes and their promise to seclude her, and only her, within his look and his consideration – paled, briefly, by the offer of including else into this world, “Yet there are others, for bringing. For… being an unprohibited naif.” Slid in smoothly enough that she may understand he will take no judgment on her either way. Her reasoning is her own. Kopriva will definitely puzzle over that tidbit for the time given. She does not take another sip of her tea in the interim, unhurried and savoring it. Ezra's company is keeping her just at ease enough that some of her hovering thoughts can be drowned out; that, and the warmth of the spiced tea will help too, in time. "I suppose," she agrees, uncertain but does not linger on that thought long. With a slight shake of her head, Kopriva's smile returns as she turns the topic back again to, unsurprisingly, the tea. "What other terrible combinations have you come across? Aside from a heavy hand with the rum." Curious, ever curious. She is a naif, too. Yet here, in this little space in Gilly's, Kopriva begins to feel comfortable, caught up perhaps in the conversation, the atmosphere and the simplicity of sharing tea — despite the shadow of their ranks and positions. She does not speak freely, but with a little less hesitation and more confidence as time wears on; as long as nothing tips off her insecurities. He’s ready to regale her; to indulge an unhurried but consistent stream of the sins of the offensive tea drinkers – heavy creams, blandness, herbs she’s knows and has never heard of, not letting it steep long enough or letting it steep too long; he’s becomes incensed on behalf of the precious liquid but not so worked up as to spoil the incredibly leisurely sway that overtakes Gilly’s and, therefore, its occupants. The buzzing glow of sleepless buildings, scattered between swathes of impenetrable darkness upon which any danger of the imagination may spring; unlike the considerate drumheights, going silent during the agreed upon candlemark across Pern, the Bazaar never quite nestles into such complacency, or favor. As the tea continues to warm both, infusing their human bodies in pair – unshackled to that looming commitment of name – the specialty order of a fruit bouquet arrives, lending tart or sweet tones to tease a tongue doused in spice and alcohol and knowledge. And accompanying, does Ezra soothe, his rumbling baritone becoming a litany (following more rum) not only of teas but, gradually, a rather detailed description of the stone beneath them, previous owners of the stores and storage uplifting Gilly’s in this way. He never quite releases Kopriva from the obligation of a gentle question here or there, but all between the miscellany of knowledge one acquires out of love, a smattering of half-remembered poems (only one being vaguely dirty, and he doesn’t even seem to notice), and a very intense description, at one point, of the cycle of preparing grapes for wine. That will be the evening for the curious – until empty tea mugs, obligation, tire, or those pesky vexed bodyguards, bring about its closure – for her; never for here. Here's To The Night has 0 comments. |
26 Jan 2024 06:00 |
A goldrider and a Steen heir try to set aside their titles for an evening to enjoy (spiked) tea. |
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Vignette: Rug Pull Vignette: Rug Pull
It was supposed to eventually end up upon the Weyrlingmaster's desk. Somehow, it is delivered to P'yr. Weyrlingmaster R'xim, I regret that I may have to impose upon your goodwill so soon after your kindness to me in the living caverns the other day. I mistakenly had the rug moved to the wrong chamber. Turns out it is on the other side of the ones near the candidate barracks. Are Sixteen and Twenty free? Much obliged and indebted, Senior Apprentice Paloma It takes P'yr 10 minutes — and a generous helping of Essreth's unending patience — to stop hyperventilating at the thought that he was promoted to Weyrlingmaster. And also renamed, apparently. Later he'll deliver the letter to R'xim, feeling guilty for no clear reason, and trying very hard to pretend that he didn't read it. The easy part, at least, is acting like he has no clue what it's saying, because as a matter of fact: he doesn't. Vignette: Rug Pull has 4 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 00:00 |
P'yr receives a letter. He is confused. |
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Twice the Surprise (Vig) Twice the Surprise (Vig)
Somewhere … somewhere within the inner caverns or administrative corridors of Igen Weyr… Stranger things have happened. Kopriva had already largely forgotten her strangely misplaced correspondence. The weird wet box was picked up and sent (hopefully) to the correct client this time. She keeps meaning to do something about that sweet rose scented letter but … it's still tucked away, untouched. Now? Now there's two more packages waiting for her. Neither are expected and, after the wet box of leathers, Kopriva has some trepidation of opening unfamiliar items. Curiosity always wins out, however, and she will reach first for the larger one… With all the hogwash of mixed up receipts in Igen's deliveries, it might be easy, at first, to assume this new arrival to also be mistaken. Tied up with a bit of protective paper, indecently nameless of its intended. Inside is a squat golden-white box on little angled legs. Its body, curving out at the bottom and then slightly narrower up top, is gilded with carvings of flowering designs (which a native may recognize as the same leading up to the Steen Viewing Balcony at the Pit). Along the hatched top, two aquamarines have been more newly set, gleaming in facets like contented dragon eyes. A well hidden latch will open the small piece, revealing by smell even before sight, a row of very neatly arrayed bags of handmade tea blends, ranging in order from the most relaxing reminiscence of open land to the spice of the desert residence. Tucked in front of this arrangement is a small clipping of paper. On the one side, it reads: "For the curious." In the language of gemstones, one could discover that aquamarines represent "hope, happiness, and everlasting youth" - the latter of which may be basking in the Sands right beside her, depending on where the box is delivered. Spiritual reference: //https://i.etsystatic.com/19915652/r/il/4f1189/5014504594/il_1588xN.5014504594_2rf0.jpg// Kopriva can only stare at the squat golden-white box, immediately assuming it's not for her — because she does not receive gifts like this. How could it possibly…? It all slowly fits together, with the help of that slip of paper and the eventual discovery of the inner contents. There is a hum of surprise, then an exhale of delight as she notes the variety in the teas. One of her hands lifts to her ear, absent of the gifted earrings, as a warm and broad smile curves her lips. The other hand lightly skims her fingers along the edges of the box, before both carefully close and secure the lid again. Kopriva deliberates a second later, to open the box again, as if unconvinced it won't just vanish on her the second she looks away. Instead, she puts her focus into immediately writing a reply on appropriate stationary, though not so stiffly formal as she drops their respective titles: "Ezra, Thank you so very much for the lovely and thoughtful gift! I received it just today, without incident. The box itself is lovely all on its own, but the teas — I am looking forward to sampling each one. Clear skies, While the ink dries, Kopriva's attention drifts long enough from the gift to the second item delivered. Curiosity wins out again, as she reaches for the book-shaped parcel: From the way it's wrapped, it's clear this book was part of a larger package of some sort and got separated along the way. Without a label, it's hard to say why they dropped it off for Kopriva to collect, but- stranger things have happened of late. The book itself is fairly plain and is titled: The Weaver's Wanderings At first, it seems like a fairly pleasant story about a female Weaver who's just trying to make her way in the world - until she meets her first client. From there on, it's a masterfully woven tale of- okay, it's smut. Straight up. The story that's told is an elaborate tapestry of obscene proportions, with only a modicum of tastefulness to be found here and there to provide a reprieve for the senses and to repair any ripped bodices along the way. But the rest? It's a finely knitted romp through Pern's various Holdings and Weyrs, as the Weaver learns a lot about life, love, and lovin'. There's no author or inscription. Surprise flickers over her expression again, the book flipped over in her hand as she looks for any name or note. Finding nothing, Kopriva hums again in thought. It's not a gift, but … what harm can be had in keeping a book? It looks intriguing enough. Calling her bronze firelizard Anfar to her, Kopriva will send him away with the reply to the young Steen heir. Then it's only a matter of (carefully!) carrying the gift and book to her personal weyr; though the tea box is left there for later perusal, for those escapes into the (slightly) cooler evenings and nights from the heat of the Sands. The book? Kopriva brings with her to the Sands, intent on reading "just a little" to pass some of the longer dull quiet moments. Maybe no one will notice how the young goldrider's expression changes or her sudden nervous glances darting about and up to the Galleries… …or that the book is closed. Then, open. Then closed and just as quickly reopened and a few pages re-read. Or that she continues… intently reading it. Twice the Surprise (Vig) has 0 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Kopriva receives another two deliveries: one is actually a gift meant for her, the other isn't — but she may just hold on to it anyways~ |
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-V- Not Today, Courier -V- Not Today, Courier
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. Subject: An Herbalry Book A recent copy of an Herbalry volume, Healer-official but not proprietary information, is wrapped in a rough hide for protection. Tied with twine, it has a small note attached to it. The outside of the note is a swiftly written notation that could be Sg—- -f L-f-. Inside the note: Hey fk D't say I d-d-'t d- anythg f— y—. - <scribble that is known to be T'rin's signature for those familiar> With the yard prominently supplied from wares tucked into the Weyr’s own storages and infirmary hovels, the hide-covered weight dropped on the inner cabinet shelf arrests the dragonhealer’s eye from her work: the never-ending call of practicing one’s stitches into stretched bovine skin. Greer pulls the latest knot half-heartedly tight with both pinkies, as it will be undone soon enough to be restitched again, and slides the tray onto the bed of the hammock she’s installed into a back dragon infirmary wall. Its frame slips down towards center and then springs a bit as her own body redistributes the semi-taut fabric. It’s only seconds before she’s tracing a short fingernail along the scratches passing for handwriting on the exterior of the hide’s little note. Sp— -f L-f-. …. of Life. She has the questionably beating heart of a trader; she’d have to spit on her own cheek if she wasn’t well knowing of the shops, their owners’ reputations, and the potential for rivalry when she found alternate sources of procuring additives for her scents. And if it wasn’t that odorous site, it still certainly was not addressed to a Weyr - the Weyr never gave anything an interesting name or title. Salt and blood. Were they having the foreign Sand candidates procuring missives again? Greer’s strides are short but meaningful and a sharp glance at the slope leading from the yard shows her the retreating back of her prey. Barely slowing, the brownrider dips to snatch the heel of one shoe, bringing it up in the same motion to lob at the young figure. The low ankle boot glances off his lower left shoulder; enough to swerve his attention around, big brown eyes wide and eyebrows aloft. With a pointed look at him, and then the right-footed boot beside him in the sand, Greer lets the boy snatch up her shoe and hurry just close enough for her to also underhand the hide-wrapped package at him. Rather than replace the shoe, she simply removes the other, tucking both under an arm to eventually fling beneath the hammock so she can trod barefoot about the yard until Rymi clucks her tongue enough — even though there aren't even any ongoing procedures. Her only ill-fated message during this ongoing affair is: “Try again, transient.” -V- Not Today, Courier has 2 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Take care of your own mail. |
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(V) If You Want Something Done Right... (V) If You Want Something Done Right…
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Cloud Castles in the Sky – Zetali's Weyr Thin but serviceable curtains separate weyr from ledge, and lend some modicum of privacy to its occupant. The weyr beyond is sparse and utilitarian. A single dresser that looks like it's literally on its last legs sags in a corner, bare on top except for a basket meant for glows. Against the back wall of the weyr is what amounts to more of a cot than a bed, although the bedding is thankfully not as moth-eaten as it looks like it should be; the mattress looks well-stuffed, and the bedding is a handsome shade of brown that matches the dragon often loafing on the ledge. Moderately spacious, this is the weyr of an average dragonrider, and not anybody of status: A little sparse, and a little shabby, but still functional and cozy in its own way… and Zetali would have it no other way. There are crossed mail deliveries up and down Igen Weyr. More than she's seen in the eighteen or nineteen Turns she's been living here. Four times this sevenday she's received letters meant for wingriders in five different wings, and none of them were hers. At least sorting the mess out hasn't taken too much of her time up. A bit of sleuthing has managed to get all of them sent along to their destinations. …The correct ones. She doesn't think to ask whether the letters she's sent were crossed and delivered to the wrong people. Blue Sforzando doesn't deliver mail. There's a reason why blue Sforzando doesn't deliver mail. Bronze Mezzo is much more attentive to detail. …Blue Sforzando delivered all of these. Anyone could wind up with any one or combination of notes: Zeyan— Alea— Zalian— J— (V) If You Want Something Done Right... has 1 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 08:00 |
A few articles of mail from Zetali are… misplaced. |
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Cursed Opportunity Cursed Opportunity
"OH. OH my! You are serious." Stables The powerful odor of hot runner lies heavy in the air here. Even the relative open of the stable design, with roomy stalls and lofty arches - incongruously, this must be one of the best designed buildings in the entire Weyr - cannot altogether dispel the stink of beast and the proceeds of such: leather and manure. The stables serve for the Weyr's population of runners, and house a small menagerie of other creatures. Avians, caprines and porcines all have their homes here, and all add to the earthy feel of the place. Swish. Swish. Swish. The steady sound of sweeping comes from the back of the stables and small clouds of dust float out with a visual echo of the sound. When the sound stops, the long, lean figure of a young man steps out into the aisle, pushing a laden wheelbarrow with him. A fine sheen of sweat gleams on his freckled face, a determined expression on his gaunt features. A serious, studious elder teen. There's no mistaking the sound of a dragon approaching, though the footfalls lean toward the lighter end of the draconic spectrum - as if that's a thing that most people can detect, but that's a fact of Zheraszth's approach. Her rider's arrival, then, is a much lighter-footed affair, the one-eyed greenrider poking her head into the stables with a furrow to her brow and a purse to her lips that suggests she's in a mood and that mood might be due to the thing that's in her arms. It's a parcel of some sort, but it's not easy to suss out the particulars at a glance. "Hey, do you know a Herder named-" she squints at the package "-Dzumuzi?" Larze 's head lifts from his task at the voice. THe cothold-bred youth has been here long enough that the sound of dragons no longer make him go all glaze-eyed with eagerness to actually see one up close. Thank goodness. At first, when he sees the woman and her obvious displeasure at being on some errand in the less than delightful stables, full of dust and runner droppings, he doesn't think that the rider would be talking to him. And yet, he appears to be the only one around. His throat works, adam's apple bobbing with the gulp. "Ma'am?" ANd then he shakes his head and tries to be helpful. "Uh, I haven't heard Dzumuzi come in yet." He looks at the package and then at the rider again before averting his gaze. "Should I … look for him? He might be in the auction yard." Her lips somehow thin out further at the explanation and Yaszha looks down at the bundle of mysterious whatever in her arms. "This thing is hideous," she mutters to herself. "No. I'll just- put it in there," she says, tilting her head toward the tack room. "Just make sure he gets it. Or throw it away before he does. I don't know why anyone would want-" She shakes her head as if to clear it. "Are you new here?" Pay no mind to the relatively large green head dropping into view in the doorway behind her - or the eye that's slowly spinning blue. Larze tries to get a view of the package when it's pointed out that, whatever it is, is hedeous. Why? Because he'd probably find it facinating. "What is it?" The question comes out before he thinks better of prying. As for the question of being new, he shifts his weight from side to side as he straightens to his full height. "Yes'm. New enough. Here with some runner stock to sell is all." Now, there's something he has not seen. A dragon peeping into the stables. He gawks. Embarassingly, still green enough to weyr life to be delighted with being so very close to a dragon. He stares, probably too long and then quickly and awkwardly jerks his attetion back to the dragonrider. "I'm Larze." "You really want to see it?" Yaszha's nose scrunches and she holds it out, still wrapped in burlap. From what's visible, though, it looks like part of a taxidermied fish? But he'd have to pull the cloth away to reveal the rest - which is apparently an amateur taxidermist's efforts at making a chimera of a fish, a tunnelsnake, and a small wherry. It's… not great. At all. Or, rather, it's assembled very well, but the combo is terrifying. She'll latch onto conversation because it's better than bizarre art pieces. "I see. Well met, Larze. I'm-" and she pauses there, catching the lad staring at the green who, in turn, stares back "-Yaszha. That's Zheraszth." She cocks a thumb backwards to the dragon who, in turn, offers a soft little trill of greeting. The green's eye spins faster and with even more blueness to it. Larze nods. Slowly. "Well…" his voice slowly drawls, as though he's second guessing himself. Probably the way the rider's nose is wrinkling. "I do, actually." ANd so, when it's offered out, long legs carry him closer and he takes the burlap and peaks inside. His eyes widen. "Whhoooooaaaa!" EYes widening as the strange creature comes into the light. Fish and snake and wherry?! It is totally /GREAT/ to the young man. Horrible and wonderous. Somehow, the cool chimera eclipses his awe of the dragon. "Uh." He covers the stuffed monstrosity carefully and then blink-blinks several times, so many questions stumbling behind his lips and he manages to mute them all. "Nice to meet you Yaszha. And… Oh! Is she greeting /me/?" He boggles and a huge grin splits his wide mouth. "Zheraszth." That big smile turns to the dragon and he's all boyish excitement. "My sisters are never going to believe me." With the nightmare object handed over, the greenrider seems much more at ease - it's out of her hands at least and Yaszha counts that as a win. "If it doesn't make it to Dzumuzi, then so be it." She winks but, well, the eyepatch covers one eye, so it just looks like a blink. Oh well. And then there's the giddiness. The excitement. It's infectious enough to make her crack a grin that skews a little to one side. "She is, actually. Do you have a moment? You can get up close and touch her, if you want. She likes having her headknobs rubbed- well, just behind them, like you're petting a feline." She's already turning to head out that way, while the sounds of a dragon shuffling around can be heard outside. The trilling intensifies, full of whatever passes for draconic delight. "According to her, I never pay enough attention to her, so extra hands always help." Larze gathers the wrapped monster like one might a beloved feline, tucked under the armpit, resting on his long forearm. "Dzumuzi….is he expecting this? I mean….if uh…-somehow- it runs off?" NOw isn't that a disturbing thought? Bad enough the mini-horror is lifeless, but re-animated? Nightmare fuel. Just what the elder-teen seems to like. He nearly drops the 'treasure' at the suggestion. "Touch her?" He is old enough that his voice doesn't quite crack, but it's that nervous warble of excitement that makes it pitch up in a very unmanly fashion." But then the rider, with her cool eye-patch, is going on like this is a regular thing, explaining how to do it right. "I have a moment. I can put down straw in just a bit." He wouldn't miss this for anything, even the wrath of his father for 'screwing off'. He blushes at the trilling, grinning even wider if possible. "LIke a feline…?" He can't quite believe that idea as he looks ready for Yaszha to lead the way. "Don't ask me. Someone left it on my ledge." Yaszha shrugs; the fate of the stuffed chimera isn't her problem any more. It's his. "Well, kind of. She's bigger than a feline," obviously, "and she's not furry, but- it's the same principle, right?" She'll lead the way outside, where the green is hunkered on the ground as small as she'll go. Only when they're outside will Larze get to see her tongue poked out of her maw; it's very 'blep' of her, really. Fortunately, the greenrider seems largely forgiving of any late-teen nervousness and excitement; she's not precisely placid, but she's not fussed, either. "There, see? Just get your fingers riiight up behind her headknob. If you do it right, she'll kind of scootch her head into you. She'll claim she doesn't, but she's a liar." The green's hide is very soft, very smooth, and as dragons go, she smells clean and a little more spicy than some. Larze puts his free hand up to his mouth to hide the wide blaze of his teeth in that smile that must hurt his face it's so big. The blerp is just too much, his whole expression goes: Aaww! behind his hand. "Wow. Beautiful." The words half muffled by his fingers. Taking a deep, long breath, he wills the 'be cool' vibe. Do not trip! Do not say something stupid. Be cool. Be cool. He manages not to trip over his too-long-legs, ending in too-big feet his growth spurt has cursed him with. Reaching out, there's no way to cover up the delight bubbling out from him. "I can't believe it. She's letting me /pet/ her." His fingers carefully stroke along the spot that's indicated as he takes it all in. THe texture. The size. Even the /smell/! "H-how is that? Uh…do I scratch a little? Just pet? Um…" He tries both ways. VERY careful. The greenrider hums softly and nods, glancing to Zheraszth, then back to Larze. "She's not like this with everyone," she says after a moment or two. It's after the lad's had a chance to get his fingers back there to scratch and pet, of course, after he's got a little confidence going. Hopefully. In either case, the green's head does scoot-scoot a little closer, while Yaszha warns, "Stand your ground, now. And don't be shy. Her hide's tougher than it looks." She maneuvers around to stand on the opposite side, a hand resting on an eyeridge. "Have you done this before? She seems to think you're an expert at it." He obviously hasn't, but that doesn't stop her from spinning it a little. Larze stills his hand when the greenrider states that the green is giving him some special behavior. Color rises to his cheeks and he whiseprs, "Really?" His hand stills when the huge head shifts closer, but he's been around big runners and he doesn't seem afraid, even resuming his pet-scratching. "You mean it?" More color stains his cheeks, a full-blown cherry-red blush. It should come with an 'awe-shucks' toe-scrape, but he seems…suspecious. As though the rider might be teasing him. THere's a slight narrowing of his eyes, just a little. "Nope. THis is the very first time I have ever touched a dragon." Licking his lips, he squints up at the dragon, as though trying to see if the dragon is pulling the rider's leg. Finally, he seems to be willing to accept the compliment for what it is since no one is laughing t him. "She even smells GOOD. I didn't know they had that spicy scent. Is that from the oils? I hear you have to oil them. Right?" See, he pays attention. His suspicion is understandable, but Yaszha's a good enough sport that outright teasing isn't part of her game. "I mean it. She really only asks for that," she jerks her chin to where Larze is pampering the green, "when she sees someone she likes. Or thinks she'll like." Is Zheraszth pulling Yaszha's leg? If she is, it's impossible to really tell. There's another soft trill and a further bleppening of her tongue. She remains leaned into the attention as hard as she dares, one set of eyelids sliding shut to further underscore her enjoyment. "That's just how she smells, before I get her in for a bath and an oiling," her rider explains - with a smile and nod for his astuteness! Well done! - while digging around in a pocket for something. "Most dragons smell more or less like that, but they're all a little different, just like people." There's a beat, a moment of silence where her eyes glaze over a bit - and then: "She definitely seems to think you might make another dragon very, very happy one day." Larze decides, rather seriously, "Maybe because I am good with the runners. I'm forever bathing and brushing them." He holds steady against the leaning, uttering a soft laugh at the tongue. "That's so cool…." THe words come out very soft. He's trying to get a look at the deadly teeth too, because: Wow! "This is -amazing-." Completely star-struck. "If you ever need help. I mean, … uh…" He looks suddenly nervous, like he's overstepped and rambles on nervously. "NOt that I think you'd need help of course. I don't know the first thing about dragons except that I've been hearing and I listen a lot and pay attention. My pop warned me not to overstep so I'm sorry if I did." He gulps a time or two and then blink-blinks, the blush coming back as he squeaks. "Me?" "Could be," she reckons, glancing down at her lifemate, then back across to the lad. "It never hurts to have a few extra hands to help wash her or oil her," Yaszha replies, tone settled into reassuring notes that might be influenced by the green that's presently enjoying all the attention. "And, you know-" she reaches across, white knot in hand "-that's what candidacy is great for, Larze. You learn a lot about dragons - and you'll get to help riders bathe them a lot, too." Her grin emerges, lopsided and amiable enough. "My mother always told me that you don't know what you don't know - so it never hurts to ask. So. I'm going to ask: will Stand for the clutch on the Sands here at Igen? She seems to think you have a good shot at it," but, of course, the green is a little biased now, isn't she? Larze 's shoulders relax as the rider responds reasuringly rather than with anger or irritation. His smile is more relaxed at her kindness and he ducks his head, hand still busy petting, enjoying the texture of the dragon's skin, that is so very different than he'd imagined. When she speaks of 'what candidacy is for…' well…he jerks his attention back to the rider. "OH. OH my! You are serious." He certainly didn't think she was because his head swings from side to side. His mouth opens and clothes as the question is very seriously posed to him and his mind whirls with choices. "W-well….ahem. Uh…" He gives the dragon a look, blerped tongue and lid-lidded and that seems to make up his mind for him. "Uh…yeah. I mean, Yes'm. Yes…ma'am. It would be the greatest of honors! And if /she/ thinks so, I certainly wouldn't disapoint her. She is ever so magnificent!" The greenrider's not often given to sunny smiles, but she does have a warm one that comes out for occasions like this and that's what's offered to Larze, along with the knot. "That's a good lad," she says with a soft laugh. "Enthusiastic- that'll do you good in the long run, especially with all the work that's ahead of you. Let us know when you're ready and we'll fly you to the Weyr proper and get you settled in the barracks." But there's a further grin for his praises, for his effusiveness, for his happiness, and the greenrider adds, as a conspiratorial aside, "Flattery will get you just about everywhere with her, just so you know." As if Zheraszth isn't right there and listening. But, then, it's probably true - the green is a strange one. Cursed Opportunity has 1 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Larze is just minding his business when Yaszha shows up. Larze is Searched! |
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Crossed {vig} Crossed {vig}
The Breach A slightly curving passageway connects ledge to weyr. The rift in the rock opens abruptly, bubbling and swelling into a high-ceilinged space that echoes loudly and easily. Shelves and nooks are carved into the rock, with hooks embedded in other places that are suitable for leathers and straps to be hung. The immediate space is for the dragon-half of the equation, with a rush-filled wallow, rather than a couch. Dragoncare items occupy the left wall entirely, from straps to paddles to oil and more. The rider's leathers, too, are arranged in that space, helmet and goggles and all with their own special places. A full three-quarters of the weyr is for the dragon for reasons that are obvious to those that know the beast in question. The rest - to the right of the entrance - is cordoned off with a privacy screen of wood. On that side, there is a table and a pair of chairs; the table is oft-covered in hidework of various types, while the chairs are adorned with well-worn cushions. An old, abused wardrobe is pressed against the far wall. The bed is modestly-sized, but burdened with entirely too many pillows. A couple of braziers are available for heating and limited cooking purposes; little more than charcoal-fueled bowls of fire, elevated and with a convenient lid to snuff them out. Light is provided through a combination of glow-baskets and oil lamps, and the entire weyr smells pleasant overall, with a combination of draconic, spicy hide and something sweet, like vanilla and lavender. This is a weyr that is kept clean and neat, with places for everything - and everything in its place. For nearly a turn, Khu sent letters. It started when she received one from a green firelizard that was unfamiliar to her - but the letter was. Pictographs and scattered words wrenched her back to her time with the Khan, where the women were forbidden from learning how to read and write and, so, they made their own language of a sort. She could read the notes with their strange emblems and siguls and signs and she knew. Her sister had six children. She was hoping to have more to stay useful to her husband. He was set to take over for the Ram family of traders; her eldest was next in line. But there was trouble. There was always trouble. The Ram drank from the same superstitious well as the Khan and she had too many winter-born children. To anyone else, it wouldn't make sense. To Khu, summer-born with a brother born in winter, it made complete sense. Lhaiklan could only care for so many. The rest of the caravan wouldn't care for hers - they would not shoulder her weakness. There would be no marriage prospects for Haijhalam for the crime of being born during a particularly brutal winter. Kharam would be passed over for autumn-born Jhakhram if something befell spring-born Rakhram. In the end, there was only one option. Khu's final note was comprised only of an image - Igen Weyr in silhouette, two snowflakes drifting toward it. At the bottom, two upraised hands provided the promise of shelter. And, then, all she could do was wait. Look, sometimes shit happens and the wrong mail gets delivered. Who's going to get it? Who's going to find this one? See the problem with living with a Weyrwoman is their damn assistants meddling. It was meant to be for Nasrin's eyes… only. Instead, the note — much like another — gets sealed and delivered. Eventually, it lands on Khu's desk. Sa'mael is not an eloquent man, and so it's short and sweet. Nas, I'm shit at words. You're more to me than a goldrider, or the mother of my son, and you damn sure can't leave me. I love you. A glance confirmed it was not for her eyes. A second glance and the names were memorized. The envelope was sealed again, a dollop of wax and a stamped flower securing it. A short note was attached: Apologies saa-Nasrin, for this found its way to me. Rukbat light your way always. Khu Trellis would typically do a fine job of delivering it, but she ultimately passed the duty to Thorn, instead; Sunflower yet brooded over eggs that would likely be ready by the time her niece and nephew arrived. Or so she hoped. This is one beaten up letter, dropped in the dragonhealer's yard. Torn in parts, smeared and smudged — it has either been carried around for turns, or left out in an Igen sandstorm-turned-rainstorm. Only bits and pieces show: …. a new life… …. but the right one? You write to Mother, but… burns… before she…. sent them… … I write…. and …. go unanswered… … restitution… too late… You chose… wager… now must… cost. It was Trellis that found the scrap of something. Nothing, perhaps. But, the blue seemd proud that he had found something for her and she gave him a treat and stroked his neck and told him he was a good blue. The note itself was peculiar, the name only part of a name that she could connect. And even that was a long shot. How many people had names that started with Ral? How many had moved on through the Weyr? The alignment of inked rings in Ixzhulqvoth's mind insisted. It was worth an attempt. And then: It's a quick little note, though neatly scripted, however conversational it comes: I think I'm holding onto something of yours, or perhaps something //intended for you — if your name before you met Icks Ikk Icksul your lifemate was 'Khulan' — but, as it is mostly in symbols, I cannot recognize anything else. A map of places in the desert, maybe? I am not familiar with all the oases, of course, but in case someone was showing you where to go… And now I'm just being nosy. Forgive me, Dragonhealer! -Ral// Enclosed: the paper that was mistakenly delivered, folded up, safe and sound. Who can say how this letter ended up in R'sare's weyr. Wayward firelizard, perhaps, or an errant breeze? Regardless, the note isn't the typical kind: it's illustrated, rather than written, scribed in a strange way. Thus, it depicts: [an image of the sun] [14 sun symbols, in 2 rows of 7 each] [below, a small map of the Igen desert marks a dotted line path from an oasis that crosses to a few more oases - and end at a crude sketch of a dragon] [another drawing of Rukbat with rays that beam outward] [an image of the moon, the phase matching that of two days prior] Another quick note is soon returned, along with a scrap of something; a crumpled note that might have been trash to another eye, but which is now confirmed to not quite be so: Saa-R'sare, Thank you. This is the note I was waiting for. [there's hesitation here, a spot where the ink grows perilously close to a blotch. is there more to say?] There is nothing to forgive; you have returned what is mine, saa, and I owe you much for that. There is time for me to do what must be done. Trellis found this note where the dragonhealers work. I think it might be a ghost of your past, but it is not mine to cast out with fire and ash and sage. Perhaps it is better if we speak directly. The winds blow strange this summer. ~Khu There is a house built out of stone Crossed {vig} has 3 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Letters are received; letters are sent. |
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{Vig} Misplaced Delivery {Vig} Misplaced Delivery
Observatory A strange thing, this half-sheltered dome of natural rock. Someone has marked it off — are those the sigils of the starcraft? Again with Pern's strange coincidences, for somehow R'sare ends up with a thick parcel folded in a thin hide and tied with a string. Opening it up, and there's some documentation that seems official and full of mathematical notations that might seem like a second language, if he's not a number's man. Designs of complicated machinery that looks, at the last page, to end in a sketch of — does he remember it? — an Observatory. Yet it's not that the package itself is mis-delivered, it's possibly the forgotten page inside with no to and no from: I wish you were here, you know. I had to leave the Observatory, because… it's complicated, but I have no one to talk to because what's the point? If you were here, I could talk to you. I could pour out my thoughts like we used to, but you're not. And I'll never see you again. I've got Tokki, and I'll be soon in the wilds where only starlight may guide me. I miss you so much. — He recognized the room in the tower from Southern Barrier, of course. Could not make sense of the mathematical notations as they did not pertain to marks and accounting — his kind of math. But the personal note, meant for no one in the world — he could tell that right away. And felt embarrassed for reading it the moment he finished it. Swallowing, he pocketed that, then contemplated the documentation. These — plans? Equations for them? Should he and Strath go back to the Observatory, drop them off with a Starcrafter there? There is one starcrafter he's met: Pink, with a wrench, in the Observatory. Were these her plans? Her… personal note? Or another starcrafter's? She had said, that day, she wasn't working on the Observatory solely by herself. So these could belong to any of them. Or should he deliver them to one of Igen's starcrafters to see to its safe return? He knew Igen had a master — Alsha. Would that get… one of the Barrier starcrafters in trouble? That he had accidentally gotten this? Regardless, he wasn't going to hand over the personal note to anyone unless they specifically asked for it, noticing it missing. « Just a breath and we're there, it will take no time. » Carefully rewrapping the thick parcel in thin hide, tying it doubly with leather strands, he made sure to label it in neat handwriting, 'Southern Barrier Starcrafters', attaching a note to explain its absence. Then R'sare dressed for cold even while he stifled in Igen's summer heat. Zero degrees in Barrier would guarantee it would, as Strath reminded him, be a quick, quick trip. "By mistake, I came into possession of these documents. I recognized the Observatory. No names were attached, unfortunately, therefore I am entrusting these back into the keeping of the Hold's Starcrafters. I am sorry for the delay if these were needed sooner. - R'sare, Igen Weyr" They were left in the Observatory during the lunch hour, so no one was there. {Vig} Misplaced Delivery has 1 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Receiving official-looking Crafter paperwork, Ral & Strath hopefully return it |
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V || Mis-Re-Directed Package, But Better! V || Mis-Re-Directed Package, But Better!
Rhaya & D'gan's Chaotic Mess Weyr A weyr of chaotic mess; it's a private space of girl stuff. Attempts have been made to contain the teen girl chaos for the floor no longer suffers piles of stuff, revealing a very plush white shaggy rug, and her bed's no longer cluttered with stuff and sometimes even gets made. Much of her flat surfaces and even the little credenza at the entrance remain the last bastion to clutter: filled with hair ribbons and ties, tubes of gloss and other girlie things, there's even a concave little metal dish with various jewelry bits nestled in it. The most optimal choices are the bed or the REALLY plush, GIANT squishy sack-like-chair-poof when it comes to sitting. Otherwise, her dresser's full of makeup and perfumes, and the mirror has all manner of clothing draped on it, along with a plethora of scrunchies and hair ties. A damaged but otherwise sturdy box is delivered, though who knows why - it's clearly labeled for Doireann and Southern Weyr, but maybe the postmaster mixed it up with something else? Maybe they wanted to get rid of incriminating evidence?! Who knows. The paper on the outside is horribly torn, exposing a glimpse of the brushes and paint pots within. There's a ghost of charcoal dust in there; it's possible the charcoals fell out enroute, after it was damaged. A shame, really, but the paints seem to be intact. The mark of a local ink and paint-maker can also be seen if the paper's torn a bit more. Rhaya finds the box in a precious moment of solitude. D'gan and Deanna are both passed out on the poof, both with a little bit of drool oozing from the corners of their mouths. She can see, at that moment, how her daughter's features are touched by her father, and it warms her heart. Her mood swings have gotten better, but sometimes she's given to bouts of sadness at how overwhelming a newborn is so… she's grateful to take this rare moment of silence. The box, then, becomes a curiosity, and she opens it and sees the letter and damaged charcoals. No… not damaged but gone. Quietly, carefully, Rhaya goes to her art supplies and rummages through it. It'll be another month before she can think about art, and by then, well. D'gan will surely help her get more. So lovingly, Rhaya packages up a selection of pretty charcoals, fixes the box, and writes atop the note meant for the Southern greenrider. Doireann, I received this by accident, but the paints are so lovely! The charcoals got lost en route, but I've filled the box from my stash, even some rare colors! It will be a few months before I can do any arting — new baby! — so please enjoy, and maybe when my life is not made up of diapers, feeding, and screaming, we should enjoy a paint-and-sip class! I've heard you've got a bookshop there that does painting nights! Rhaya of Igen Successfully sent off, Rhaya creeps close to her weyrmate and daughter and eases onto the poof, trying to wiggle under D'gan's arm for a family snuggle. Aaaaaaaaaa. V || Mis-Re-Directed Package, But Better! has 1 comments. |
D'gan and Deanna drool (so cutely) while Rhaya finds a package and possibly a new friend! D'gan's pretty cute when he drools~ |
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V || Finder's Keepers V || Finder's Keepers
"Finders keepers, bitches." Tiny Hole In the Wall It's a tiny apartment with two beds. One bed for the girls, the other bed for baby bro. It's tiny and cramped, but it's clean with a little washbasin and chipped mirror. With few things between them, little exists in the way of clutter. [ It's a box that's been around from the looks of it. Delivered to Miss June's at first (and at least a month after it should have been delivered, gauging from the details on it), it bounces between a few other places before ending up rather unceremoniously in front of wherever Naveah calls home. The box is full of glass suncatchers, a couple of windchimes, and some truly strange kitchen implements that probably could double as devices of torture in the wrong (or right) hands. ] There's a quick-scrawled note with it that reads: Saw these and thought of you! Let me know when you get them, Rogue. I had to get someone to drop them off for me because [ this section of the note is missing; somehow, it got torn up in the box ] Stay safe, okay? And you can always ask me for help, you know that, right? ~Scoundrel Naveah stares at the box that looks a little grody. The last letters were awful; what willthis box give her? She'd missed it yesterday, for it's arrived after the hateful letters, and she'd fled. Cautiously, she picks the lid open with pinching fingers, wrinkling her nose when the first thing she pulls out is a… spoon? of some sort? Something… "What manner of — " The note, she reads, and it makes no sense. Rogue? Scoundrel? Are these people for real? "Welp, if they wanted their stuff, they should have mentioned their name." Shoving aside all the terrible (weird) kitchen stuff, Naveah finds the good stuff. The Sparklie stuff. Holding one of the suncatchers up to the light of the tiny window, she smiles softly and for a moment forgets what a terrible place she's in. What a dreadful place she's at. Rukbat's light, broken into many fragments, paints a colorful picture of beauty across her room, and her heart is glad. Until the spell's broken by someone outside their tiny apartment. Shoving the pretty things into the box, she stashes the box in her things and scoops up the weird kitchen shit. Those items? Naveah sells, haggling hard with the merchant even though she has no idea what these items are; they're clearly expensive given the weight of them. Whoever rogue is… whoever scoundrel is… "Fake names get you nowhere in life." Naveah counts her marks, a small, sharp smile curving her lips, and grins. "Finders keepers, bitches." V || Finder's Keepers has 1 comments. |
Naveah gets a box of shiny and weird things, but when you don't put your name on it… well. Sucks to be YOU! language |
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Finding the Girl {vig} Finding the Girl {vig}
"Now fuck off so I can eat my damn lunch in peace.” Weyrlingmaster's Office The Weyrlingmaster's Office is a small cavern off the classroom space with a thick wooden door perfect for containing any sensitive meetings that might occur within. Large enough for several desks, the room is tidy but a little cramped when there are more than a couple people in here at once. Filling cabinets hold lessons and records, maps and charts line the walls, and stacks of hidework are neatly arranged. The Weyrlingmaster's desk has a rather ornate looking chair behind it, and two smaller chairs that face it. A knock on the door to the Weyrlingmaster’s office sounds before N’yx lets himself inside without delay. His father, who happens to be sitting at the desk and making a second attempt to eat his lunch, looks up from his sandwich with a glare that could kill lesser men. “I could’ve been in a meeting.” Rix grumbles. “Bullshit.” N’yx fires back. “You don’t schedule meetings during lunch.” True. “What’s so important that you have to barge in here.” Stated rather than asked, that. “Do you know a girl named Naveah?” R’xim has to think about that for a moment. The name doesn’t ring any immediate bells in his memory and so he simply shakes his head and chews on a crisp with a loud crunch. “No. Why?” “I just got a letter from this girl named Naveah and I have no idea who she is. Figured you might. I have no idea how to get in touch with her.” A grunt from Rix follows his son’s explanation. He should just give up on lunch for today. “Well,” R’xim takes a sip of water from a cup. “You could go to Rosie’s and see if she works there. Or,” A bite of sandwich is taken. “Maybe they know where you can find her. I doubt she’s a dragonrider.” N’yx ticks a dark brow upward at that. “How do you know?” A shrug lifts Rix’s broad shoulders as he chews. “I don’t.” he says, mouth full. “Just a guess. Now fuck off so I can eat my damn lunch in peace.” “Right.” The young brownrider smirks and halfheartedly salutes his Weyrlingmaster father. “Oh. Hey, have you heard from mom at all? I’d write to her but I’m not sure the letter would get to her-” Damn firelizards. R’xim shakes his head and focuses on what’s left of his sandwich and crisps on the plate in front of him. “I have not. She’ll be in touch whenever she’s ready.” That’s what he’s been telling himself since the day the goldrider left Igen. N’yx nods and exhales a quiet breath through his nose. “You’d think I’d be used to her leaving by now. Doesn’t get any better over time.” Silence lingers between father and son, R’xim’s focus casts downward at his food as he eats and N’yx’s attention is on the letter held in hand. “Right then.” “Right.” “Thanks for the help. Gonna see if I can find out who Naveah is.” “Good luck. Love you.” Rix grumbles. “Love you too, dad.” The door opens and N’yx leaves the office upon determined footsteps through the barracks. He’s on a mission to find this mystery girl- and Rix is on a mission to finish his lunch break in peace. Finding the Girl {vig} has 1 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Poor Rix again. N'yx is on a mission. Profanity |
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Lunch Break Gone Wrong {vig} Lunch Break Gone Wrong {vig}
Weyrlingmaster's Office The Weyrlingmaster's Office is a small cavern off the classroom space with a thick wooden door perfect for containing any sensitive meetings that might occur within. Large enough for several desks, the room is tidy but a little cramped when there are more than a couple people in here at once. Filling cabinets hold lessons and records, maps and charts line the walls, and stacks of hidework are neatly arranged. The Weyrlingmaster's desk has a rather ornate looking chair behind it, and two smaller chairs that face it. Lunch time. The best candlemark of the day. R’xim settles into his seat at his desk and takes a much anticipated bite of his sandwich when he notices a few boxes and a stack of letters on the corner of his desk. In mid chew, he quirks a brow at the boxes as they take up space and reaches for one of them to slide closer. There is a letter that goes along with them, but he forgoes reading it in favor of looking inside first. “What the-” Hair clips. Lots of sparkly hairclips and also a bunch of hair ties. Hair brushes and combs. Rix narrows his brows and takes another bite of his sandwich while reaching for the second box and sliding it closer in the aftermath of the first. It’s opened and he’s immediately assaulted with the fragrance of sweet smelling dried herbs and flowers. Beneath several sachets are soft towels, some aprons, and upon further digging he discovers an expensive looking shaving kit. He could use a shaving kit. Fucking Faranth, this isn’t his shit, though, and so he grabs hold of the accompanying letter and opens it without delay to see if he can find out who the hell these packages are for: Hasaan, Thank you so much for helping my sister out. I know she was grateful until the end. She wanted me to send you something so- please accept these gifts to help more people feel beautiful. It means the world to me. Marthilde With a bit of a grunt, R’xim folds the letter and shoves the boxes to the side so he can continue on with his lunch. He’ll have to figure out where he can find Hasaan later today to return all this shit to him- maybe he can take Candidate Fourteen along so he doesn’t have to carry these boxes. Looking thoughtful for a moment, Rix nods and then takes another bite of his sandwich until he catches sight of a small letter on the other side of his desk. “Huh.” He reaches for the letter, still chewing, and opens it. What he reads almost makes him choke: I must implore you to reconsider, you have a beautiful daughter who I wish would not grow up not knowing her father. If you would only come and visit us, you could see how lovely she is. I know that you are busy and will likely be busier even more soon, but her eyes are the same hue as yours, and her dark hair she is the image of you. Please, I know it was but a night between us, but it felt like a lifetime. P.S. Da doesn't know it was you, and I aim to keep it that way. I fear his terrible temper should he know. Standing up from he seat, he goes to fetch a waterskin hanging near the door and takes a good long swig to help wash down his food. That note. He needs to read it again… In fact, he needs his glasses. It doesn’t take him long to return to his desk, sit down, and re-read the letter again. This time, slowly. “No fucking way.” He huffs a laugh, clearly unconvinced that he has a daughter he didn’t know about. Although, the more he thinks about it, it’s not entirely beyond the realm of possibility. He does have blue eyes and dark hair… Another bite of sandwich is taken and he leans back in his chair, brows knitting in thought, while he considers who the hell the letter is from. Kristia? Trishelle? Prisca? Aiiqa? No, not Aiiqa. She’d stab him first. Linny? No, she just left. Who then? After a while, he just shakes his head and blames these damn firelizards for fucking shit up. Did they all get into a bad batch of fermented redfruit? Fuckers. So much for enjoying his damn lunch break. Lunch Break Gone Wrong {vig} has 1 comments. |
20 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Rix just wants to enjoy his sandwich. Profanity |
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{Vig} Oooo lala~ {Vig} Oooo lala~
Immoseri house, Igen Bazaar How does a dragonrider's parcel end up in the bazaar? Messengers and runners apparently failed and crossed streams today, for Zasiyra is given a thick envelope of obviously good quality. Is she curious? Does she open it up? It's not addressed … per se… but as soon as it's opened it's obvious what tone the sender intended to set for a pair of lacy women's underwear falls out. We had such a good time at that party last summer, surely you haven't forgotten me? I remember you… I'd heard your bronze caught the gold and had hoped we'd celebrate… so I sent a reminder… ~ Chyrlie The letter is even scented! … in desperation. Here was the reason Zasiyra did not make certain her outgoing letter found its way to her foster-brother Zendrex. Here was the reason she was so verklempt. Distracted. One woman scandalized by the pair of fancy-schmancy unmentionables dropping around her slippered feet, her foster sister Zunea — lounging boredly on the bed behind her — sat up at Zasiyra's little gasp of surprise. "What?" Zunea said laughingly, reaching for the lacy item. "Did someone send you these as a little gift, Zasiyra? Shocking." Mirth laced Zunea's tone. "I didn't think you let a man within arm's length of you — except when you're rescuing me from them." "Ugh," Zasiyra passed the note to Zunea, "it wasn't intended for me." Zunea read the note with a wide, wide grin, delighted. "A bronzerider, huh? That figures. He probably gets something like this once a week." She waved the undies around — just long enough to make Zasiyra roll her eyes — then threw it back on the envelope. "Then he won't miss this." Zasiyra kicked the package under the bed, just until she could decide what to do with it. "You aren't going to take it to the Weyr?" "I can't imagine to know his name." Zunea tilted her head, still smiling. "It's not like it'd be that hard to figure out. It's either the bronze who caught the Senior — unlikely, that was so long ago — or the bronze who caught the other queen." "There's no way I am sending that to the Weyrleader." "Well then, that leaves option number two." Zunea waggled her eyebrows teasingly at Zasiyra. "No, I cannot imagine delivering that to a dragonrider." "Well! Then maybe he'll come to you." Zunea turned and bent over the little desk they shared, scribbling something furiously. "Zunea, what are you doing? Don't — stop — please, you're terrible. This isn't going to end well." Zasiyra's encounters with bronzeriders — one bronzerider, really — had never gone well. "Mmh hmm hmm!" Her sister didn't listen, and rushed from the room before Zasiyra could snatch the note out of her hand. Later that day, a little envelope is left in the galleries, addressed: "To the rider whose bronze sits on the Sands." Once unfolded, it simply reads: There's been an embarrassing mistake, sir. I received something that was intended for you alone. It's not appropriate that I bring it to you. If you have a desire for it, please ask for Zas at the Immoseri household in the Bazaar. {Vig} Oooo lala~ has 2 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Zasiyra, Zunea (NPC) |
Zasiyra is scandalized by what she receives by mistake — mention of unmentionables, scandalized conservative Bazaar girl |
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Opportunistic Chemistry Opportunistic Chemistry
"I suppose I was surprised because, in theory, everything should have worked perfectly. But theory and practice don't always align." Weyr Pass Road The temperature begins ever-so-gradually to drop as you travel further into the foothills of the Central Pass. Largely inhospitable and difficult to traverse, it is no wonder most traffic converges on this narrow dip through the mountains: a hospitable pass that runs east-west, deep-rutted with the marks of centuries' of wagon ruts and runner hooves. To your northeast, Igen Weyr is now clearly distinguishable from the other mountains in the range, and the eastern roadway splinters, a trail running up towards the plateau at its feet. Evening's approach means different things for different people and, for Khu, it means getting out of the Weyr for just a little bit with Ixzhulqvoth. There isn't always a rhyme or reason to their ventures and this evening is no different; with Rukbat yet to sink below the horizon, there's light aplenty to see by and it's only after a loose circling overhead that the brown deigns to descend, leaving his rider to dismount, shed her helmet, and shake her curls out before taking a good, long look at the area at large. She's looking for something - her expression has that kind of intensity - but what? It's hard to say. Outside the safety of the smithy, Weslyn stands in the open air of the foothills. The necessity for caution has driven him from the confines of his usual workspace, seeking the relative safety of the open to conduct his experiments. The evening's fading light casts long shadows around him, but his focus is entirely on the task at hand. He's set up a makeshift workstation on a flat, cleared area of ground, with all his materials meticulously organized for easy reach. Using a long metal pole, he begins to combine the liquids, his movements precise and calculated to avoid any direct contact. Suddenly, despite his precautions, something goes awry. The mixture reacts far more aggressively than anticipated, with a loud "Shards and shells!" Weslyn leaps back just as the concoction erupts in a spectacular, albeit controlled, explosion. Dust and debris are thrown into the air, and a cloud of smoke billows upward. Explosions are a problem. Not for Ixzhulqvoth - no, the brown is intrigued by explosives and things going boom and the resultant chaos - but for Khu, who has to deal with a suddenly intrigued brown. Her lifemate lumbers forward with complete disregard for personal space, a low rumble emanating from him in a way that it can be felt in the ground, rather than properly heard. Khu will be along as quickly as she can; her primary concern is whether the landbound juggernaut will actually stop when he reaches the source of the explosions… or if he'll just… keep going. "Rukbat's graces to you, sha!" It's as good a warning as she can give, under the circumstances. Shaken but unharmed, Weslyn coughs, waving away the smoke as he assesses the aftermath from a safe distance. "Faranth's egg," he mutters under his breath, frustration, and relief mingling in his voice. Then Weslyn hears the deep, resonant rumble before he feels it-a vibration through the ground that signals something large approaching. The warning cry from Khu barely has time to register before he turns to see Ixzhulqvoth approaching him. Realizing the potential for a new explosion, Weslyn quickly assesses his options. There's little he can do to deter a dragon, so instead, with a mutter of "Shells," he hastily tires to secure any remaining volatile materials. Fortunately for all involved, Ixzhulqvoth skids to a stop before another disaster can strike, though he sends pebbles and grit scattering in his wake. But, the only sign that Khu might be speaking to her lifemate is just a momentary hazing of her eyes; a split second, there and gone. "Apologies, sha. He is easily excited to see new things." There's only affection for the brown in her voice, though; no admonishment here. Once he's stopped and she catches up, she presses a palm to the brown's nearest foreleg and leans slightly on it. "He wants to know what you are doing here and why you sounded surprised. Did it not do as you wanted it to do?" Whatever it is. She only caught a little bit of it. Relief washes over Weslyn as Ixzhulqvoth comes to a halt, the potential for further disaster averted. "No harm done," he replies, managing a smile despite the lingering adrenaline. "And yes, he's right. The experiment… didn't quite go as planned." He gestures towards the remnants of his setup, where the aftermath of the explosion is evident in the scattered debris and the faint smell of sulfur still hanging in the air. "I was working on a new compound," Weslyn explains, "One that would give more time before the explosion." While he talks, he takes a moment to ensure that everything is indeed safe now, no longer a danger to them or the curious brown. "I suppose I was surprised because, in theory, everything should have worked perfectly. But theory and practice don't always align." The craggy-visaged brown drops his head to better examine the tools of Weslyn's trade, while Khu seems to keep him anchored with that hand on dark, dark hide. "I see, sha," she intones, a slow blink following as she takes in the workstation, the work, the details he divulges. "It is good that he does not understand chemistry, or he would try to offer advice," she adds after a moment or two, one corner of her mouth tweaked into a barely there half-smile that distorts the scar that splits her lips. "And I do not have room in my weyr for such experiments." There's a moment, then: "He would like to see that again, if you can show him. Even if it is imperfect, he enjoys seeing the process of converting theory into practice." "See it again?" Wes repeats as he hesitates for a fraction of a second, weighing the risks. His gaze drifts back to the remnants of his setup. "I think I can manage one more with what I got." Walking over to the location of the previous explosion, he sits down another small clay bowl and carefully pours a small amount of black power into it. "Now we get the pole," he says to the brown, moving back to the group and picking up said equipment. Moving closer so the brown can watch, he pours a pre-proportioned vail of green power into the small metal cup at the end of the pole. "Ready?" he asked the brown, his eyes sliding to his rider for confirmation before using the pole to drop the green onto the black. "One, two, three, four," he begins to count, and just as they reach the count of twenty, the clay bowl and the sand go flying every where. He might not speak but the low rumble and dip of his head seems to suffice in answering Weslyn all the same. He is quite ready, thankyouverymuch. Ixzhulqvoth's eyes are spinning fast, bright and blue-green with a particular kind of excitement. Khu tucks herself behind the foreleg she's been anchored on, a murmured, "Thank you, sha," for the Smith and his willingness to experiment or the sake of her lifemate. Just don't mind her if she reduces any risk of harm to herself. The brown? He'll be fine. He's thick-hided. For just a moment, Ixzhulqvoth's tongue darts out as if to wet his lips and then one set of eyelids drops just in time for the explosion to be set off. There's that deep earth rumble again, when the bowl and sand go flying - and are his forepaws starting to go a-tippy-tappin'? Yes. Yes, they are. Fortunately, Khu is very good about staying out of the danger zone. As the dust settles and the remnants of the clay bowl scatter, Weslyn gives a satisfied nod. "Well, that at least was longer than last time," he remarks to the brown as if talking directly to a dragon wasn't a new experience for him. "Maybe I miscalculated how much I put in that last vial." Now that the excitement of the explosion has faded, Weslyn takes a moment to ensure all is well, checking over his equipment and the site of their small spectacle. "Well, that's all the excitement I have for one evening," he remarks, half-jokingly. To which Ixzhulqvoth chuffs softly, perhaps in agreement with the Smith's assessment of things. The brown's tippy-tappying finally settles down and Khu slips around from behind that foreleg, something clutched in her hand. "No, sha, I do not think it is," she replies, a final look given to where his explosion went off before dark eyes fix on the Smith. "He wants to reward you for your efforts. He does not think you will get to do much with explosions, but he thinks you might get lucky with fire." Fingers uncurl and a white knot is revealed, offered to the man. "Will you do him the honor of Standing for Pariisamith and Nhiuzukkath's clutch?" The offer, coming from Khu and articulated through the gesture of the white knot, catches Weslyn entirely off guard. His hands, moments before occupied with the clean-up of his experimental setup, now hang limply by his sides as he processes the magnitude of what's being proposed. He looks from the white knot to Ixzhulqvoth, whose soft chuff and settled demeanor seem to underscore the sincerity of the offer, and then back to Khu. "Stand for the clutch?" he repeats, the words sounding strange in his own ears. The realization of what this could mean for his life's trajectory begins to dawn on him, mingling excitement with a healthy dose of apprehension. "I… I'm honored. Truly." "Yes, sha," comes the confirmation, her tone tilted gentle and lilting. Ixzhulqvoth drops his head over his rider's shoulder, tucking in close enough to the knot-offering hand that he can nudge her limb and make it extend a little further - as if he were directly offering, not just her. Khu's smile is faint but serene. "He is certain you will endure the heat and chaos of the hatching well - but, more than that, he sees in you someone that is not afraid to experiment or try new things." Thus comes the reassurance, the affirmation, the certainty. The brown is confident in his choice. "Take the knot and we will help you here and get you back to the Weyr." To run down the rules, to show him the barracks, to introduce him to a new life - no matter how temporary. Weslyn's initial shock gives way to a deep-seated curiosity. Taking a deep breath, he reaches out and takes the white knot, feeling its weight and texture, symbols of a future he had never envisioned for himself until now. "Thank you," he says, his voice steady now. As they prepare to leave, Weslyn tucks the white knot securely about his person and gathers up what may very well be the last act of his old life and the beginning of a new one. Opportunistic Chemistry has 2 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Khu & Ixzhulqvoth, Weslyn |
Weslyn's blowing stuff up. Ixy wants to see more things blown up - for SCIENCE. Weslyn is Searched! |
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Catch a Falling Star Catch a Falling Star
"Can't say I'd turn it down." Council Chamber Once disproportionately grandiose, the recent regimes have scaled the gaudy aura of Igen's council rooms down to better match the fit of the work executed within these walls. Spartan still, with foreboding stonework and a heavy wooden door, the innards of the room are swallowed by a giant round table, an ancient creation of fire-hardened wood carved with the three dunes of Igen. Comfortable chairs surround that monolith to authority, all similar but two, grandiose things left as memories of a past mentality. The walls are lined with elegant old tapestries, depicting scenes of ancient Igen glories. Standing near the door of the Council Chamber, Issa waits patiently, her eyes occasionally drifting towards the entrance as she waits for her target to show her lovely head. It hasn't gone unnoticed that the former Sirocco Wingleader has been regularly showing up with her own Threadfall Prediction, and Issa wants a few private moments with the older brownrider. As approaching footsteps echo softly in the corridor, Issa takes a deep breath, steadying herself for the conversation ahead. She knows the value Zetali could bring to Vesper Wing, and she is ready to make her case to extend an offer she hopes will be seen as an opportunity for growth, challenge, and camaraderie. Threadfall can be as unpredictable as the weather. Having extra efforts focused on its prediction probably hasn't hurt. The relative lack of extra work to do in Tumbleweed Wing has been killer. Which probably explains why those reports have been coming in like clockwork every sevenday since her return from High Reaches Weyr. So it is that the brownrider nearly caroms right into Issa on the way out of the Council Chamber, sidestepping to avoid a collision. "Yeow!" A brief glance at the other rider's knots, and she manages a salute. "Sorry, Wingleader." She grins. "Guess my mind was already on the next thing to get done around here." Most of everything about her is the same colour as the rest of the desert, dusty and nondescript, except for those eyes: Vividly sea-green, and at the moment, alight with unspoken mirth. "Somethin' I can do for you, Wingleader?" Issa matches Zetali's salute with a brief, acknowledging nod, her expression easing into a warm smile that softens the formality of their interaction. "No harm done," the younger woman says with a small chuckle. "But really, this is fortuitous because I was hoping to catch you for a moment sometime today." With a slight wave for the other brownrider to follow, Issa steps aside, allowing both of them to stand without blocking the entrance, her gaze still fixed on Zetali. "Do you have time now?" "You were hopin' to catch me?" The slight arch of Zetali's brow betrays her skepticism. "Well, you caught me," she adds, spreading both hands in a gesture of invitation. "Probably not for long. That big brown lug of mine is gonna be bitchin' about wantin' a bath, sooner or later. I'm fine with that. Too damn hot." Tilting her head, the brownrider's sea-green eyes hood. "Now what could Vesper want with me?" Is she serious? No. The corner of her mouth turns up just a whisker. Issa's chuckle is soft, carrying her amusement easily between them. "Yes, caught indeed," she playfully concedes. "Well then, I'll keep it brief. Wouldn't want to get in the way of bath time," she adds, her smile lingering as she leans in just a fraction closer, adopting a more confidential tone. "Vesper could use someone with your… unique perspective and dedication," Issa says, her voice a blend of earnestness and a slight tease to match Zetali's own. She pauses, letting her proposal hang for a moment. "I'm extending an invitation to join Vesper." The former Harper snorts a sigh, enough to flutter the locks of hair that are just a bit too short for her braid. "He had one this morning… I was gonna give him one later," she adds, almost defensively. "I ain't done runnin' around for the day, not yet." Anyway, on to business. 'Unique perspective and dedication?' The brownrider blinks owlishly. "Uh." Nice, Zetali. Smooth. There's about a second or two's delay before she lets her breath out in a sigh, slumping. "Oh thank you Faranth. I'm goin' outta my mind in Tumbleweed… consider me recruited. Nothin' against 'em, but shards, it's so borin'. We'll let J'vran know after I finish scrubbin' Oddy down. I doubt he's gonna mind a transfer." Issa's laughter is a gentle ripple in the air, her amusement at Zetali's honest and straightforward response shining through. "Well, I'm glad to be your escape from boredom," she replies with a twinkle in her eye. "Yes, unique perspective and dedication," Issa repeats. "Let's just say that I am… collecting strong leaders and those with more experience than me." Just in case, words unspoken but just as palpable in the air as if they had been said. "You fit both of those aspects." She pauses then and gives the other woman a long look, her eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "And if you are ever interested in Wingsecond." She lets the invitation hang before moving on to the other stuff. "We'll make the arrangements as soon as you're ready. And don't worry about J'vran; I'll speak with him personally after our meeting." She pauses again. "Unless you really want to." "Can't say I'd turn it down." Zetali folds her arms, and though her posture is serious, those sea-green eyes are bright with mirth. If she led Sirocco Wing for so many years, the job of Wingsecond shouldn't be too much of a challenge. "Yeah. Make 'em." The arrangements, that is. "Sure, you can talk to J'vran, if you wanna. I'll settle whatever I gotta get settled while you do that." A hand waves dismissively, though she's grinning. "Oddy ain't gonna mind the transfer, either. I think he might be gettin' bored, too." Issa nods. "It's settled, then. "I'll speak to J'vran then, make it official. Shabeth will let you guys know when our next drill is." And with that, she gives the older woman a nod and a smile before stepping towards the door. "Welcome to Vesper, Zetali. I look forward to working with you." "Sounds good. We'll be ready soon as Shabeth reaches out." Zetali sketches a salute as she strides past Issa, grinning. "Lookin' forward to it, too, Wingleader." With that, she picks up the pace to her usual lanky fare, off to make arrangements. Apparently getting out of Tumbleweed is enough to put a spring in her step. Catch a Falling Star has 0 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Issa goes a recruiting and Zetali goes accepting. |
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{Vig} The Unexpected {Vig} The Unexpected
You keep your grubby hands off of him!!!! Candidate Barracks Hopes, dreams, and fears are contained in these cramped quarters, full of small cots and smaller trunks; thin ragged curtains barely provide privacy between the bunks, shining patches in the material suggesting one too many mending attempts. The minimal floor space is kept clear of debris and personal possessions, wide enough for a single broad table often used for study in the art of dragon care. It is a cramped space despite it all, when dragoneggs lie upon the Sands: there's no helping the worn surroundings, when use is at an all-time high. Near the entrance, one cubby exists, large enough to contain a bit of luxury for an adult overseer of the candidates, and a desk — for once in reasonable shape — is set to the left of the entrance, conveniently placed for the monitoring of comings and goings. Quyen returned from her first full day as a candidate, towel still wrapped about her hair from the before curfew bath. Something was not as she left it. There was a note on her bed. A note not on anybody else's bed… so not a morning roster or anything like that. Something for her specifically. She sits and she opens. M isn't waiting any longer. I'm not covering for you again. Get your ass back to Igen before he takes it out on me. -R M? Who is M? Quyen mouths the letter as she reads it again, still not making any sense. Get her ass back to Igen? She's in Igen. But also, it's about lights out time and so the misplaced letter gets set aside. She'll probably remember to give it to somebody in the morning. Cut to the next afternoon. The previous letter forgotten. At least until there's another surprise waiting, but this one is different. The curly font on the front causes Quyen to shudder at memories of another letter, from another place, another time, another barracks. But it can't be the same one, can it? With a gulp of apprehension, Quyen opens this one to find…. This time, it's not for her. Hester! You stay away from Felix! I know you want him, but he's mine. HE DECLARED FOR ME THAT NIGHT IN THE GARDENS!!! You keep your grubby hands off of him!!!! You always were a greedy whore! He'll choose me, he'll always choose me! Naveah It's for Hester. Who better stay away from Naveah, whoever that is. But not knowing either of those girls or the poor Felix caught up between them, that letter also gets abandoned with the other. A future Quyen problem. Maybe. {Vig} The Unexpected has 3 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 06:00 |
A new knot, a new schedule, and a few new letters flash a few old memories for Quyen before sleep pushes it all back down again. |
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{Vig} Pern's Craziest Coincidences {Vig} Pern's Craziest Coincidences
Haverick's Wagon It's strange how easy it is to randomly find someone on the planet to get a package from or FOR in this case. Haverick manages to wander ALL OF PERN in his lil' wagon, plying his trade, and yet somehow manages to end up with THIS package. Inside a bunch of random fill it near to the brim, some of them broken. Clearly objects of meaning — a necklace, a few memento letters old and faded now — but on the top of it, a note comprised of angry letters: Ember, you were my biggest mistake. The highs were not worth the pain of you. Go fuck yourself, here's all your shit. Haverick only took a cursory look through the box — not his shit, after all — but as he does not know nor has ever encountered any Embers, he did what any good trader does: he kept it. Why? He had no clue, with space at a premium in his wagon. But it comes along with him on his travels, and it ends up more often than not as a foot stool, trying not to break anything else within it under the weight of his boots. He had lived long enough on Pern — particularly around Igen — to know that the area was a strange magnet for the best and worst of coincidences, so he kept telling himself he was really only biding his time until the next one. {Vig} Pern's Craziest Coincidences has 1 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 06:00 |
Haverick somehow ends up with a break-up box, not his though |
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V || Naveah's Tarnished-Touched Circumstance V || Naveah's Tarnished-Touched Circumstance
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. Two mails are mistakenly put in the slot at the tenement housing for the three siblings, though they are not intended for any of the siblings. The Bazaar needs a new postmaster, it would seem! Or that Immoseri family needs to learn how to ensure their notes are delivered. The first isn't intended for Naveah in spite it being about Naveah. But it reads: Relk, The next reads in slanted, angry handwriting: Zen, Naveah stares at the mails meant for someone else, yet she deeply feels they're about her. Falling onto the bed hard enough to bounce, numbed fingers let the letters fall and they flutter like falling leaves. You're too mean, I don't like you Igen was so much harsher than she'd ever thought it would be, and she hated it here. Oh, she saw her sister's desire to be here and how she thrived. Ryeklom hated her, and even he had found himself a spot here. She had a job for her story-telling with numbers, but she was not here. Not the way her siblings are. Not in the way she needs to be to survive. Such hateful people to want to take advantage of her. She wants to cry, but what would that do for her? Swell up her face and make her ugly… and let them see how deeply their cuts hurt. You make me wanna scream at the top of my lungs Naveah drags her hands into fists, feeling the bite of her nails into the palms of her hands. If that boy comes at her again, she'll make him pay. She's not the same girl she was when she got to Igen. One who let some kid snatch her necklace from her — suckered in by a ploy. No, Igen has already begun to change her, as much as she wants no part of that change. Her old life in Benden slowly unravels, and she knows it. Yet, she clings to Felix, allowing herself to send a note begging him to come get her despite the risks. Despite Keturah's anger. Get me, Felix. Please take me away. Naveah stands and scoops up the letters. She places them carefully where her siblings can read them. Easily see them. Maybe they can understand why she hates it here so much. And then she leaves the little apartment and seeks refuge in the bustling, bazaar streets. ~ afraid V || Naveah's Tarnished-Touched Circumstance has 1 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 08:00 |
Naveah's family gets two notes, and neither of them is really that good. |
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Retaliation??? vig Retaliation??? vig
We vastly underestimated the amount a newborn goes through… There is A LOT D'gan is not doing correctly right now, with a newborn and new mother he's sharing a weyr with. So poor, poor Xl'air will also receive the following message: Weaver Palmair, Maybe thirty, I don't know. - D'gan PS. Please deliver to the lakeside weyr. Returning to his weyr after all his time in the baths, Xl'air is calm and relaxed and calm and relaxed. Only to see another message on his ledge. Hesitantly - does it smell?! - he opens it and reads it with a frown. « You stole a box of dirty nappies from a ledge by the lake?! » Callyinth chirped at him, hastily hiding the chewball. « It was interesting! » Did she remember doing it? NOPE. But she must have. How else would it have gotten to their ledge? HOW ELSE. He eyes this message and looks down at himself - at his comfy clothes, at his desire to lay down. But he is not a mean man at heart. With a heavy, heavy sigh, he climbs back upon Callyinth and flies with her down to the bowl. Trudges through the caverns. Finds Weaver Palmair and hands over the note. "I think they need forty," he mutters to the confused man. He trudges out to the lakeside and stares at the weyr with the bronze and chonky blue. That's the one where Callyinth stole the paints. Surely that crazy bluerider wouldn't retaliate by leaving a box of dirty nappies on his ledge?! He regrets delivering the note to the Weaver. Retaliation??? vig has 2 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 07:00 |
Xl'air, Callyinth |
Why does he know so much about this baby's bowel movements?! |
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Box of horrors vig Box of horrors vig
« Open it! » Callyinth's Ledge Everyone's getting lots of MAIL! Some of them are funny, some of them are amazing, and some of them are downright horrific. Unfortunately, Xl'air, yours is rather horrific. See, sometimes one packs away things in a box meant to be THROWN AWAY, and then sometimes, one packs away trash and FORGETS to tell one's sleep-deprived weyrmate that it's not MAIL but GARBO. Instead, Rhaya sets a box aside for D'gan to take care of, but instead of it going to the rubbish midden heap, it gets mailed off… You know where this is going, right? IT'S SO GREAT! A BOX! SLIGHTLY … slimy? stinky? Opening it up… it's a bunch of dirty baby nappies… >.> Given Callyinth's nature, it's really not unusual for random shit to appear on their ledge. With a sigh, Xl'air crouches down and grabs the top of the box, yanking it open without care or concern…he just wants to see what it is, see if she stole it, if he needs to return it or if she can keep it… « Callyinth what did you bring? » In her wallow, the green watches her rider open the box with a slight shift, curling her paw around a half gnawed ball of leather strips she stole from that other green while she was busy digging. Did she bring that box up here? Must have. Who else would have? She just chirps excitedly at him. « Open it! » With a sigh, Xl'air does just that. Later, his neighbors will say they had never heard that sort of sound before. And down below…well, someone is gonna find a smashed box of dirty nappies. Xl'air spends the rest of the day in the Bazaar baths, soaking and drinking and cursing his luck for Impressing such a strange dragon. Callyinth continues to hoard Kehemath's chewtoy, which means Kehemath steals someone's leather jacket, which means Sienna has to pay for it… and then she gets a note from Rhirshic that his order never arrived! This time Sienna delivers it herself. Box of horrors vig has 1 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 07:00 |
Xl'air, Callyinth |
IT'S SO GROSS. gross box |
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Double the Mistake (Vig) Double the Mistake (Vig)
Somewhere off the Administrative Corridor Just one of the many places within Igen Weyr's administrative area. Kopriva has been taking some of her work with her to the Sands, when necessary. Today, she makes a stop inside the Weyr itself — if not to recover from the heat. Pariisamith is resting, the eggs are fine and the gold doesn't mind her absences as long as they're reasonable. Gathering some paperwork, her brows furrow as the rose scented letter catches on the edge of her fingers. It's separated, though her gaze settles lower on the box also resting in view. "Odd," she mutters under her breath, while flipping the letter in her hand and ignoring the box. It LOOKS like a 'K', from the angle she has it at. Later, she'll blame lack of proper sleep and the constant heat making her not question things further. My beloved - I'm sitting in the back of this wing meeting and I know I should be paying attention but I can't stop thinking about our morning and our family. I love you so much and I sometimes feel like I don't say it or show it enough. Through all of these trials, through my injury and my healing, through your pregnancies and the challenges of raising our beautiful children, you have been everything to me and continue to be. I can not convey to you my belief that without you I would not still be here. I know I've said it before but here I'm saying it again. I love you with all my heart, with everything I am. I sit here and think of you and your taste lingers on my lips and your scent on my hands and I am happy. I love you. -L Opening the letter, Kopriva's eyes widen as she reads — it's obvious from the start it's not hers. Not meant for her in the slightest! She hastily drags her focus away, the letter lowering as she peers nervously around the room … but no one is around to witness. Kopriva shouldn't read the rest of it, her fingers moving lightly against the edges — and before she even realizes it, she's reading again. "Oh…" Kopriva blushes, for glimpsing something so personally intimate, but her expression falls from bewildered to something almost sad. Maybe she is a bit of a romantic, after all, because she finds it sweet, if not embarrassed regardless for reading it. 'L?' There are too many names to even consider who it might be from or who it was meant to be FOR — and she did not glimpse any other identifying details. And she won't read it again to puzzle it out, already folding it carefully back up and tucking it safely away. Why? She isn't certain, only that it seems … criminal to burn it or destroy it. Kopriva will deal with it later (spoiler: no she won't), maybe figure out how to return it. Unfortunately, there's likely to be no correcting the mistake. Sometimes, working for the Herdercraft is fun, and sometimes it's not. Lukasz, stuck in the pits of the Bazaar, finally manages to get the hides necessary for the Tanners to do their work. Harnesses, lead lines, reins; He's collected enough soon-to-be leather for a rather juicy box. It is unfortunate, however, that the Messenger gets distracted by his crush and slaps on a different name to the box when it's time. To Weyrwoman Kopriva, a rather large and kind of weirdly wet box arrives. A note attached says only: As agreed, reins, leads, and harnesses. //Not whips, I've talked the client out of that, thank Faranth. ~ Lukasz// Now her attention returns to the box, which on closer inspection, is … weirdly wet. Kopriva's nose wrinkles and she hesitates. Then she catches sight of the note attached — and immediately blushes. Then blushes harder, when common sense catches up to her and chases her thoughts straight out of the (surprising!) gutter she finds herself in. Giving her head a quick shake, Kopriva blows out a breath and focuses instead on writing a return note and not the mistaken contents of that box. Lukasz, I think I've received something of yours by mistake? It's a rather large box, apparently for reins, leads and harnesses for a client? I've kept it somewhere safe, for now. Let me know if you wish to send someone to fetch it or I can have someone deliver it. Weyrwoman Kopriva Leaving the ink to dry, Kopriva collects the paperwork she had originally come for, already set in gathering the note and finding the nearest available messenger to deliver it. There is one last furtive glance to the … wet … box, but it will be safe for now where it rests. Double the Mistake (Vig) has 2 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Kopriva receives two things by mistake: a personal letter not at all meant for her eyes and a … weirdly wet … box full of leathers — for reins, leads and harnesses. |
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V || Nhiuzy's Innocent! V || Nhiuzy's Innocent!
Chichen Itza It is a bachelor pad in here: a wasteland of dirty clothing, boy-things, and no decorations to speak of. Vh'iyr's ledge is hopping today. He can't even get his dumb ass dragon to come pick his ass up and get him down, oh noooooo, Nhiuzy is busy wooing Pariisamith with treats in order to ensure his continued good will. So the first letter arrives, with a brown waiting patiently to deliver it, and it takes a while for Vhy to notice. "The fuck?" he mutters, taking the note. "Better not be no — thefuckisthisshit?" A message will be waiting, delivered by a brown firelizard, the scrap paper looking hastily torn from something else. The writing on it is slanted, as though written in a hurry — or emotion. Either way, it's legible and reads: Where'd you put it this time, you bastard!? I'm serious!! I want it back, Nikki! NOW. Don't think I won't do something we'll both regret this time… I swear, if you're just messing with me and it's actually been ruined — I dunno, I might never ever forgive you! Seriously, just write me back if you don't want to say it to my face? Don't fucking make me beg, man. Vaovao P.S. … unless you want to see me beg, you kinky f- The last of the note is blotted out, the ink smeared from not drying completely … not that it is much of a mystery. "I did not sign up for some kinky sex… oh gross, I'm not even … it's smeared, hell no." Before, Vh'iyr can send a note back, another one appears. With a pop from ::between: and a cheerful trill, a bronze firelizard delivers a folded up piece of hide. He flies around a bit, unsure of where to drop said piece of hide… and so it lands with a fwip onto the floor a second before he disappears: PS: If you don't keep your caprines out of my training grounds, I'm going to shovel their millions of little marbles into a large pail and dump them ALL onto your ledge. I'm tired of seeing and smelling shit everywhere. "NHIUZUKKATH WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO THIS TIME?!?" Vh'iyr's wail hits the loudest notes even his neighbors hear. He pens off his notes quickly… … it's too bad he gives the caprines response with the VaoVao 'lizard, and kinky mofo's letter with the Caprine lizard. Vhy… always effin' up his life. V || Nhiuzy's Innocent! has 3 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 08:00 |
Vhy gets some… really… weird mails. So he sends them replies… but crosses the streams. sexy innuendo and marbles … language too |
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V || Crossed Connections V || Crossed Connections
The Akzhan are going to check on the bakery. Please check on it. I don't want anyone to get hurt because I'm away. -Cahia Azrael is livid that his letter was not handled properly, and so instead of risking a third mis-send, he answers Cahia's letter directly.
He does not put his family name on the letter, but he does not have to. It's formality is enough, and to read between the lines should tell anyone it is unlikely Azrael does anything out of the kindness of his heart. Too bad the ineptitude of Pern's delivery system sends it to Bacah. V || Crossed Connections has 2 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 08:00 |
Instructions, replies; Pern's failing in their network, and while Azrael punishes those who fail, still, the system borks the final reply. |
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Rug(ged) Help Rug(ged) Help
Living Caverns Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. With a clutch hardening on the sands and candidates filing into the Weyr every day, R'xim is rarely seen without his uniform and knot. At present, he's standing near the entryway to the kitchens sipping a mug of klah while he waits for the next candidate to arrive- who happens to already be a few minutes late for dishwashing duty. Thus, Rix is already brewing new consequences for their absence with every moment that ticks by. The mug is lifted and he takes another sip, dark brows furrowing as he eyes the archway to the living cavern half expecting to see that candidate walk in amidst the hustle and bustle of the morning meal. And who should it be but — not the candidate, not even a candidate, but a flushed-faced huffing and puffing weaver senior apprentice, hair wild and frizzy, spectacles askance (she's forgotten she's had them on), and her body bent while she slowly, painstakingly draaaaaaags a heavy, rolled up rug through the archway, effectively clogging the door. "Oof," Paloma puffs between breaths; "one second," on another, tone apologetic with little smiles flung far and near to whomever has enough patience to wait for her to keep moving; "sorry, sorry," and she's saying that to some mutters from an older crafter who nearly trips on Paloma's boot when she sticks her leg out behind her to get better momentum. The sigh R'xim exhales borders upon sounding frustrated when he catches sight of Paloma hauling in a huge rolled up rug into the living cavern. Setting down his mug, he makes his way in her direction to see what in Faranth's name is happening. "So, you're the reason everyone's late." Maybe not everyone, but he's laying on the guilt trip pretty thick this morning. "Why are you dragging a big rug in here?" And before she can answer, Rix grabs hold of an edge and begins to drag it forward a bit to help clear the area near the entrance. "It looks that way," she almost meeps out beneath that heavy mantle of guilt; so, technically, yes, R'xim, Paloma is, but her eyes widen and drift to the seeming and sudden flood of people once the Weyrlingmaster lends his backbone and strength to haul that oversized, heavy thing out of the way. Nevermind she should have procured a cart to make it that much easier — and faster — on herself and everyone else. "Thank you, sir." She's relieved, though, for the aid, however much it may come with a Weyrlingmaster's frustration. The girl straightens to stretch out her back — having ignored the warnings to move and lift and haul with her knees — then tries to smooth down her hair to something more manageable. "That had some repairs that needed to be done," as if that explains everything. R'xim manages to drag the rug out of the way so people can get by without tripping over it since all anyone wants at this candlemark is breakfast and klah. And woe to anyone that gets in the way of that particular pursuit this early in the morning. "So, you're saying it belongs in here. Where exactly?" He straightens and looks directly at Paloma for instruction on where to place and unroll the cumbersome floor covering. As she makes an attempt to smooth down her hair, his expression shifts into a look that says she's got a half a second to respond before he just starts moving the rug to where he thinks it should be. "Oh! No, not here, sir!" Paloma blink-blink-blinks in, perhaps, an accidental test of R'xim's patience, looking up from the rug to the tall Weyrlingmaster with eyes made wider by her magnifying spectacles. It's then she remembers she has them on, and hurriedly shoving them up to nest in her hair, whilst hurrying around as if to prevent the bronzerider from doing any more hauling — to the wrong place, that is — on her behalf. "Unless, of course, sir, Headman Edric or Weyrwoman Diem want the rug here, then that would be suitable, I suppose, sir, but its original intention is — well. It belongs in one of the lower cavern rooms." Blathering on, she inserts 'sirs' like she's tossing glitter at him, hoping the feeling of respect will stick while she corrects the Weyrlingmaster on the rug's placement. She exhales on a final breath, then adds more timidly, "Sir." Halting mid stoop, R'xim slooowly straightens while Paloma rattles on with her explanation and when his gaze finally meets hers again, he exhales a nearly silent breath through his nose. "Alright." is his only response for the moment. His gaze drifts down to her shoulders to see if she has a knot on display and then returns to look directly at her. "You're not a candidate." he concludes. "If you were, you'd be wearing a white knot. But," he gestures to two young boys walking into the living cavern. "They are. So, you're going to tell them where to put this thing." A hand lifts to motion the lads over when he barks an order at them, "You and you. Come here and lift this. She…" It suddenly occurs to him that he doesn't know her name yet and so he pivots toward Paloma again, brows narrowing. "Who are you?" Being an apprentice, Paloma is wise enough to know when a superior ranker is near the end of their tether. She caaaaalmly clears her throat into a little 'ahhmm' sound, as if awaiting the rebuke; but his attention diverts to her shoulder — her hair might be covering her weaver knot — but there are no simple white tassels hanging from beneath her brunette hair. "No, sir, I mean: yes, sir, I am not a candidate." She may jump a hair and a heartbeat when R'xim calls over the real-deal candidates, but recovery is swift and smooth, for she can smile and nod at them encouragingly when they are given their marching hauling orders. Kindhearted enough to not gloat that they have been drafted into her assistance, she is truly relieved at R'xim's idea. "Ah," when the spotlight of his focus narrows back on her, "Senior Apprentice Weaver Paloma, sir, specializing in rugs and tapestries — learning to repair and — " but then she realizes he didn't ask for her resume, and she cuts off abruptly with another little swallow and throat-clear. "Thank you, sir." "Senior Apprentice Paloma needs your assistance. Pick this rug up and she'll tell you where to put it down." R'xim says after turning to face the pair of candidates. "When you put it down on the floor, she'll give you further instruction on how to place and arrange it. If she reports that you failed this chore, I will find you." And they know the consequence will be appropriate. "Understood?" The boys nod and salute at the same time before crouching to pick up the rolled rug. Like good candidates, they stand there and wait. R'xim pivots to face Paloma with an air of new expectation in the aftermath of the given chore. "You may dismiss them when their chore is complete and to your satisfaction. Are there anymore rugs you need to move today?" "That should be all, sir," Paloma pipes up, after a moment of marveling silence. Somehow R'xim's command of the situation makes her smooth down her tunic, wrinkled from her efforts of dragging the rug, and if one looks closely, she's also standing a little taller, too. "Thank you — again — sir," for the fiftieth time in this interaction, but at least it's not a cascade of sorry which is an equally strong temptation for her to resist. "And have a good morning, too." Perhaps now he will be able to find his dishwasher — or else Paloma may be escaping with them, if he's been reassigned to haul a rug. "And thank you," she directs, now, to the candidates, sensing it's well overdue that she and the rug make themselves absent from the living caverns, which will eventually fill with the breakfast rush. "If you'll follow me, it's one of the caverns in the lower, lower, lower parts," so they indeed might have a long haul. She waves a hand towards the lower caverns, taking a few steps towards the archway, then waits for the candidates to wrestle the rug into their arms. R'xim nods and narrows a look upon Paloma after she confirms the given assignment. "Good. And, please, don't let me see you dragging a rug like that again. If you need heavy lifting done, I've got candidates for that. Like Sixteen and Twenty over there." Apparently, he's given the candidates numbers to keep track of them, which is surprisingly easier for him to remember than every Tim, Rick, and Gerry. "You can send word to me at anytime, Senior Apprentice." With that said, he takes a step backward and watches as Paloma leads the candidates out of the living cavern and into the main corridor for their trek through the winding inner caverns. Now if he can only remember where he left his mug of klah, he'll get back to watching for that candidate dishwasher. Sixteen and Twenty, Paloma will remember — and probably ask their names once they're safely outside the living caverns. But a sincere salute and one final, grateful, "Thank you, sir!" will be the last R'xim has to endure of the apprentice weaver and that rug… at least for this morning! Rug(ged) Help has 2 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 06:00 |
R'xim helps Paloma with a rug problem |
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An Ocean of Emotion An Ocean of Emotion
Be gentle with yourself. Weyrlingmaster's Office The Weyrlingmaster's Office is a small cavern off the classroom space with a thick wooden door perfect for containing any sensitive meetings that might occur within. Large enough for several desks, the room is tidy but a little cramped when there are more than a couple people in here at once. Filling cabinets hold lessons and records, maps and charts line the walls, and stacks of hidework are neatly arranged. The Weyrlingmaster's desk has a rather ornate looking chair behind it, and two smaller chairs that face it. It gets delivered by accident for it was never meant to be delivered at all, and yet… this little note fell into a pile of outgoing letters on Nasrin's desk and ultimately lands in a pile of things on R'xim's desk. It's unobtrusive, and accidentally got stamped with an official seal, likely by an assistant of Nasrin's who assumed it had been forgotten and so sealed it shut. It's a child's hand that writes this, poignant in the scratchy words as if oceans of emotion linger within. It says: Dear Mama, I know you're gone, I know that. I wish you'd loved me more, wanted me more, hadn't been so bitter about being left alone with me. I wish we'd had a better life. I wish the Papa loved you and me more than he did. Your life was hard, but mine was harder. But you should know I gotta Mama now that loves me, and I've had her for a long time now, and she's mind. Sometimes I wake up thinking she's going to go away, but she's not. I get to see the world 'cause of her, so if you're lookin' down at me and gettin' angry again, don't. I'm gettin' taken care of real good. Like learning my letters and numbers even when I hate to sit still and listen to that fat ol' man drone on and on and on in his hypnotic (see I know this new big word today) voice. I'mma burn this letter, but just needed to get this off my chest. Even tho I kinda hate you, I still love you Mama cause you're my Mama too. Someday, I hope to forgive you. Karly R'xim reads the note once and then blinks, figuring that he needs his glasses for this second pass. He reaches for the spectacles on his desk and slips them on to rest on the bridge of his nose as he holds the letter out a little farther for better focus. Maybe he needs new lenses, he couldn’t have misread the entire letter. Dark brows narrow and he leans back in his chair with a creak of the wood that holds his weight. The penmanship is that of a child, and yet the written sentiment is that of an older soul. He blinks and pivots in his seat to rummage through a desk drawer for fresh hides and a sharpened writing utensil to pen a brief letter to Nasrin. Parenthood is a choice you make everyday, to put someone else’s happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you’re not sure what the right thing is…and to forgive yourself, over and over again, for doing everything wrong. Be gentle with yourself. R’xim An Ocean of Emotion has 3 comments. |
19 Feb 2024 05:00 |
R'xim receives a letter that was never meant to be seen. |
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Searching for Opportunities Searching for Opportunities
"I'm Quyen, junior miner. Hadn't caused any problems with the firestone…" Living Cavern Brightly lit by a regimented march of strung glow-globes, Igen's busy living caverns are cut of the same exotic limestone design that frequents the bazaar without. Tapestries line the tops of the walls, one for each of Igen's wings, past and present; beneath them, skybroom tables litter the floors in scattered profusion. Some of the wicker chairs have seen better days, but most of the worst offenders have long-ago been replaced. The seemingly random placement of furniture, however, at closer inspection yields a sort of cross-shape of negative space. The northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns are owned by the kitchen's buffet, food-laden thrice daily in regimented shifts by busy bakers from the curtained southern entrance to the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside; westerly lies the large doors leading down into the bowels of the weyr itself. If you asked most, they'd probably say it's too dang early to be out and about. Or they'd yawn something incomprehensible as they took another sip of their klah. And yet despite the early hour, Quyen's up, seemingly not bleary eyed, and the miner is currently piling a plate high with a mound of roasted tubers, peppers, and sausages. That's the meal of someone planning to do a good amount of physical work later. What hours does the Headman keep? Odd ones. But, that's part of the job: he's not a man known to sleep early or wake late. Edric's been up for some hours already and only now seems to be on the move through the Living Cavern, checking on various things along the way. A rogue candidate or two is rounded up and sent off to do some other task, names and details noted deftly in his omnipresent folio. A check of the klah has him motioning for someone to replace the pots - or, at least, refill them - and his venture inevitably draws him closer to where Quyen's collecting her meal. "There will be fresh klah shortly," is more of a generalized announcement, but there's a glance to the Junior Journeyman to acknowledge her - and possibly pin a face to a name. "That's good," Quyen says also generally even as she moves from food to drink station. And while there may be fresh klah coming, she checks the current pot, swishes it a bit and then pours the lukewarm leftovers into a mug, not even adding any sweetener to it. "At least cleared out the pot." Efficiency! If not named, yet. The now-emptied pot is whisked away by a waiting drudge, replaced with a fresh one - and a few more will inevitably follow. "I'm certain I've seen your name and your face," Edric observes after another moment, "but I don't think I've put the two together quite yet." He works with the crafters, yes, but not nearly as much as the Weyrwomen do. He flips his folio open, ostensibly riffling through a roster of names and ranks and crafts. "I'm Edric." Headman by knot and probably pretty well-known by most at this point. He doesn't go for klah himself, but he does seem to give it passing consideration. "I uh…. don't think we have, Headman," Quyen turns suddenly cautious, as if a little forest critter suddenly realizing there's a possible predator around when she gets more than a passing comment from Edric. "I'm Quyen, junior miner. Hadn't caused any problems with the firestone…" And so she hasn't had any issue to get reprimanded by headstaff! "I see everyone, even if they don't think they've seen me," Edric replies, his tone placid enough - but there's an angle where light skitters across his glasses and momentarily reflects Quyen's face. "Ah, there you are," with her name, he's able to pinpoint her place in the various rosters he has. "Well met, Quyen." There's no smile, just a confirming, "The firestone is just fine." So, she's not in trouble, but he's still flipping back and forth between a few sheets of paper in that folio of his. "Tell me, how do you feel about your current duties with the miners?" "My duties?" Quyen asks, still caught off kilter by the situation. It's before she even had a proper cup of klah after all. She shifts as if she wants to cross her arms protectively but well… she's got both hands filled. "They're fine, sir." But notably just fine and nothing more. "But I could be doing more. Not just maintenance work, as much as maintenance is needed." There's a moment of silent speculation on Edric's part as he studies whatever he's looking at. It might even seem he's not listening, save for the sidelong flick of his gaze to keep Quyen in his regard. Eventually, he gestures with his chin toward an empty table, as if fully recognizing that her having her hands full might be a problem - and while he doesn't seem to need to eat, she probably does. "I see," says he, after the end of his contemplative quiet. "Well, if you're of a mind to do a little more than the scraps and busywork that they're willing to give you, I can provide an alternative." Quyen gratefully does head to the table, setting down her plate but not sitting down unless the Headman also sits down. She does sneak a cube of tuber though. Hungry young adults gotta eat, but her attention is almost fully on Edric, tilting her head curiously at his offer. "An alternative? If it's something that can help the Weyr, don't think there's another craft more closely aligned to supporting you all than the miners…. But surely it's not more firestone you got in mind?" While he's not much for sitting when he's on duty, negotiations are another matter entirely. Edric will sit, his folio neatly shut and set before him, while his fingers briefly lace over the top of it. "All crafts are very closely aligned with the Weyr, even if it's in a way that's not wholly expected," he opines. One corner of his mouth pulls, faintly, into a half-smile that he will deny if pressed. "But, I'm not thinking of the crafts." He'll give that a moment, but only just - he's been the recipient of many a spit-take in his earlier turns of doing this - before: "There is a clutch on the Sands, Quyen. I'm offering you an opportunity to Stand for it - and, perhaps, serve the Weyr directly." Quyen isn't going to argue with Edric even if she may be personally biased to her own craft (mostly because it's the only one she really knows). And thankfully, the one bit of tuber is fully consumed and there's no spit take at the question though there is a long pause as her early-morning-brain processes just what he's saying. "Like… as a Candidate?" Because what else might Stand? "And if there's no impression, then I just go back to the craft when the eggs are hatched?" "Yes, as a Candidate," confirmation is given without condescention; this, too, is something Edric's very well-acquainted with: early morning incredulity is a thing. His hands finally separate, but only to allow him to extract a white knot from some pocket or another. This is held out to her, for her to take - or not - as he lays out a few more details: "And, yes. If you Impress, you're of the Weyr and free to practice your Craft as a hobby - and possibly more, if you make it to the Interval." Sardonic, that. "And if you remain on the Sands, you'll return to your craft, but I can put you in touch with some people that could use a Miner's knowledge and skills and could put a good word in with the Weyrminer." There is a moment of hesitation, some clear consideration of all the options that are laid out but in the end, it's also a story that the headman is probably well acquainted with as the promise of opportunity wins out and Quyen does take the knot laid out. "I'm not sure how much mining can be hobbied, but that'd be counting eggs before they hatch. For now though, I guess I gotta tell my journeyman so I get taken off their duty roster for the next few weeks?" "You might be surprised," but Edric will leave the nature of that other Mining work a mystery for now. It's always a bit of a gamble with the knot - he's just better than some at knowing when the gamble will work. This time? It works. When she takes the knot, there is a smile, if a brief one, and he opens the folio to make a note somewhere. "Yes, you should. I'll get you on the candidate roster starting tomorrow. I can show you to the barracks and get you oriented with the rules and your new duties along the way." He pauses, then adds: "After you've had your breakfast, that is. I don't need you to pass out from hunger as your first order of business." "I eat quick," Quyen promises although it's with a bit of relief that she isn't expected to abandon the plate. By the time the rules orientation is given, she's a member of the clean plate club and ready for the tour of the barracks. And when they head to the barracks, there may be a good amount of touching of the white knot as if to assure that it is actually real. Searching for Opportunities has 1 comments. |
18 Feb 2024 05:00 |
Quyen's job satisfaction isn't great and Edric has an opportunity for her. Quyen is Searched! |