==== September 14, 2013
==== Kultir, Sytin
==== A long day calls for a long bath to wash away the grime and the stench!

Baths
The steamy fog of the baths could be an entirely different world, transitioning from the well-lit brilliance of the inner caverns: a different world entirely, one wrought in dreams and humid fog. Steam lifts from hot waters, obscuring those who bathe within, drenching any who dare enter. Well-maintained, well-stocked, the baths offer pre-netted portions of soapsand in various scents, fluffy towels in orderly rows, and five separate spring-fed pools, all of differing temperature: from scorching hot to soothing chill.

Kultir is standing, stark naked of course, in the shallow end of the bathing pool. He is determinedly lathering up his body for the second or third time from the look of his reddened skin. He's voicing a grumbling monologue under his breath as he scrubs. There is also a rather … funky odor that hasn't quite dissipated from the steamy air.

Stumbling in from the inner caverns, Sytin looks quiet a wreck. His eyes are tired, his face is a touch drawn, and the whole of him is covered in various types of smithing debris, from soot to solder. He starts undoing his belt almost before he's fully inside the steaming room, his tunic being wriggled out of soon after. Boots are next, hastily unlaced and kicked off, followed by soiled trous. They all end up in a gathered pile over in a corner, out of the way while the Smith slides quickly into the waters of a rather hot pool. His skin is starting to develop a nice tan now, but it doesn't hide the bruises that dot him all over if one happens to spy them before his body is under the water. Kultir is, for the moment, unnoticed.

"Fardling fools …" he mutters as he finally lathers up the last of his body for the however many'th time and slips into the deeper water to rinse off. "Farting around in breakass fashion … I /told/ them the floor was wet …" He continues grumbling until the water closes over his head so he can rinse his hair once more. When he resurfaces, he's facing a boy slipping into the water. "Whoa … sorry. Didn't mean ta invade ye'r space." he says, stepping back to give the boy more room. Finally he recognizes the boy. "Oh, hey, Sytin … wha's happened ta ye?" is asked in regards to the few bruises he glimpsed on the boy's body.

Sytin presses himself against the bath wall to avoid Kultir colliding with him. He doesn't recognize the Candidate until the young man speaks, however, thanks to the thick fog rolling off the waters. "Don't worry about it, Kultir," the Apprentice responds with a lackluster air of fatigue. There's a pause as he's asked about his bruises and he glances down at himself self-consciously. "Oh, you know, just doing boy stuff." He's avoiding the question, but tries to cover it up in a little smile and a sniff at Kultir. "Phew, what happened to you?" Perhaps the subject change will prove a suitable distraction? People always like talking about themselves, after all!

Kultir chuckles softly at the boy's rather vague answer. He understands that all too well so he doesn't pry. At the question, however, he gives a grimace. "Fardlin' fools goofin' off in the latrines dumped a bucket o' … funky garbage water on me when they slipped on the floor I'd just mopped." he grumbles, pulling a strand of hair around to sniff. That one sniff sends him reaching for the soapsand bag … /again/. "I don't know if it's me or what but … I still smell that nasty stuff." Another handful of sand gets scrubbed into his scalp and all over his face and neck, turning his already bright red skin even redder and drawing blood from a small scrape on his cheek from hitting the stone wall when he tried to dodge the slop.

"Yuck," is Sytin's eloquent answer to Kultir's adventure. As the Candidate reaches for his bag of soapsand it clearly reminds the boy that he forgot to grab some of his own, so he twists about and hoists himself out of the bath, landing on his feet with a smack of wet flesh against stone and shuffling over to the rows of soapsand, pondering. He picks one finally that has a woody smell, like sandalwood and carts it back. He gets a bit of a look at Kultir on his way back, noting bruises of his own. He slides into the bath again, setting the pouch down and letting out the drawstring, scooping up some to start sudsing. "Looks like you fell on your back pretty hard," he comments, starting to scrub under his arms first.

Kultir is busy scrubbing at his hair, face and neck to be able to watch the boy go find soapsand to use. After scrubbing for nearly five minutes and working up a fine lather, he finally holds his breath and dunks his head under the water to scrub fingers through his hair to rinse it well. He puffs and blows a bit when he comes up again and wipes his hands down his face to swipe the water off his face before slicking his hair back. He looks a bit surprised when Sytin mentions falling pretty hard on his back and frowns. "I din't fall … tried to dodge it and smacked my cheek into the stone wall but … din't fall." he says, a bit confused. Finally deciding that scrubbing a fourth time isn't going to make him smell better, it must be all in his head, he lounges against the edge of the pool in the deep end and just relaxes.

While Kultir is turning his flesh a lovely shade of lobster, Sytin is also doing a great deal of damage to his own measure of filth and odor. Underarms get the first attention, still bare of hair as puberty has not quite set in full force just yet. Hair gets the next of his attention, complete with a submersion to get his short strands properly soaked before he starts scrubbing the gritty sand into his locks, working up a surprisingly good lather. He's started in on his arms when Kultir surfaces and responds to him, prompting a response of his own: "I just saw some bruises. Sorry if I was assuming." He seems a bit chastised and offers a wan smile. "How's that white knot treating you?" Curiosity makes the question a bit perkier.

Kultir drops his head back to the folded towel he had waiting for the time when he could just relax and sighs, all of his muscles going mostly limp as he soaks in heat. "Bruises?" he asks a bit puzzled. "Oh … them. Yeah, had a bit of a run in wi' me fam'ly when I went home this last time. M' eldest sister's husband took after me wi' a bullwhip." He says it a bit matter-of-factly and lets it go at that. Sytin's question is answered with a short bark of laughter before he says, "Well … guess it's treatin' me okay. Hain't kilt me yet … " He grins and winks at the boy through the steam rising over the pool.

Arms and hands are starting to resemble something like flesh again, rather than dirt and ash, so Sytin moves on to his chest, wincing now and then as he attempts to delicately scrub at his bruises. He nods in response to Kultir's query and then winces a bit at the explanation. "Ouch. Sounds unpleasant." The Smith clearly cannot fathom how Kultir might have earned his stripes. More soapsand is scooped and lathered up to start working on his back, the boy twisting about with the remarkable flexibility only children seem to have. And felines. The commentary on Candidacy draws a bit of a grin from the boy. "Well, as long as you survive to Hatching Day I think you'll do all right!" That's a vote of confidence, certainly. "You guys taking bets on what you'll Impress or if you will?"

Kultir laughs softly at the boy's unvarnished opinion and shrugs slightly. "Well … ev'r'one's all stunned an' excited an' grumblin' and suchlike." he says, commenting on all the gushing, grousing and muttering he's heard from all the other candidates in the Barracks. "I heard a lot o' the weyrborn sayin' they got the best chance t' Impress and they's all sayin' they'll be Impressin' bronzes, o' course. Coupla girls 'r a-gushin' abou' Impressin' greens. I'm not so sure o' how me chances be but … if it happens, it happens." He's still not entirely sure how he feels … or even how he should feel right now. He sighs and shoves himself upright and examines his fingertips. "Hmm, gettin' pruny again …"

Growing up in a sheltered space tends to leave one a little wide-eyed and wondrous about things like dragons and Impression. And leaves Candidacy a bit of a romanced haze to boot. Sytin is starting to look the polar opposite of his previous self now, his sooty exterior being slowly traded in for a soapy white one. He's found a ledge to sit and scrub his legs now, still near the Candidate. The response elicits a chuckle from the youth and even a grin. "I had heard that Weyrfolk tend to have more of the right stuff that dragons want," he muses thoughtfully. "But obviously they aren't the only ones otherwise riders wouldn't Search Holds and Halls at all!" It's meant as an encouraging observation for Kultir. "I've honestly never thought about being a rider myself. I kind of wonder what it's like now, seeing that I live in a Weyr. Safra seems really happy about it."

Kultir chuckles softly as he heaves himself out of the pool and starts to dry himself off. "Aye, they seem t' think so, leastwise fr'm what I hear." he says. He shrugs slightly as he pulls on some clean trousers and takes a bit more time to dry his hair better. His voice is a bit muffled as he continues, "I know a rider that says it's real good and worth the time to go through it all." Finally he drops that towel in the hamper to pull a clean tunic on, sighing at the wonderful feeling of being clean once more. "Well, Sytin. I gotta go, kinda late for supper and I promised to meet … someone." He smiles his apology to the boy and stuffs his dirty clothes into the now empty pack along with his pouch of soapsand. "Iff'n ye need t' talk t' summ'n … ye c'n allus find me. Told I listen pretty good." There, an oblique invitation if he's ever offered one.

Sytin scrubs between his toes — how do toes get so dirty, anyway? — and nods at various points through the Candidate's explanation and experience. "Well, if I ever have the opportunity I'll be certain to bear it in mind." More sand is scooped and worked up, even as Kultir slides out and starts toweling off. "Don't let me keep you." He tosses the man a grin. "I might take you up on the offer. Someday, anyway." A chuckle and he gestures a sudsy hand at the blonde, gently shooing him lest he become even more late. "Enjoy your supper, Kultir. I don't want it cold on my account." And he's back to scrubbing again, the black filth slowly melting away beneath his fingers as the night wears on.

Kultir grins as he hefts his pack of dirty clothes and waves as he walks toward the caverns and supper. "See ye round, Sytin." he says. The clop of his heels on stone is the last vestige of Kultir's presence.