==== September 18, 2013
==== Donner, Enden (NPC), Q'fex, Safra, Sytin
====It's been too long since the Weyr Entrance was cleaned and now there's Candidates so guess who got voluntold?

Who Donner, Enden (NPC), Q'fex, Safra, Sytin
What It's been too long since the Weyr Entrance was cleaned and now there's Candidates so guess who got voluntold?
When There is 1 turn 2 months and 12 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr - Weyr Entrance

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Weyr Entrance
No standard weyr-arch for Southern: rather, an open-air bridge gracefully curves into the exterior of the bowlwall, the concave swoop of the weyrbowl itself nestled against the far high-rise of the rivercliffs. A pocket of white marble is delineated in gorgeous architecture at the termination of the bridge; stone buildings rise in a vivid vein against the rough-hewn darkness of the cliffs it settles against. The classic arcs only possible by ancient stonecutters show through, Southern's ageless beauty to be admired by all who trespass her walls.


Midmorning finds a slight but steady breeze curling through the Weyr, carrying the cooler air of the sea with it, as well as humidity. The steadiness of the air current keeps the moisture from sticking to the skin too much, fortunately, but it does spell trouble for several Candidates efforts to sweep and clean the Weyr's entrance of debris and dust. A couple of gathering up the larger pieces of debris and putting it into piles, while another pair are doing their best to sweep the smaller debris and dust into a pair of waste bins. A lone Candidate with a shock of coal hair is meanwhile doing his best to mop the stone arch that cuts an outline out of the sky. This results in a great deal of water slopping everywhere, but the lad — Sytin — seems like he's going about his task with good cheer this morning, even going so far as to whistle some tune, albeit slightly off key.

Oh, working candidates. Q'fex enters onto the weyrbridge with his typical excellence of movement - a way of commandeering his legs to own all that he trods upon, perhaps, when paired with the heavy-lidded amusement so visible on his face. The weyrleader is dragonless for this moment, coming about and looking around the open-air with a thoughtful expression. He has a small pad of hide that he makes a mark or two on, DOUBTLESS scheming some new monstrosity that will sunder Lendai's soul, and it is as such that he comes across Sytin with a wry twist of lips. "Working hard?" The whistling, you know.

One of the large debris carrying Candidates — with bright red hair and freckles to match — is carting more than he ought and nearly clobbers Sytin with a large branch. "Oy! Watch it, Enden!" the former Smith reprimands the older boy as he ducks under the branch with a backwards lean, leaving him to stare up at Q'fex with a momentarily startled look. A double-blink and the lanky Candidate quickly rights himself and snaps to a salute. The other Candidates clatter to attention as well, in varying form. "Sir!" A nervous swallow. "Absolutely, Weyrleader!" He gestures to the wall he's been scrubbing. "Just doing my best to make the job pleasant and productive." Surely the bronzerider cannot disapprove of that? There is an awkward moment of silence and then the Candidates drift back to their chores, seeming just a titch more hasty about it. Sytin is still saluting the Weyrleader however, waiting for permission to relax. It seems a little respect has been imbued into him in recent days.

There's a flicker of dark eyes for the candidates at their tasks, and Q'fex nods amiably towards the group of lads doing the large-debris carters. He watches them as they go, assessing, and it takes him a moment to return his focus to Sytin. His lips twitch as if he may be holding back a smile, but he salutes the Candidate gravely. "You don't have to kiss ass to me, boy. I know how boring as fuck demeaning work gets over time." He was a candidate too, at one time, evidently. And just as evidently, nobody ever took the time to wash his mouth out. "But if you Impress, the ability to keep doing whatever it is you need to do, no matter how boring or nauseatingly disgusting or how tired you are…" Q'fex raises his eyebrows as if the contingency is self-evident.

Hand falls back to Sytin's side as the salute is returned and the boy visibly relaxes as the Weyrleader is entirely candid with him. It's clearly a refreshing change of pace after his run-ins with a certain Weyrwoman. He even ventures a smile, slightly tampered, but still genuine in its humor. "I appreciate your honesty, Q'fex." The name is said with a certain measure of trepidation, as if the boy isn't quite sure that level of familiarity is appropriate. But, by Faranth, the Weyrleader is being genuine, why can't he? "Smithing can be quite repetitious as well, but the end result — the hardened metal, beautifully crafted — is worth the tedium. I suspect the same is true here." He drops his mop back into the bucket and then starts to smear soapy liquid across the cliff face again, dirt and grime running down in rivulets. "If I may ask so personal a question, how long ago did you Impress?" Meanwhile Enden, the red-haired Candidate, has meanwhile returned to his task, not looking the least bit chastised by the former Smith's remanding.

From Saevasanth's neck, Safra, mounted on Saevasanth, clamber down the stairs from the upper bowl. The dragonet falters on the final step, nearly tipping Safra onto the ground, her straps keep her from an embarrassing tumble. The little dragonet's chest is heaving, head held low, his eyes are swirling with yellow. The two stop and Safra slithers ungracefully down Saevasanth's leg, murmuring to the dragon and checking him over, lifting one foot then another as she tries to discern what - if anything - made him stumble. She's casting about on the ground when she spies the Weyrleader and two of the Candidates. Safra snaps to attention and salutes the Weyrleader. Her eyes are shadowed and there is a paleness under her newly tanned skin.

Safra slides from Saevasanth's neck and lands gently on the ground.

Yeah, Enden goes back to his work, not at all nonplussed over the Weyrleader's presence. Most people might think Enden an idiot, because at that moment, the candidate chucks a large slate of rock in the general direction of the rubble pile. He doesn't look where he throws, because it's at that moment that Donner rounds the corner of the growing pile of junk rock and nearly gets a foot crushed in the process. "Watch it, you bloody idiot!" Even with Q'fex there, the gangly teen's ire can't be suppressed, and he's wheeling on the redhead with hands raised. "What did they say about SAFETY FIRST? You look first and then throw. Otherwise I'm going to leave candidacy on a shardin' crutch." He cuffs the boy upside the head, turning to grab a piece of slate, "Now watch me, you bloody moron. You look first, and then throw. Look. Throw. Common'. The Weyrleader is watching. Don't fuck this up."

"Weyrleader," Q'fex corrects absently. "There is a fine line separating kissing ass and showing respect." At least his reprimand is mild. He doesn't comment on smithing, as a general rule, other than to consider something up in the sky — a dot far above, perhaps reflecting light back. Dark eyes drop to watch the redheaded lad for a long moment, he makes another note as if something has occurred to him, and turns to Sytin once more. "Ah," Eyebrows furrow. "It's been." Is he COUNTING? "Twenty-five turns. Maybe twenty-six." Longer than any of the others here have been alive, certainly. "What he said," Q'fex reiterates Donner's statements - why yes he heard all of that - with distraction, because his attention is focused wholly upon Safra. "Weyrling," he turns his Keroon-toned accent to her, his words crisp and without attention to her salute, "Are you quite all right?" His eyes are primarily for her dragon.

Okay, not quite that familiar, got it! "Much appreciated, Weyrleader." Sytin is really trying to learn the crazy social structure of Weyrs. It's waaaaay too complicated. Donner's tongue-lashing of Enden gets a side-long glance but no comment. I mean, the kid deserved it. Q'fex gets the lion's share of his attention though, as the boy's eyes widen just a little bit at the knowledge of the Weyrleader being a rider for longer than he's been alive. Mouth opens and nearly gets him in trouble before he clamps it shut again. Attention is diverted abruptly as Saevasanth comes stumbling in, causing the Candidate to first half turn, and then promptly set his mop down and fully turn to face the dusky blue and his rider with wide amber eyes. He takes a half step for her, before stopping and tossing the Weyrleader a glance. He's torn between helping and not getting on the bronzerider's bad side, but in the end friendship wins out and he goes over to Safra. "Can I help?" he asks her in a concerned voice.

Safra blanches under the Weyrleader's scrutiny, straightening even further into attention when he addresses her. The girl is out of breath too, her green tunic darkened with sweat. She puts a hand on Saevasanth's neck and can feel his labored breathing. "Yes, Sir. We're fine, Sir." She swallows, "Extra drills, Sir." She nods at Sytin, face softening at her friend's concern. She glances at Donner and Enden, recalling her own Candidacy. She pants, and swallows again "We want to join the wings in the sky," pant, "As soon as we can, Sir." Saevasanth raises his head proudly at that. Still heaving, his eyes are shot through with all manner of colors. Stop. Talking. SAFRA.

"See, you idiot? Now here, take the rock and follow directions next time." Donner's done admonishing Enden, at least for now, and he moves to grab a free broom to sweep his way over towards Sytin, Q'fex, and the gang, because he definitely doesn't want to miss out on whatever is going on over there. There's a half-hearted wave thrown Safra's way, before he's quickly sweeping his way up behind the younger candidate with a half-shove. "Get back to work before they come back to check on us, you dolt." The older boy is motioning to the mop with a furious punctuation of sweeps from his broom. "I'm not going to let you get me in trouble again because of your shardin' mouth." Donner, always the diplomat. Always the friend.

Saevasanth senses Kraakenaeth is the deep and the dark, the unwholesome wet and wholly self-possessed creatures therein — a kraken in mentality as well as physicality. His touch is salt and seabrine, forboding darkness and the claustrophic sense of the very air closing in. His voice is the rough creak of waterlogged boards, a lock left to rust and rot, a lich's jawing: « Arrrrrre you, » the rumbled-creak of words voiced with authority and glimmering faintly with the hidden-jewels of Talicanitath's touch, always and forever: « Quite alright, there, youngling? »

Q'fex has a shrewd glance askance for Sytin, that follows the lad as he goes to assist Safra. Q'fex's eyes remain on Saevasanth after that, unfocusing for a moment before landing on Safra. "Drills are well-and-fine, weyrling, but Ja'kai knows his business. Don't allow yourselves to be driven into sickness. He'll push you until you admit your own boundaries." It isn't as though the Weyrleader knows the man well, or anything. Ahem. "There will be time enough to flame Thread," this last grimly-stated. He seems to pause on the issue, his attention traveling over to Donner and Sytin once more. "I would think," the Weyrleader states to Donner, tone DRY, "Your mouth could possibly find you in a bigger bog than his, candidate." Lips twitch to the side, amused, an eyebrow lifted in half-question.

Sytin offers Safra an understanding and sympathetic smile at her explanation of why she's pushing herself so hard. "You won't do the Weyr much good in the infirmary," he agrees with the Weyrleader quietly. He takes the waterskin slung around his shoulder and offers it to the bluerider with a hopeful expression. "Gotta be prepared for the heat," he explains. Donner gets a long look for his verbal abuse of Enden and a bit of a frown. Q'fex beats him to any sort of repartee and the Apprentice turned Candidate decides to let the bronzerider have it. After all, his experience with intervening between riders and their pray has been dubious at best. So instead, he leaves the water with Safra and turns back to his mopping, the wet fibers making squelching sounds against the white stones as he scrubs. Look at how shiny it's getting!

Saevasanth's eyes slow their whirling, and while still awash with colors, the yellow fading away in pulses timed to his heart. The little dragon dips his head. Safra glances at Donner and Enden. Ah. Enden is THAT boy. There's one in every group. And a Donner too. Safra tries to settle her breathing more as she answers the Weyrleader. There's a sharp stitch in her side and her muscles are watery. Sytin is close enough to see that she's trembling where she stands. "Yes, Weyrleader." She has a stubborn set to her posture, undermined by the exhaustion of her body. The boundaries might find her. She retreats from the Weyrleader's gaze and nods gratefully to Sytin.

Saevasanth thinks to you, « I bespoke Kraakenaeth with: Saevasanth is a chained tempest. Grounded. Taxed, tired, but yearning for the sky. All will be well aloft. »

Donner have a mouth? Spare the thought. "No sir, you're absolutely right," the teen quips back, sweeping the same spot over and over as he meets Q'fex's smile with a half-tilt of his head, eyes cast sidelong at Sytin as he talks, "I've been told that my mouth is my worst attribute. It's a personality trait I strive to correct." He punctuates his words with a curt nod, as if he's trying to convince himself of the bullshit that's tumbling out of his mouth. And then Sytin passes that water over to Safra, and Donner can't help but hide his jealousy, passing a pointed glare the other candidate's way before turning to search for his own skin of water. This is, after all, a competition. "Does she need more water? I can get more water."

Q'fex glances between Sytin and Safra for a long moment, but seems content to leave the conversation as it stands. His eyes rise to that dot up there high in the sky — it's growing, resolving into a descending bronze of the nowtimer convention, middling-large and thick with hard muscle overlaid by murky bronze. Kraakenaeth lands — not on the bridge, thankfully, but just beyond the Weyrwall with an impatient snap of leathery wings. "At least you have a higher grade of ass-kissing," is all Q'fex has to say to Donner's self-effacing bullshit, smirking at the boy. "You two make sure she doesn't collapse, aye? And perhaps get her back to the weyrling barracks. I'm sure she could use a hand." A quick nod to the accumulated candidates and sole weyrling before the Weyrleader is taking off at a sharp clip for the entrance and his dragon beyond.

Shlick. Splort. Splash. The mop makes rather unseemly sounds as Sytin manipulates it against the rock-face. It does result in a cleaner look to the dusty cliff, however, so perhaps the ear-rape is worth it? The Smith is downright oblivious to Donner's jealousy. He is, after all, only twelve and not quite so learned in the ways of the world. Or mating rituals. What on Pern does that even mean? Mop goes back into the bucket with a sploosh and the black-haired Candidate leans on it a bit to look at Safra as the Weyrleader instructs them to aide her. Particularly to the barracks. "Sitting someplace cool would certainly do you some good," the Smith reckons. "I'd be happy to walk you over." And to prove it Sytin leans his mop handle against a crag in the rock, moving over to the Weyrling. "I'd feel terrible if something happened to you on the way and I wasn't there to help." Responsible, even.

Safra winces at Q'fex's suggestion. It smacks of coddling. Or care? Wasn't he a notorious cad? Safra's eyes follow Q'fex and his lifemate as the launch smoothly into the air. Soon. She looks at Sytin, blinking blankly for a moment before snapping out of it. "Uh, yeah. I think I'll sit down for a bit." She waves off the help, but hands the waterskin back, "Thanks." She eyes Donner and the mops. "Ugh, don't anger Q'fex. Or the Weyrwomen." She sits - folds, really, "Our Candidate class had to mop the Bridge." She winces in memory and holds out her hands, "I still have the callouses."

"He said both of us!" Sadly, however misaligned Donner's beliefs may be, they're there, staunchly entrenched in the recesses of his tiny little brain. "I'll come too. Here, give this water as well." The other skin is lobbed Sytin's way, and the older teen isn't looking too quickly to see if he caught it. "Eden, you're in charge buddy. Don't slack off, don't break anything, and for Faranth's sake, don't kill anyone with one of your stray rocks." He gives the younger candidate a curt tilt of his head, and the gangly teen is moving up to lay one hand on the back of Sofra's elbow. "Grab her other elbow Sytin. And ups-back to the Barracks for you." And off they go. Presumably.

Safra flinches at the contact, her eyes flashing. Saeavasanth draws himself up, eyes sparking with red. She waves the dragonet off and walks with the boys back to the weyrling barracks.

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