====September 29, 2013
====Donner, tasna
====This lesson must be shared, be prepared!

Who Donner, tasna
What This lesson must be shared, be prepared!
When Spring, 1 Turn, 1 month, and 9 days until the 12th Pass
Where Stores, Southern Weyr

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It's too dark in here to see anything.

It's a beautiful day out at Southern Weyr, if not a bit on the balmy side. Scores of people would be out and about right now, enjoying their chores outside, but really, who cares about the weather, man? The only outlook for the Weyr stores is dusty, musty, and damp. Oh, also pitch black— some hapless drudge must have forgotten to change the glows the other day, but by the look and smell of the place, neglect seems to have been an ongoing thing. It's unsettlingly quiet in the room, save for the rustle and scurry of tiny claws against the stone floor. Once in a while there's a louder shuffling, the scraping of boxes moving against each other, maybe the soft rustle of breathing, but for anyone entering the stores, it's impossible to see and a bit creepy once you start listening to the sound of silence.~

That saying about the weather is true. It's not the heat. It's not even the cold. It's the sharding humidity. With the southern hemisphere heading closer everyday toward summer, that humidity is seeping into every corner of the Weyr, and the storage rooms are no exception. Very briefly, there is a pool of light near the main exit, but that is soon gone. At first, a new set of foot-shuffles can be heard, before they abruptly stop. There's some quiet cursing, and the sound of rattle wicker. More cursing. More rattle. Then a clear, "Son of a…" followed by a louder, "If this is one of those dumb ass pranks, knock it off. Some of us have work to d—!" Crash. The distinct sound of breaking glass or ceramic travels along the aisles and hallways.

"Who's there?" If the darkness of the stores isn't irritating enough, now there's another person in the room. Somewhere, someone else is residing among the boxes and crates of inventory. The soft tenor, lilting with the dripping accent of Southern Boll comes from near the back of the store room. You know, the back, where most of the linens and clothing stores lie. "I swear I heard something break—are you okay? Shells, Dimitri, I hope that wasn't you." The voice lapses into silence again, the muffled sound of feet shuffling across the stone floor as the owner of that voice seems to readjust his stance in the dark. "I can't see shit in here."

"My name's not Dimitri," replies the other person's voice. Definitely not Dimitri, though somewhere in the upper tenor, lower alto range. The sound of broken glass emits again, this time being scraped out of the way, then crunched under a heel. "Someone took the glows out of all the baskets," the voice says a moment later, followed by muttered swearing. Okay, definitely female. "Hold on, I'll open the d—-." There is a sound of a body falling, and probably a wooden crate scraping along the floor, plus something rocking back and forth. Luckily, that particular sound evens out after a couple seconds.

"Oh. Yulena?" Maybe the voice sounds like the ex-cook turned candidate; female, alto, determined. Look, the wavering tenor that's playing this blind guessing game just is spouting out who they know. There's a startled 'uh' noise that is made from the back of the room as that crate is presumably moved towards the door. "What was that? Did you open the door yet?" Look, whoever you were, falling over near the entrance and having glass shatter. Just open the door. Just open it! Someone is trapped back here! "Did you op— get it yet? The door? I've been stuck back here for like, a candle mark now. I brought a candle with me, but I sneezed it out by the time I came to the back." Another silent moment, but now the voice sounds more desperate for a resolution. "Didn't you bring your own glows?"

Eventually, there is movement again. Things being shifted. Slowly. Feet gathered, the rocking knock of that wooden crate used as leverage. Quiet mutters can be heard, plus a louder curse, and what seems to be a mocking echo of, "Did I bring my own glows." More clearly, "No, I didn't bring my own sharding glows, you dimwit." More swearing as stuff is pushed out of the way. "Why would i bring my own when they're supposed to be here? And no, I'm not Yulena. Not telling you who I am. You could be some crazy sicko, for all I know." Another mutter, and a stumbling step, though it sounds like the next step might be on the stairs.

"Yeah, I'm totally a crazy sicko. That's me, lurking in the shadows." The other voice's sarcastic reply is muffled yet again, but maybe a tiny bit closer— has he moved? Perhaps that's the case; the candidate to whom the voice belongs to has been feeling his way along one wall near the back, and there's a startled shout as a foot catches something in the dark, and the sound of body hitting the floor echoes. "Shit. Shit shit shit. I'm okay!" As if the other person cares at this point. "Well, didn't you notice the moment the door shut behind you that it was dark in here? Come on, the drudges don't ever put glows in here because Renalde doesn't tell them to. Or at least doesn't check." Well, hopefully someone will be putting a complaint in the near future. There's another beat of silence. "So okay, if you aren't Yulena and you aren't a candidate, are you at least hot?" Totally not a creepy sicko.

"I was in a hurry!" the other person protests. Yeah, those steps are definitely on the stairs now. "Never been out of glows before," she adds in a lower mutter. "Live and learn, I guess. And you tell me." This is followed by the sound of the door opening again, spilling light into the immediate vicinity. Revealed is a squinting Tasena, now a bit dusty. And bleeding. Nothing horrific, but you know how head wounds can be. She dabs at a shallow cut near her left temple using the palm of her hand, then makes her way back down the steps. "Right. Let's not do that again."

"Oh thank Faranth for that," comes the immediate sigh of relief as the door is cracked open and light creeps into the stores. One can see now! Or at the very least, make out shapes near the back of the room. One very dusty, very dirty candidate is shuffling up to his feet, moving towards the front of the room with a ginger feel with each step. Better safe than sorry. "Oy, you're the bartender!" There's a sudden relieved look on Donner's face as he makes it into the lighted area near the stairs, leering over at Tasena while trying to salvage his appearance; he's totally covered in cobwebs. "Oh— shit, well, I can't say anything positive with that bleeder you got there." He presents his hands out flat to her with a sympathetic grimace, "See: not a crazy weirdo living in the back of the room here. Just a lost candidate— Donner."

"I'm not so sure about that," Tasena replies, though it almost sounds amused. She brings her hand away to stare at the blood now marring the hell of her palm. The head wound is already slowing to a halt. Not so the gash on her forearm. Oh well. "Still seem a little crazy and weird to me. A candle? Seriously?" The admonition is interrupted by a sneeze, which is when the cut on her arm is noticed, followed by another quietly muttered curse. She's full of those. Injuries now inspected as well as she can, she gives Donner a far closer, more serious look. Still not quite over the frustration (and likely embarrassment) of the moments just before, she lets out a tense sigh, then asks, "You all right? Anything broken? What were you looking for, anyway?" as she looks back the way from which she assumes he came.

"Look, I wanted to find a spare robe; they tell us that we're suppose to make our own, but I don't know how to do that without it falling to pieces on the Sands." He's motioning towards the back of the room, where he had just crawled from. "I was told that the clothing and linens were in the back, so I went." The mention of the candle, and then that sneeze, seems to feel totally justified in his defense. "Yeah, a candle! It was a good idea until I sneezed." He punctuates that with his own follow-up sneeze, "Nothing broken. Just bruised and scraped. See?" He raises his hands out for her appraisal, before motioning towards a few open crates, "There, I opened those up— ah," he peeks in, now for the first time. "Those aren't robes. Dishes. I wasn't looking for dishes."

Tasena is now poking at the gash on her forearm and finally resorts to pulling a handkerchief from her pocket so she can cover the wound. "Make your own…? Shells. All these generations of candidates… though I suppose, unless they, like… brought robes with them when they set up shop here, might not be a lot of leftovers, huh." Tas glances from her arm to Donner, then to what likely cut her. The broken ceramic pot on the floor, with black beans spilling across the floor. Cue another muttered curse. She'll just… sit on the bottom step. Not in the light-headed way. It's far too dejected for that. "Can't pay or bribe another candidate to sew one together for you? And the name's Tasena, by the way."

"Na, can't do that either. I'm not the most well liked of the whole bunch. Guess I'm on my own." Donner's answer comes muffled from inside another of those crates, head stuck deep in to see if maybe that one has some robes. Nope, no dice again. "And you'd think they'd bring robes forward. Shards, at this rate, I'm going to have to make my own shift and it's going to fall apart. That'll be great, eh? Mooning the whole damn galleries." And then he realizes that Tasena isn't talking. Or near him to help. Oh. "Oh. Do you, need to go see a healer?" Concern is finally washing over his face, and the gangly teen is making his way back to the steps to loom over the woman with the trappings of concern. "Wanna go?"

Tasena rocks herself to her feet and flashes Donner a smile that disappears just as quickly. "I'll go. You get to play the good little candidate and clean up in here." That was a little too angelic. "After finding some fresh glows." The bartender turns to make her way up the stairs again, injured arm held in front of her, ruined handkerchief held tightly against it. After the two leave, the door swings shut again, dousing the storage cavern in darkness once more.

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