==== February 4th, 2014
==== Mailli, Nika, Z'bor, Rhydian, Yules, T'ral
==== Over an afternoon, crafts are made, whiskey is imbibed, a new rider is welcomed, storms and the onset of Thread are discussed.

Who Mailli, Nika, Z'bor, Rhydian, Yules, T'ral
What Over an afternoon, crafts are made, whiskey is imbibed, a new rider is welcomed, storms and the onset of Thread are discussed.
When There are 0 turns, 0 months and 15 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

nika_icon.PNG zabor3.jpg rhydian%209.jpg Yules1.jpg t-ral.jpg


The Tipsy Kitten
Here there be drunkards: a marble bar and the gorgeous array of colored bottles behind it would be enough to draw them in, but more yet lures those to enjoy the recreation the Kitten has to offer. Windows allow light to naturally illuminate the first floor of the tavern in the daytime, while green-tinted glows shine after nightfall. A door behind the bar leads to the tiny kitchen, while a stairway leads above to the rooms available for rent. Among the hubbub and the ruckus, a calamity of tables scatter through the open space, plenty enough for dragonpoker tournaments on restday eve.

Seated at one of the tables towards the back is an overly tall red head. Familiar to most by now, she's busy sanding away at something that is rested in her lap or more accurately; held between her knees for leverage. Don't mind the 'phincrafter in the corner, she's a work-a-holic.

Bounce. Bounce. Skip. BOUNCE. Nika is not so subtle in her entrance into any room. Much less a room that holds whiskey. Could a man look sexier than the one behind the bar filling up her glass as soon as he sees her? Heeellloooo, 'tender. Of course, as soon as it is in her possession she forgets the man and is half dancing across the room to her FAVORITE dolphincraft master's table. "Hi! HI! HIII!" Who needs an invitation? Not Niks, who drops her tiny self into a seat. "How are you? How are the dolphins? Find anything cool lately? I feel like its been turns since I've seen you, but that isn't possible is it? Cause we've only been here for a couple."

T'ral piles into the 'Kitten clattering the swinging doors, clearly having been running. Hands outstretched, he pinwheels as he skids to a halt, looking around wildly. "Nika!" He grins, panting, he points dramatically, "You're mine!" He begins stalking the tiny bluerider, "Thought you lost me by taking the stairs, eh?" He squints, focus narrowing as he approaches the table. He draws up properly as Nika's companion registers, smoothing his shirt and bowing over a hand folded against his abdomen. "Master Mailli, Ma'am. Good afternoon." A warm smile.

Mailli chuckles at Nika's rapid fire of questions, "I'm good, the pod has a new calf, and I'm working on commissioned pieces of shell art," the piece of shell is brought up and set on the table. T'ral's greeting earns him a mock scowl, "Mailli is fine T'ral. Honest it is," she's not one to stand on any kind of ceremony or protocol (sp?) after all her craft is known for being very laid back about everything. How can you not be laid back when working with dolphins anyway?

"I still win!" Nika's attention snaps from Mailli to T'ral, "I'm the fastest! Oh oh!" Suddenly realizing the need for introduction, even though they are already completed. "T'ral is on my wing. He's just graduated from weyrlinghood, and he's my mentee!" Clearly, Nika is also one to not stand on ceremony, or anything else for very long. She's leapt to her feet mid introduction. "His dragon is real cool. Blue. Just like At-man. Well. No one is just like Ats, but you know what I mean." Her finger points suddenly at the master. "Mailli works with dolphins. She's real good with them. They're neat. They know things. All sorts of crazy stuff. Like where treasure is buried in the water."

"Of course. What are you working on Mahhh-illi?" T'ral fumbles, correcting himself. T'ral gestures at one of the chairs, asking with a look, May I sit? His eyesy narrowing at the bouncy bluerider, "Tying my boots together with gauze doesn't strike me as particularly sporting."

Mailli chokes, snorts, than flat out laughs, "Nika, you didn't?" she asks as for the shell, it's given a turn and a critical eye, "It's going to be a dolphin eventually," the delicate pink of the shell is carefully preserved in the carving, "The person that commissioned it stated that I had to keep as much pink as possible, and didn't say who it was for," though if she had to guess, Mailli's marks would be on Lendai.

"Sporting? Sporting? But I had to win! And your legs are longer than mine, and you're fast. How else could I have won?" Duh - is how Nika's face reads. With a roll of her eyes and a short shake of her slowly growing wild curls, she turns her smile to Mailli, "You mean you do art too? Shouldn't a harper be doing it? I dunno understand crafts!" So its probably good she impressed, or she'd still be at High Reaches mucking stalls…or well she would have been 500 turns ago, right now she'd be all sort of dead.

It is a new, but not awake face that walks in through the Kitten's doors. Blue eyes scan the room, taking in everything new. Well. A bar. Z'bor hadn't expected that, but hey, as long as he's here. He strides to the bar, ordering a double of something strong. HE takes his drink and works his way around the chatting crowd, his Istan Wingrider Knot still firmly attatched to his shoulder. He's got a couple of days before he starts active duty, enough time to acclimate to the area. He sits near the group, listening to the snippets of conversation. Every once in awhile, his face goes blank, a testiment to his speaking with Ozriath. Greenrider and dragon, both new to this place and both unsure of what the welcome will be, they try to comfort eachother. They may have wanted this, but they're an awful long way from home.

With no objections, T'ral flips a chair around and sits ass-backward, arms folded over and chin hanging past the straight chairback. He peers at the shell, "Save the pink? That will be for our Weyrwoman." Because, yeah. Those would be safe marks indeed. T'ral continues his squinting assessment of the senior rider and dragonhealer. "There are more objective ways to handicap me, I'm sure." He clears his throat, "So. What am I stuck with since I lost?" T'ral runs a hand through his hair. NO REASON. Then twists around to see an unfamiliar face, taking in the knot and the looking around that someone new to a place does. "Southern Weyr's a strange place to vacation, greenrider," T'ral calls out.

Mailli chuckles at Nika's question, "I've many talents," she says with a wink to the petite rider, "That's my thought as well," to T'ral, then there's the new rider, "Join us," she calls out to the new comer, because she's probably as open as Nika is if not as bubbly.

Z'bor is a little shocked at being addressed, but a wide smile overcomes him and he laughs just a little. "Ain't a vacation I'm here for, though I don't know why you'd say it's a strange place to vacation, There's heat and water and jungle. It's a great place. But alas, it's a transfer that's got me here bluerider." He takes a drink and grins at the one addressing him. "Name's Z'bor by the way, belonging to green Ozriath." He isn't sitting far enough away to warrant standing, so he holds out a hand in greeting. He's a friendly chum, promise.

"Talents!" Nika echoes her arms flying up in the air as if that will only make the point a little louder, only then everyone around her is talking to someone else, in the bar area, and her arms still extended skyward her head turns to locate said interloper. Eyes widen as she spots her favorite person of all a -stranger-, and as he approaches she doesn't bother to bring her appendages down to a normal level, his name sung back to him with great ENTHUSAISM, if not anything resembling pitch. "Z'bor! Z'bor! Z'bor! I'm Nika to blue At-man. A transfer! Where are you from? Is it far? How long have you been a rider? Green's are the second best dragons of all! How have you found Southern? Its the best. Isn't it the best?" Her brown eyes turn up to the new guy, pleading, as if anything but unadulterated love for Southern might break her little heart.

"Yeah, but the water's all in the AIR." T'ral grins and swipes a forearm across his brow, taking the greenrider's hand, "T'ral, blue Esanth's. A transfer? Drinks are on me, then. What are you drinking, Z'bor? Mahhhh-illi?" He knows what Nika is drinking. He ambles to his feet and goes to the bar to see about drinks for the table.

Mailli flashes a broad grin at Z'bor, "Ain' it wonderful?" the water being in the air and all, "Nothin' beats home," Southern girl born and bred, though one would have to go back a few hundred Turns, "Name's Mailli. Dolphincraft," title is left off, though if he's familiar with the charms, the one that denotes Master is clearly visible next to the one that denotes her specialty in antiquities, and the other in navigations. Of course the small silver sextant is rather hard to miss.

Z'bor tips a smile at T'ral. "Whiskey thanks." Then he's back on the conversation at hand. "Well met, Nika, Master Mailli." He grins, knowing one's ranks keeps one out of trouble, even if one is a dragonrider. "The water in the air is nice, Ozriath already notices a difference in her skin, though, we hail from Ista, it's pretty humid there too." IN answer to a question of Nika's, he states: "I've been with Ozriath four turns now. It's been great. I'm hoping we do as well here as we did at home."

"Master Mailli!?" The use of the woman's title again causes Nika to wrap an arm around her belly, meaning they've finally be relieved from holding up the sky, and double over in great gasps of giggling laughter. "Oh man. You' crack me up, new guy." Whose name is apparently not going to be used for the moment. "Whiskey! Whiskey is the best! It's the greatest thing in the whole world. Well besides At-man. And flying. And Mailli. And T'ral. And you!" A little finger is waggled in the way of the greenrider. "Oh, and bubblies. I love bubblies. Hey! Ista! I came from High Reaches, but not like now… from you know, hundreds of years ago. I'm a real old woman! How old are you?" Then suddenly her attention is back on Mailli, "Your pink shell dolphin needs some pink ribbons!"

T'ral returns with three glasses and a bottle. "It was this or fists of whiskey shots. I opted for 'easy to carry.'" Finding himself the lowest ranking member of a group once again, T'ral pours for his compatriots, moving around to the opposite side of the table and gesturing for Z'bor to join them. Holding his glass aloft, he grins, "To water in the air. And our new green pair. Ozriath and Z'bor, welcome to Southern." He raps the glass on the table and downs the whiskey in a single bolt. He blinks hard as it burns its way down and pushes the bottle and his glass towards Nika. "Your go."

Mailli grins at Nika's enthusiasm, "I was thinking that, but it will have to wait until I'm done with the carve," the rough outline of a dolphin leaping through a wave is clear, "Not sure why Lendai would want a dolphin, but it will be spectacular when it's finished," because Mailli says so. To Z'bor Mailli rolls her eyes, "Yes, I'm a master within Dolphincraft. No, I don't use my title, so, please Mailli is fine," how many times has she gone through this now? Mailli's lost count then there's, "Whiskey? Yes please," because whiskey, that's why. It's reason enough anyway. Oh look, there's T'ral with said whiskey, "To Z'bor and Ozriath, and to water in the air," her glass of whiskey is slammed back, not even a wince or a wince as she grins, "Good stuff. Are they carrying Aaron's special these days?" she asks grinning, oh boy someone's likely to wind up hammered.

Z'bor joins the group at the table and raises his own glass. "To Southern, and all of you putting up with us!" He grins and winks jokingly. "And may we all stay safe in the coming days." The creeping up of Thread has been felt by all, everywhere he's been he's seen the preperations being made. He raps his glass and downs the fiery liquid, smacking his lip in approval as it goes down. "Good whiskey…" He gasps, loving the aftertaste.

"It is never too soon for ribbons!" Nika leans across the table so her face is close to Mailli's, her tone deadly serious. "Never." She lifts a thin brow and nods solemnly before leaping backwards so she's standing on her feet. "WHISKEY!" Little fingers wrap round the glass as she tilts her head way back and throws the nectar in. There is no wincing, she drinks like a pro. "Oh man! That was so good! Life is awesome!" Suddenly, Z'bor's comment gets the best of her and she's got her hands grasping T'ral's arms, "So Awesome! I'm going to go live some RIGHT NOW!" As if this were the last time there might be an opportunity to do it. "Mailli! I'll see you later!" But the greenrider better now think he's going to get out of this without a little Nika-love. She's pounced him, her short little arms wrapping as far as they can about the much taller man, and clinging. "I'm so glad you are here!" As if speaking to an old friend she's suddenly found again, and then just as quickly the man is released from her grasp and she's half skipping out the door, "It was nice to meet you NEW GUY!" Is called as she disappeared behind the swinging doors.

Mailli chuckles at Nika's exit, "She's hard not to love," said of the tiny rider that's just left, "Love to stay and chat, but there's Buggers. I don't want him landing on a burn I best be followin' him home," at least she knows how to keep the small brown 'lizard off her perpetually sunburned shoulders, "Besides, the dolphincraft complex is the only place without all this… this… pink."

Z'bor is sneak attack hugged by a hyper Nika, but doesn't mind. He hugs her back and looks across at the departing Mailli. "Nice to meet you, thanks for the warm welcome!" He turns to T'ral. "And thanks for the drink friend, next one is on me?" He raises a brow and smiles. Such friendly people here.

"Wait, Nika!" T'ral's arm flings up and he turns as she zooms away, "What does it mean that…" Poof. She's gone. In a flash of hugs and flaily arms and probably glitter. Or is that dust? "…that I lost the… race?" T'ral shakes his head turning back to the table with a grin, hand dropping back to the chairback. T'ral stands when Mailli does, inclining his head. "Good afternoon, Maaaailli." He grins and shrugs. It is rather an august knot she wears. T'ral resumes his perch and eyes the barely touched bottle, "Well, I got this for four," he pours again, this time for sipping, "And now we're two. It'll be a while." He gestures with a toss of his head at Z'bor's knot. "You been assigned to a Wing yet?"

Z'bor graciously accepts a refill on the whiskey, this time for sipping as well. He takes a seat, rubbing the back of his head and grinning. "I got my orders as soon as I came in, though Oz and I were given a couple of days to get settled. I should be joining the ranks of Serval wing, I do believe." He sips at his whiskey and absentmindedly touches his Istan knot. The greenrider slouches back in his chair and sighs. "It's a lot to adjust to, specially so close to Threadfall."

Threadfall's the cue-word for Rhydian; it causes his ears to prick, and the Starcraft journeyman pauses in his steps towards the bar. He's just come into the Kitten, and has the heat of Southern radiating from his dusty clothing, right down to his battered workboots and the mucky smears on his legs, where they're bare beneath the hem of his shorts. "We think we've cracked a pre-thread storm pattern," he says to the two riders, with an excitement that seems to assume they'll know what he's talking about. "It's close. Storms're getting worse, so it's close… clos/er/, anyway." Not the most scientific of predictions, but who's to argue with an excited stormchaser?

"Serval's best." It's an automatic reply, the words simply tumbling out of T'ral's mouth. He tips a glass to Z'bor, "Welcome to it," he flips his chair around, since they were being civilized and sipping and all. Then dark eyes fix the greenrider with a sober and steady look at his concern over adjustments this close to Fall. He peers into the glass, squinting, "You ever flown with an all-chromatic wing? I'm only just out of weyrlinghood, but the drills are wildly different. Emphasis on the wild." He grins, "Though you and Ozriath must fly a treat if Arianne picked you." He looks up, at the new and a bit rambly Starcrafter, a chill shivering down his neck. "Patterns?" T'ral, formerly an archivist and a bit of an egghead himself, "You detected a pattern?" He squints, "I don't believe we've met." He stands, brushing a hand on his long pants, no shorts here - just determined sweating and a healthy dose of bring-it for the relentless heat and humidity. "T'ral, blue Esanth. This is Z'bor, green Ozriath," he gestures at the other rider. "Dish Starcrafter." T'ral waves to a seat and one of the glasses. There're only Nika-germs on it. And the only thing you could catch from her is LOVE.

Z'bor looks up as their chatter is interrupted. "Have you now?" is his only response. "Well met." Is all he says in greeting, having not been here very long and not knowing anyone. He goes slightly far off for a moment as his attention is caught by Ozriath. "Your hide always itches…." he says in response, not realizating that he's vocalized his thought. "Alright…alright, coming." He comes back to himself and nods at the two net to him. "Thanks for the welcome T'ral, I look forward to working with you. But I have to go, Ozriath demands attention!" And with a slight laugh, the man is up and on his way out.

Rhydian squints at Z'bor, who gets up and leaves so quickly after the one-sided introductions - he just about remembers to touch his fingers to his temple in a farewell salute as the greenrider heads on out. "See ya, then," the Starcrafter says, slipping down into one of the abandoned seats next to the all-alone bluerider. "T'ral? Rhyd. -ian. Rhydian. Not Dish. But Starcrafter, yes." He gives a thumbs up for that, before leaning in towards T'ral, elbows on his knees - pilfered ex-Nika-glass in his hand. "There are patterns. Like, whoooa-patterns." Like mind-blowing, for the sleep-deprived crafter.

The hour is nigh and life's so beautiful… and then Yules walks in. As usual, straight to the bar. The bartender doesn't even need to hear her order, though Yules gives it anyway, "Tall, dark, ale." Ergo, he saves a couple of seconds of scowl-time, and Yules gets to look around more quickly for a table. Ahhhh, her eyes light up, and Yules moves towards T'ral and the new guy. "T'ral. May I join you?" Perfunctory, her favourite mood. Even so, there's a curious look at Rhydian, and because someone's been learning social manners again, Yules can offer a reasonably nice, "Hello." But because she's still essentially her, she says, "You're new."

A wave to the departing Z'bor, "My regards to yours. See you at drills." Soon enough, anyway. He swings his attention back to the Starcrafter, squinting as he weighs whether or not to correct him on the idiomatic invitation he'd issued. There are more interesting topics -patterns- so he settles for the simpler prompt, "Tell me about these patterns." At Yules' approach and address, T'ral pops up, a sharp salute for the Wingsecond, "Afternoon, Ma'am. Please," he gestures to the other chairs. T'ral has social graces in spades compared to this lot and so… As though the knots didn't say all that needed said, he gestures between Yules and the Starcrafter, "Yules, Rhydian, Rhydian, Yules." To Rhydian, "Yules is the Wingsecond of Ocelot." To Yules, "Rhydian is a Starcrafter and is about to explain some storm patterns that may help predict Fall…?" He sits and tips a look at Rhydian. Right?

T'ral's reaction to Yules' approach gets a squinty-eyed look from Rhydian, whose blue-eyed gaze flickers from man to woman, then back again, with a fleeting frown. When there's a clarification of title tossed in there, the Starcrafter's expression is forcibly flat; he scrubs at his scalp through his humidity-frizzed curls (tied back though they are - with a pink ribbon, no less), and makes himself smile. "Right. Yes. Wingsecond Yules." He stands to offer her his hand - notably not the one he's just scuffed through his hair, and nods at T'ral's introduction of him. "We think there's patterns. Hard to tell though, really. Won't be able to properly confirm them until, er… well, I guess the beginning of the next Pass. But, well…" He looks from T'ral to Yules, a little squinty-eyed at the latter. "Are you sure it's something you want to hear?"

"Don't call me ma'am," is Yules' first instruction at T'ral, the order curbed with, "At least not in here. How's Serval doing these days?" There's a surreptitious checking-out of the crowd, and said ma'am slips gracelessly into her seat, resting the glass of scotch on the table. T'ral's introduction of Rhydian earns him a quick nod and a sip of her beverage, and then whoa, we're doing the formal thing, so Yules stands, shakes, sits down again. To dispell the weird a little, Yules comments, "Do you know D'ce… uhhhh," whatshisname, "Daycen? Now D'cen." She does take a hard second look when the topic of patterns come up, a little gleam in her eye: "Patterns, huh. Got any hidework on that?" Tell me more: "I want to know allllll about it." gleam

It's a trap! "Yes, Ma'- Yules." He pours for Rhydian and himself, "Serval is best, Ma'- Yules." He grins, lopsided. Surely she would understand the boast of esprit d'corps. Oh. Wait. Yules. "Best at being all-chromatic. We've been hitting the agility drills hard to make up for time we lost in quarantine." T'ral's eyes darken at that big waste of time. He turns his attention back to the Starcrafter. Yes. Hides. He fixes the younger man with an intent look, fumbling in a pocket for a little book which he brings out, flipping to a fresh page.

Rhydian has a willing audience. So rare, outside of his weathergeek clique! "Daycen? Only by name. Someone's mentioned him, but we've not met. I, er… I've been spending more time out," he flaps his hands, as if they were wings, "than in since I got here." He shrugs, then takes a sip of his drink. "I do have hides. So many hides. We've been monitoring all the weather we can for, er… what day are we today?" He moves as if to push glasses up his nose, then seems surprised that he pokes himself between the eyes since his specs aren't there. Shaking his head to clear the embarrassment, he gives the two riders a crooked grin. "Every storm there's been has been more intense than the last. More twisters on Keroon's plains. More lightning in Ista. More rainfall in High Reaches… heavier snow in the mountains, even though it shouldn't really be doing that right now - not to that extent, anyway, and it's all piling up and up and up," excited hand gestures emphasize the huge build-up of weathery things - so excited that he slops whisky from his glass. "Shit."

Yules is already opening her mouth to say something when T'ral interrupts, so she settles back, looking slightly less than gruntled. Didn't even get to correct anyone. The Wingsecond does nod approvingly at Serval's playing-catch-up, adding her own eighth-mark, "Ocelot as well. Reminding them," her lips twist wryly, "that the skull found in the cavern wasn't mine." She aten't dead (yet). Rhydian gets a longer look over the rim of Yules' own scotch: "Have you noticed any extremes happening here at Southern?" is her only question, though her tone is a little breathy, until some whiskey hits the table. Yules sniffs. "Good stuff, that?"

T'ral slips a silverstick out of a pocket or pouch. Followed by a fresh kerchief, pressed and folded, miraculously dry -where does he keep all these things?- then tossed in front of Rhydian for the Starcrafter to clean up with. He purses his lips speculatively, "Is this increase of distemperate," because that's a word right, "weather something that you have records of from the start of other Passes?" He squints, trying to recall if any of the ballads alluded to any such phenomena. At Yules' question he nods sharply, looking to Rhydian for the answer.

"Some," Rhydian says to Yules to response to her question, as he takes the kerchief from T'ral and starts mopping up his mess, "but no more here than anywhere else. It's the same all over. Fluctuations. What might've been anomalies 10 turns back are now, well, not. What do you get if nearly everything you track is an anomaly? Anomalies become…" He pauses, taking a beat to think it through. "… a-normal-ies." Rhyd ponders that a moment longer, then shrugs it away, accepting it. "There's records from the past, but they're not great. And anyway, it's not as good as being there. You can't properly describe a storm on hide. You just can't. All the -" Again he starts with the hand gestures, mimicking rain while making whooshy wind sounds, interspersed with thunder booms and rumbles. "Try writing that." The whisky-soaked handkerchief is handed back over to T'ral.

Yules sips the scotch thoughtfully: "I think I saw a section of books in the book room," with the booky-things, "about weather." But Rhydian seems to have been there already. "So you're saying that all this weather at Southern," the free hand whirls around loosely overhead, "That we call normal could have been very different ten Turns ago." Maybe Yules should have a redfruit so she can look as smart as Q'fex, "No winter rainstorms." Sip on that for a little while, she does. She will hmph at the idea of descriptors: "Maybe there should be a rating system that's agreed upon. 'Loud enough to wake you from your sleep' to 'couldn't hear yourself thinking, you're thinking so quietly'."

"A-normal-lies," T'ral's lips quirk in a grin, "I like it." He tosses a hand at Rhydian, "Well, of course even a first-person account is a poor substitute for being there, but what I'm talking about is simply a matter of precedent." He sits back, whiskey in tow and holds out a forestalling hand to Rhydian, "Ah, no, you keep it," for the kerchief. "Is there any indication in the records to think that the strange weather has anything to do with the start of the Pass? Without that, you're just speculating." Rigor. Debate. He missed this. He cocks his head wondering indeed if weather had been very different at Southern within the last ten years. "The wildmen may know if weather has changed dramatically. Though," he shakes his head, "I'm, ah, not sure about their recordkeeping." A rating system. T'ral nods, squinting, trying to think of a way to measure loudness empirically. "Strings on a gitar will resonate in the presence of other sounds, sympathetic vibrations. Maybe something there?" Eggheads! Unite!

"There are books," Rhydian says with an eager nod to Yules. "Lots of them, and scrolls and stuff, too, and they all talk about older weather and patterns and blah blah blah, but 10 turns or whatever ago we didn't have Thread about to drop on us, did we?" He waggles a finger at her in excited agreement. "Rating! Yes. Yes-yes. Yes, we should - a Thread-weather rating. Like for earthquakes." Wibbly-wobbly hands quiver like a 'quake rocking the ground… just in case the riders don't know what an earthquake is, maybe? Who knows! "Strange weather is all to do with the start of a Pass," Rhyd nods at T'ral, his brows dipping low over his blue eyes in a moment of seriousness. "That's why it's so exciting. And, I mean, terrifying and all that stuff too - Thread's no joke, but… I'm not excited about Thread, but… the weather. It's… it's just incredible. I don't know anything about guitars, though?"

You young kids with your fancy words these days. Yules eyes T'ral with a little suspicion, as if he's having a particularly harpery joke on her. "I wonder," she slooooooowly tells T'ral, "If we can't meet up with some of the wildmen about that. Maybe they have a way of writing things down that we've not seen yet." Who knows what that's about anyway. Rhydian's excitement gets peered at, Yules wondering faintly, "Hey… do you like klah?" Is that, like, a date or something? The world may never know, because soon after, an Ocelot-patched guy wanders in, zones in on Yules and comes to say, "Uhhh, Wingsecond?" The momentary glow on Yules' face reveals she's not tired of hearing that, apparently, until it darkens a bit at, "We sorta need some help with a thing." The knot comes off, but the job doesn't: Yules stands and knocks back the rest of her scotch (and on another world, a country cries out): "If you'll excuse me. Gotta see what this is about. Rhydian: well met. T'ral: see you later." That said, Yules turns and makes her way out the door, following the bluerider ahead of her.

T'ral blinks at Rhydian, Is this what I sound like when I'm on about… whatever I'm always on about? He makes a note to listen more closely to himself when he's got the bit in his teeth about some topic or other. "Well, resonance has more to do with pitch than volume, but there might be some way to use resonance and delicate instruments to detect noise levels." He makes a note in his book. Something to discuss with the Smiths. "Exciting," a flutter is definitely a-fluttering in T'ral's belly. Nerves. "Is not the word I'd use. Important." He grins at the Starcrafter's obvious enthusiasm, "Seeing a storm adragonback is something else, isn't it?" NOT THAT HE FLEW STORMS. Ahem. "I'm game to help if you need it." Flying storms for SCIENCE! Because what T'ral needs is ANOTHER project. He purses his lips, "Are we on good… or any terms with Maosa's people? We could ask her, but, she was just a girl 10 turns ago." The incoming Ocelot rider gets a 'yo' nod and then, with some puzzlement about what 'a thing' might be, he rises to nod a farewell to Yules. Still standing, he scrubs a hand through his hair and glances outside at the slant of the sun. His eyes widen, "I'm late!" He reaches out to shake Rhydian's hand, "Good to meet you, Rhydian. If I can help your research, let me know." He bolts out of the swinging doors. They haven't even flapped back when he dashes back in, slugs the dregs of his drink, and bolts again.

The white rabbit exit T'ral makes is met with a hurried wave and a "Yeah, you too. I'll call you?" Call on. Call… somehow, anyway. The Starcrafter gives the escaping bluerider a thumbs up and a cheesily big grin - and then he's back! And downing his drink like a champion. And off again! Rhydian blinks, watches the swinging doors to make sure he's really gone this time, then he too quaffs what's left in his glass before getting up and tottering back to his room.

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