==== February 2nd 2014
==== Arianne, Hannah, Br'er, T'ral, Th'seus
==== The captives are once again restless with talk of escape. But then there's food. So, food.

Who Arianne, Hannah, Br'er, T'ral, Th'seus
What The captives are once again restless with talk of escape. But then there's food. So, food.
When There are 0 turns, 0 months and 21 days until the 12th pass.

ari_3.png hannah_default.jpg Th%27seus18.jpg t-ral_content.jpg brer-happy.jpg


Sterile and scoured, the surfaces of the infirmary, well-tended and beloved by the complement of Healers due a weyr of Southern's size. Soothing tissane simmers at the large hearth, while comfortable chairs circle that particular feature in a waiting-room of sorts. Tables of dull-gleaming oldtimer metal lie as examining slabs, neatly lined in rows with pull-curtains enabling full privacy as needed. A low wall separates the southern half of the room from the rest, and those practicing the apothecary's trade can be seen compounding medicines under the watchful eye of the posted Master.

There's only so much you can do to occupy yourself in the infirmary. Someone at some point, managed to slip the sweeps reports in to Th'seus when they first got quarantined in here. He's sitting up in the cot now, legs stretched out and staring at the hides in his hands. Or is he? His eyes look half-lidded and there's the tell-tale 'droop' of his head now and again as he falls asleep and then wakes up again. So really, this is just a thrilling and exciting adventure they're on here.

Hannah has spurned work — or has she? The hide book in front of her could contain something that looks like work. — and seems to be concentrating on whatever it is in front of her. Suddenly, into the white-noise silence of the infirmary, she bursts out laughing. Then glances around — to the right, to the left — before ducking her head betwixt the pages. It's not too long, though, that the goldrider is pulled from her book to eye Th'seus. The drooping eyes, the head-bob: all lead to a speculative expression that could bode ill for the large wingleader. What else are they going to do while cooped up in here? Is that a crumpled parchment ball lobbed in the bronzerider's direction? If so, Hannah totally presents an innocent facade to the rest of the infirmary prisoners.

Hannah's burst of laughter would wake up the average dozing man. Th'seus (unfortunately for him) sleeps like a rock or a boulder, whatever. So there's only a moment where he brings his head up, blinks in lazy confusion and drops it again. This time it seems like it might be for good as his chin dips down into his chest and he starts to snore. First it's soft and then it's much louder, a sad testament to what the goldrider probably has to deal with on a regular basis. The parchment ball bounces off of his forehead and his foot twitches and he grumbles, swatting away at his face. "Hrmghmm not now, baby. Need to work…" As the hides slip out of his hand and onto the floor.

There's always music. Whether the expected: the bright clattering of a harpsichord or the strum of a gitar; the organic: the lifelong centering drumbeat of the heart or the whistling of wind over wingsails; or the unexpected: something improvised. He's either totally snapped or genius. Not far from where Hannah and Th'seus are staring themselves cross-eyed, T'ral sits on an overturned bucket, a pair of splints in his hands, cracking out a steady tempo. Rat-ta-tuh-tatta-tuh, rat-tat-tat! He points a splint at another quarantinee, holding a bedpan that chimes with a strikingly pleasant 'Ding!' T'ral grins, "Nice!" He starts the rhythm again… Rat-ta-tuh-tatta-tuh, rat-tat-tat! He points at someone else…!

Th'seus's last grip on consciousness fails him as the hides go to the floor, which prompts Hannah to put aside her book. With a quiet snicker, she leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeens over and takes up one of those sweep reports from the ground. T'ral's drum circle he's got going provides the backdrop for nefarious shenanigans, especially as someone on the next cot takes up where T'ral left off until it's someone else's turn. Slowly, with exaggerated care — because she KNOWS how obnoxious this snoring is about to become — she crumples Th'seus's precious hide (seriously, what is he going to do with it?) and takes aim. As the sound reaches it's peak before someone else picks it up, she tosses her crumpled work-ball, lobbing it at Th'seus's chest, face, whatever would startle that snore to a stop.

It's a complete mystery how he continues to sleep through all the damn racket that T'ral is literally drumming up, no pun intended. But he does. And the snoring just gets louder, threatening to ruin the naps of others and the impromptu concert going on elsewhere. The parchment that Hannah balls up next smacks right into his mouth and he jerks awake, blinking furiously and clutching at the remaining pages in his lap. He looks suspiciously at the people around him. Indignant (and also possibly sleep confused), "Who just threw that at me?!" It couldn't be his Hannah, no, of course not! The bronzerider narrows his eyes on T'ral. It's always the quiet ones. He balls up one of the hides in his lap and lobs it over at the bluerider.

Pelted in the side of the head, T'ral's rat-a-tat-tatting stutters a beat and his head slews around to eyeball the tosser… Oh. the Lynx Wingleader. "There a request written on that, Sir?" Rat-ta-tuh-tatta-tuh, rat-tat-tat! "Or is that a commentary on our playing?" Rat-ta-tuh-tatta-tuh, rat-tat-tat! He grins, gesturing to another quarantinee sitting on a different upturned bucket.

Presenting Th'seus with the sweetest, most innocent face that Hannah can muster, it's somewhat ruined by the fact that she pulls her hands up to her face when the bronzerider lobs the hidework at T'ral. The Serval wingrider gets dancing green eyes and a hint of laughter playing at the corners of her mouth before Hannah turns her attention back to Th'seus. "You were snoring again. You and Q'fex could start your own musical group with the horrific sounds that come out of that trombone you call a nose." She notably does not answer his question, instead aiming to steal his work. "Q'fex has decreed this is a vacation. Some vacation. We should just break free." This is a common theme here, folks. PRIS-er-INFIRMARY break.

"Yeah the request is to stop throwing things at my face-" There might have been more there, but then Hannah starts to talk. And it's the same narrow-eyed look that he directs onto the goldrider. T'ral and his merry band of musicians are safe from further pelting. For now. "My trombone of a nose?" Th'seus starts, putting a hand to his face and tracing the crooked line of his bridge. When she begins to steal his paperwork, he's totally unprepared. Fruitlessly he tries to snatch it back from her. "This isn't a vacation, I'm still here at the weyr. I have things I need to get done. This is getting ridiculous. If they don't let me out soon, I'm just going to leave. Who's going to stop me?" Someone wakes up grumpy from naptime.

A mutter from a redhead over in the corner, namely Arianne, seems to agree. "Vacations are supposed to include good food, good alcohol, and plenty of sex. There's none of them goin on in there." The only one who would stop her from doing her work hasn't been quarantined, so she's still got her papers held up in front of her face. Neener, Th'seus! She can do her woooooooooooork.

Rat-ta-tuh-tatta-tuh, rat-tat-tat! T'ral grins at the junior weyrwoman assuming her smile is for the music, because of course it is! He shakes his head at the Lynx Wingleader, "Wasn't me, Sir," T'ral's swaying to the tempo being tossed around the small group. Smiling, "But, that snore you had going was a good drone." T'ral tips a salute at Arianne with one of the splints he's rattling out his beat with and points. "Holler if want need any," Rat-ta-tuh-tatta-tuh, rat-tat-tat! "Help with that, Ma'am."

Hannah is quick when she needs to be and small when she needs to duck out of the way of grasping fingers for work. Th'seus's work is clutched to her chest, though she slants a look at Arianne. "I agree. I pictured my vacation to be on the shores of Ista or in the lagoon on the northern areas of Southern. Not here. I say we all get up and walk out. We aren't sick. We're bored and tired and I could seriously use some— " Some what? Her thought is cut off by T'ral's response and his continued drum band. "See? This is just the reason why we should just — Th'seus, you're big enough. Arianne and I will just follow in your wake." And T'ral is welcome to join them. Either way, Th'seus will have to get crafty to get these hides back.

"Stop beat-bop-tapping-dapping whatever you're doing over there, T'ral." Th'seus exhales through his trombone of a nose, sparing the young bluerider another one of those looks by closing his eyes. "It's getting on my nerves." When he opens them again it's to glance between Arianne and Hannah, and then to direct an appraising stare at the people who are watching the door. "I'm definitely not sick or insane. Because if I was-" Maybe that's better left unsaid. What the bronzerider is happens to be supremely grouchy and done with this whole situation. "Varden is just being hysterical." He lurches forward to try and grab the hides from Hannah again, instead stumbling forward and dragging himself to a stand instead. "And what about Q'fex?" He glances around for their Weyrleader and then back at the door again. It's clear he's deciding if he's ballsy enough to just walk out given the circumstances.

Arianne tips her head towards T'ral, a brief smile appearing as well. "Thanks for the offer, but this is keeping me sane." And Caelth. We do not want the sanity spiral to begin now do we? That, perhaps, is why, her eyes suddenly appear over the top of her papers. "I'll tell Caelth to tell Inlayraith to tell Br'er to stick his hand down Q'fex's pants. That'll keep him busy long enough for us to make a break for it." is suggested, so very helpfully.

T'ral's brow furrows and he holds a hand out to the others whose rhythms falter and fade. Ratta-tuh-tatta-tuh-lame. He waves the other quarantinees off to whatever other sane-making activity they could come up with on their own. "Yes, Sir." He stands, splints tucked under on arm and the impromptu bucket-drum hanging loosely from one hand, "Varden assured me earlier that this would be over soon." He clears his throat, "With respect to your eminent knottedness-es," All three of the rankers included, "I don't think that disregarding the orders of the Weyrhealer is the best precedent to set as we enter a Pass." His ears color at Arianne's salacious suggestion, "However, ah, peevish we may be becoming."

Oh Th'seus, not quite! Hannah skiddaddles away from the bronzerider — probably in a move pretty known to him when playing keep away, though probably not usually with hides. "I don't have to worry about Q'fex," yeah right, "I have to worry about Lendai and I am pretty sure that Lendai misses her juniors." What does the Weyrwoman do without them?! Side-glancing to Arianne, she shares a conspiratorial look with the brownrider, that is tugged away to land on T'ral. Confusion brings her brows together, which would give the bronzerider ample opportunity to grab for his hides if he dared. "Our what? I will do what I want." Mulish, mutinous, and headstrong; this expression probably doesn't bode well for that door. "We aren't sick." It's been long enough. Really. Promise. Look — look at those eyes as she turns a look to Th'seus, "Right?"

"I don't think Br'er will like getting left behind." Th'seus drawls, slowly towards Arianne, folding his arms over his chest. His gaze goes to the exit, staring at it like a moody teenager. Hannah is the absolute worst influence at all times during situations like this, and unfortunately it does seem as if he might listen to her. His foot taps and his fingers twitch against his arms. But then there's T'ral over there, being the voice of reason and sanity. "He's right." He growls in annoyance, tossing his hands up in the air. It could be something the bluerider has said reminds him of something he's said to SOMEONE in the not so distant past. Grumpy and tired the bronzerider walks away to another part of the infirmary. Where there's no drumming or mutiny.

"He's not being left behind….. he's keeping his teddywher company." Arianne protests. "But fine, you have a point. Maybe she's addresing T'ral…. or maybe Th'seus. But either way the person who gets the commiserating ga

…gaze, is Hannah.

"What's that about me?" Br'er comes ambling over, looking oddly… smug. Like the world has taken a positive turn for him in the last hour or so, say. He's pristine to the point of suspiciousness, save for the fingers on one hand - those are sugary, and buttery, on account of pastry. Flaky, golden, cream-filled pastry. There's a box in the other hand: possibly, intriguingly, there might be MORE pastries in there. "I could feel my nose itching all the way over - uh, where I was." Somewhere one of the corners, semi-private but not THAT private, one presumes. One hopes.

T'ral's brows go up, Th'seus agreed AND stalked away. He watches the departing Wingleader closely. There's no sense of victory in being right - it was simply right. BUT… with Th'seus gone, music is back on. He addresses the remaining, "I've got buckets and bedpans aplenty, any takers?" He turns the bucket over again and sits, peering at the splints he's using for drumsticks. "Can I get someone to go for my gitar, that might be more settling to folks." More settling than the rattling, stirring ratta-tat-tatt-ery. "Evening Wingsecond," T'ral notes the sticky fingers suspiciously, "Putting down rebellion, Sir." He ticks a salute with the splint, "Most obedient, loyal wing in the Weyr."

Hannah is a bad influence when backed into a corner, but perhaps it's T'ral's words and Th'seus's capitulation or perhaps there's something else niggling the back of her mind — either way, the goldrider finds her cot once again and curls up on it, sharing that look with Arianne. Conveniently, sitting her bum onto Th'seus's work and picking up her book. Perhaps reminded that she might be acting childish, and should be giving a better representation of her rank. So Br'er's sudden entrance is inviting. "Br'er. Is that…?" Deliciousness?? Hannah is weak to food. Weak. The tip of her tongue licks the top of her lip, not a little amount of lust in those emerald green eyes of hers. Probably for the pastry and not the greenrider. T'ral and his band of musicians is given a quick look, but seriously. The goldrider has zeroed in on Br'er and his … pastry.

Arianne can definitely not compete with a pastry for the affections of a goldrider, it's true. "I figured you'd be able to … distract Q'fex while some of us slipped out. I…uh, I would sneak in some food for you, but…. look at that. There's already some nefarious things going on, or you wouldn't have special things." Dry. Her voice is dry. "I think you might wanna share with Hannah before she jumps you though. She has that look."

"Mm-HM." Br'er is the feline that got into the cream, and yes, we are talking about LITERAL cream here, you perverts. Because those are profiteroles: the greenrider's favorite. Someone got their hunny-bunny to pull through on the 'vacation' apology food-gifts, it seems. "That's to all three of you," he adds, smiling. With teeth. "Because we ARE the most loyal wing in the Weyr," to T'ral, and Arianne as well, "they ARE what you think they are," to Hannah, "and I do have special things." Arianne again. Even MORE toothily, he opens the box, sloooowly, the aroma of pastry goodness wafting out. "Maybe I want Hannah to jump me - but," before she CAN, "no, I am a generous man; you may share in my bounty." With a flourish, the box is set, open, on the nearest convenient flat space. "Hold a tick - I got him to get me a few bottles of wine, too. Didn't want to open them while we were eating dinner, though, so -" He leaves the pastry in his wake: he has booze to fetch.

T'ral saw that look. He holds up open palmed hands to the others, "None for me, thanks. I need these," he flips his hands front to back to front, "And I'm not likely to keep them if I get in there." He doesn't resume the ratta-tat-tatting. His heart's not in it. "If I may, dibs on some of that wine, though."

Hannah might be giving Br'er the look, but she's quick to spring off the bed and snatch up one of the pastries, leaving work and hides behind. This is the point where she seeks out Arianne, finding a spot next to the brownrider. "This? So delicious." Teeth sink into that pastry with a groan. A glance to T'ral and then Br'er's retreating back, "Did he say wine?"

Yeah right As if there wasn't any of the other kinda cream involved. Arianne ain't buying the innocent act. But, she will absolutely pretend to in order to partake of pastries and wine! "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I knew I made a good choice picking you as my wingsecond. Wine and pastries will even make me forget my leg still hurts like a bitch." There is even a dreamy sort of sigh to accompany that. And she is shortly all but snuggled right up to Hannah, also with a pastry in hand. That they are suddenly both groaning with delight probably draws a few stares. "He -did-, Hannah. He really did. You really oughta try a pastry T'ral. Really."

"I did say wine," rasp-purrs Br'er, returning after a few moments. It's really too bad Q'fex isn't here to witness the two women's reactions to Br'er's… booty, isn't it? He would have liked it. Br'er will enjoy it in his stead. And also enjoy THE WINE. Two bottles of it: Benden 189, 11th Interval. GOOD wine. The effect is a little, um, spoiled by the glassware he's managed to scourge up. Dinky little medicinal measuring glasses, complete with painted lines in the interior. "Sorry I didn't get goblets too," the greenrider explains, apologetically. "I don't like to talk about booze too, uh, much in Q'fex's presence, so asking for proper glasses to be brought in seemed a little mean -" One of the healers is giving the group the STINK EYE, but nothing is being done. Something to be said for friends in high places.

T'ral sets the splints down and sidles up to the box, peering intently into the hallowed interior and the golden flaky cream-filled goodness within. "Well, if you say so, Ma'am." Because that's, like, as good as an order, right? He snags one of the pastries and takes up a perch on Th'seus' abandoned bunk. He takes a bite and stills, chewing slowly. Totally arrested at the burst of neural responses to that much fat and sugar. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, eyes wide, "Wow." At Br'er's returns, he pops to his feet, "Ah, let me, Sir." Lowest ranking member serves at mess. If there are no objections, T'ral takes the graduated cylinders from Br'er an serves the wine, making a show of displaying the bottle to Hannah and giving her a taste before the others. Arianne next and then Br'er. Finally his own cylinder. "A treat, Sir. Thank you."

Br'er's speaking? T'ral is pouring? Hannah isn't being rude, nay, she's just got her eyes closed and is enjoying the flakey goodness of her pastry. Leaning a little into Arianne as much as the brownrider is leaning into her. "I'm sorry," she manages to say, finally, "about your leg." But then T'ral is presenting her with a strange glass of Benden's finest. "Oh hey." She takes it, held daintily between her fingers. Flashing both blue and green riders a smile, she sips the wine and then immediately says. "There's more for seconds right?" This time, she's making grabby fingers to the box of pastries — too lazy to get up from her perch next to Arianne.

"That was very thoughtful of you. Besides, with a vintage that good, the glasses don't even matter." Ari is totally not picky. "Eh? Not your fault, not at all. Just needs a little more numbweed slapped on it for now. But first…" she clinks medical beaker things with Hannah first, then Br'er and T'ral, before taking a sip and pairing it with her last bite of pastry. "And it goes so well together. Thank you for having it brought in, Br'er, and you for pouring, T'ral." She hasn't had a smile on her face this big since… well, never you mind.

"There's enough for three each." The box suggests this number would originally have been four each. Br'er, unashamed, reaches for another. HE DID THE WORK FOR THEM HE GETS TO HAVE THE GOLD'S SHARE. "Plus one extra -" pause, teeeeeasing grin, "- so you ladies can wrestle over it. Give us a little entertainment." He takes the wine from T'ral with a smile and a nod, plopping down on an occupied space. "I thought we deserved something. One more day of this!" It sounds like he's given up on mutiny. "At least we can eat well. And DRINK."

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