==== November 3rd, 2013
==== Yules, Desmeth, T'ral, Esanth
==== Yules works on straps. T'ral is dead on his feet. Esanth and Desmeth spend a pleasant night in.

Who Yules, Desmeth, T'ral, Esanth
What Yules works on straps. T'ral is dead on his feet. Esanth and Desmeth spend a pleasant night in.
When Night
Where Southern Weyr

Yulena3.bmp t-ral_tired.jpg


Weyrling Barracks
Natural entropy lies restrained by sheer force of will within the chaotic spiral of Southern's weyrling-barracks. The large entry hollows out into an immense common area at the front of the barracks, where sustenance can be procured for both sides of the lifebond: tables are typically set out with at least the trimmings for sandwiches, and often carcasses lie in the hollowed pit for fresh weyrlings to carve chunks of meat for their new lifemates. Beyond, the couches are set within a U-shape around a long pool, spring-fed, large enough to bathe growing dragons.

Heavy tapestries line the stone walls towards the rear of the barracks, while space is at a premium towards the front: shelves and pegs hold leathers and tools, books and useful trinkets of the dragonriding trade. The narrow-point of the U branches into two hallways: one for the candidate barracks, and one for the weyrlingmaster's office.

What is there to do after a long day of feeding, cleaning, feeding again, cleaning the other things, exercising, and more of the first two? Yules is busy at it, concentrating HARD as she slowly measures where to place the awl next into a long strap of plain brown leather that lies before her. There's a slow tune going, some off-key thing. Desmeth is watching with interest and every so often Yules mutters something under her breath but she's grinning so it can't be too bad. The last thing is, "Of course these won't be your final straps. They're until you're finished growing. And you'll look strapping in them any way." Get it? Oh, Yules is a riot. Desmeth is chuffing methodically in agreement.

Esanth saunters into the barracks, neck held in a self-assured counter curve, head cocked… cocky. T'ral shuffles into the barracks behind his dragon. He flips the now-empty muck barrow up on its wheel and leans it against the wall before returning the pitchfork to its rest. Esanth is standing, surveying, giving the barracks a critical onceover. T'ral's arms drop to his sides, shoulders slumped, swaying on his feet. Staring blankly at … Nothing. Esanth, satisfied apparently, strides purposefully to the… CRASH BOOM BANG rattlerattlerattle. T'ral starts awake. He'd fallen asleep on his feet. The young man dashes to Esanth, "Sorry, pal. I wasn't looking where you were going." Since remedial lessons in mindlinking, Esanth had seen half as many injuries as before. But T'ral really had to be on his toes. And, right now, on his back in his rack is where he really wants to be. Extracting Esanth from a tangle of cloths and buckets and brooms he surveys the damage and checks Esanth. Folding the cloths and replacing the buckets and brooms he spots Yules at her work. Esanth, unharmed and unashamed, trundles over to Desmeth and lightly… headbutts him. "Hey, Yules." The vowels are long and slushy, his normally proper accent is slurred. If she didn't know better, Yules'd think he was drunk. He blinks, staring blankly again.

Nothing like a good accident to take one's mind off the task at hand - Yules looks up along with Desmeth, watching Esanth move about. Which actually turns out to be a mistake, because she manages to just prick her finger with the awl. What on Pern was she doing with it anyway? "Ow," she says, and puts her finger in her mouth. Real sanitary, Yules. Desmeth's eyes whirl a strange mix of green and yellow for a moment but calms quickly when Yules mmms at him. T'ral, on the other hand… Well, Yules is an old hand at the drinking game, and an even older hand at the staying-up-past-the-point-of-sleeping-on-your-feet game, and nods to the new blue weyrling, "You look about ready for bed." Good thing there's no color of dragon called 'obvious' or Yules would be riding it too.

Something is making noises that his earholes can detect. The sound is percolating through his meatbrain. T'ral stares. "Reeds," he says, slack jawed. Staring. One by one, the words directed at him, trickle into consciousness. His head slews about and he unsteadily focuses on the former cook. Blinking. His eyes don't seem to be focusing to well. "Hey, Yules," in the same friendly slur. He totters over, "What you got there?" He stops, swaying forward, blinking at the sketches and the lengths of leather, long and narrow. And the sewing. What could it be?

Esanth sloooowly… HEADbutts Desmeth. Then snorts.

Yules still stands by her previous assessment that T'ral needs sleep, but maybe she'll tell him a lullabye, one of leather, and straps, and awling oneself, "I'm making straps." Or maybe not. "You should go to bed," Yules says again, though Desmeth huffs at the blue headbutt-er. Ahem, I was watching strap-making. Still, Desmeth is not unduly rude, and gives Esanth a whuffle back. "Desmeth says hi." Since it would be unconscienable to ignore the other half too.

The trickle of malted humour blends well with caramel overtones of courteousness as Desmeth clarifies, « Actually, I said greetings to you and yours. » A small matter, but one worth note, which wisps away like the gaseous sensation of a brash whiskey on the tongue. (From Desmeth)

"Oh. Straps." His mouth is a curious 'o'. His eyes drop down to the work, he nods, staring at least in the right general direction, "Those look," he pauses, thinking, "Those look good." He pats Yules on the shoulder and looks at her quizically, "Desmeth? Desmeth…" He turns his head and looks right at Desmeth, Esanth's eyes whirling at the other dragon. "Oh. Hey Desmeth." T'ral lifts a hand in a weak wave. "Bed," he's saying the word… but it feels strange. Like its in another language. He cocks his head at Yules. Slowly, meaning connects beneath his surface thoughts and his head turns towards the couch. Bed. He turns, ready to go there and stops. Swaying. "Reeds."

The cargo bay is more or less emtpy. Crates bulk in the darkness leaving a small area in the center of the bay for a green-felted table lit by a single spot from above. Two chairs. Cigar smoke hangs blue-gray in the air. A decanter on the table between two glasses. An invitation. « Wow. Your'n ever got like this? » (from Esanth)

Well, it's nice to know that Yules' sewing has improved to the point of looking good, and she will forever deny beaming slightly, But she does it, and then eagerly trades that expression for a frankly curious one, "How are you awake?" Not the white-washed version of 'why', not for this girl. Desmeth huffs, but Yules doesn't bother to re-ask it. "Go to bed," is her advice but she can't help but ask, "Wait - reeds?" Are we starting a winds-instruments band? The Junior Weyrling Marching Band?

Classy in unclassy times, Desmeth strolls unhurriedly to the table and flicks a poker chip casually, « No. But… » The scent of expensive whiskey slowly mixes with cigar smoke, a fine glass of port that just can't be rushed at this game, « She remembers a couple of times. It smelled nice there. » (From Desmeth)

T'ral nods, making his eyes go wide, "Awake, yup." It takes him a few moments to process that he's asked her a question. That she's asked him a question. "For the, uh," he gestures off towards the thing, with the sleeping and the mucking, "The…" he flaps his hand impatiently.

There is a sense of loosened collars, well, neckerchiefs, and coats doffed, hats rested on hooks. Under the cigar smoke, a smell of oil, acrid smoke and leather. Esanth soaks in the spirits, mechanical thrumming far below felt as a vibration in the floor, deepening in appreciation. « Why haven't we done this before? »

"The bed," Yules will help T'ral along. Isn't she helpful. "That you should go lie down on. Before you fall over," because hefting people after a long day is no one's idea of fun; or at least, Yules hasn't heard otherwise. She looks down at her strap of leather and starts to place the awl again. "Besides, it's not like tomorrow will get much easier." A little wince as the brown weyrling works a crick out of her neck before making the next mark. "Your boy is growing pretty big." It's an offhand comment, but Yules does flick an eye to Esanth. Just the facts, ma'…sir.

Loosened collars, hats fashionably set aside, Desmeth is wafting scents of rich liquors in small glasses. « We've been busy. » is his smooth response. The scent of cigars and alcohol are blended with expensive leather, « To fine things, of course, » and a sense of holding up a glass of something smooth, vaporous but not vapid, that coats your tongue and leaves you feeling mellow, like a good compliment. (From Desmeth)

"That." He nods, swaying forward. Then, pauses. Shaking his head, swaying left and right in the wake of the motion. "Wait. No…" He points at Esanth, "The one he uses. The couch. That one." He points at Esanth, because Yules might be confused. He doesn't mean Desmeth. Not Desmeth. T'ral notices Desmeth and grins, "Hey Desmeth," T'ral lifts a hand in a weak wave.

Air intakes spin up, there's no air in the fathomless void, but the sense is of a gusty sigh, that filters out through the vents. A stray feather, bright plumages, floats down, down, down onto the table and lands… just-so, fluttering in the movement of air from the life-support systems. Smoke swirls and glass meets glass. « To fine things. » The thrumming far below quiets to an idle, « If he tumps over, would you mind askin' your'n to help him up? » (from Esanth)

Yes, that is a couch, very good. Yules watches T'ral carefully in case of falling-over-itis. That could totally happen right about now. "So you need reeds for Esanth's couch." Glad we got this one figured out, S'coobydoo! Desmeth reaches over with his tail to slowly rest it in his chosen's lap; Yules gently pushes it into a slightly more comfortable position across her waist - apparently she's used to this. "He says…" A pause. Haven't we had this conversation already? "Uh huh."

Nature on any planet hates a vaccuum, so Desmeth will fill it with mellow red beery tones, « She's watching him. » Since it would be sooo outre to let Esanth's own fall over, Desmeth flicks his tail so it's lying along side Yules instead of over her lap, though for a moment, exciting brash lager follows the thrill of a hunt, those feathers inspiring some warming toddy. « To fine things. » (From Desmeth)

"Big. Yeah. He's gettin' real big. Not like Desmeth." Way to catch up, slick. T'ral nods at Yules, "YES. Reeds." He turns and heads off to the storage area where he can get reeds. Clattering follows in his wake.

The glass empties and there's a sense of thumping it down, inverted. The ship lists. « Woo. That's some stern stuff. But, smooooth. » A crate cracks open behind Desmeth and out rolls a wheel of well aged cheese. That wasn't on the manifest. « You? » A request for assistance blips on the comm channel, a little shrill note, quickly silenced. « Should we help? »

Yules watches in bemusement as T'ral moves away, shaking her head. The awl is put away and Yules stands up, taking the straps of leather with her. "I'll be right back, she tells blue and brown, "Just wanna make sure he doesn't run into something." Leather is wound and pulled over one arm to rest over Yules' shoulder like her knot, and then starts off to make sure T'ral doesn't fall asleep where he stands. Maybe help stuff a bed or two. Or maybe just to escort T'ral to bed anyway.

Vapors come and go, scotch melts like butter on the tongue, and Desmeth is flicking a tail at the comm button. « Nah, mine will make sure he lies down safely, doesn't hurt himself in doing so. » There's a faint tone of bubbling champagne amusement, « She says this isn't the first time. » That's followed by food smells - rising yeast, baking bread, the scents of way-too-early morning. (From Desmeth)

T'ral already ran into something. He's looking puzzled at the broom in his hands, like, he's right on the brink of remembering that he was going to sweep or… what was it? "Hey, Yules."

« Affirmative. » In the hold, a charcuterie plate appears on the green-felted table. Cheeses, fruits, nuts, pickled delicacies. « We really need to do this more often. You bring the best out of the galley. »

Yules catches up with T'ral before he manages to sweep anything important, unimportant, or in between, "Hi, T'ral. Let's get you some new reeds for Esanth's couch and then you go to sleep." Subtlety is Yules' dump stat, and it probably wouldn't work anyways, so she starts to slowly help the poor blue-rider collect new ones and carry them to his blue's couch, putting them just so that not even the fussiest of golds could complain at, and then sets T'ral to bed himself. "Sleep. You'll feel more alive tomorrow."

T'ral murmurs as he falls across his rack, "Thanks YulezzzZZZzZZzz…"

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