==== January 27th, 2014
==== V'dean, T'ral
==== V'dean and T'ral sweat and talk at the feeding pens. But mostly sweat.

Who V'dean, T'ral
What V'dean and T'ral sweat and talk at the feeding pens. But mostly sweat.
When There are 0 turns, 1 month and 9 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

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Feeding Pastures
Up the side of the mountain, stone fences mark the lines of the different parts of the feeding pastures. Bovines, woolies, ovines, caprines, herdbeasts; they are all collected here, dotting the hillside in lazy repose to stand stark against the brilliance of the green pastures. Rich, rich grass grows here, fed by the humidity and tropical climate. The sounds here are a blend of bleating, baying, and the thundering of many steps as the different herds move about. Occasionally, the whiff of something foul is carried downwind from the collection of animals that serves as the weyr's food supply.

It's hot. Horribly, horribly hot. Thick waves of humidity can practically be seen, leaching up from the verdant pastures fed by the last spring thunderstorm. The bleating of the herd is thus rather pathetically weak as they are stirred into activity by a drab blue dragon, panting stealing their breaths and slowing their churn. But Ekerth isn't particularly inclined to much activity either. He makes his kill with swift efficiency, carting his summerweight snack to the edge of the pen before starting in on the chewier crack of bone and tear of sinew. His rider is at another edge entirely, perched upon the stacked stone fence within a slim splash of shade afforded by a knot of tropical trees. They must have come straight from being aloft, for V'dean has his flight gear stripped off and piled next to him. There's a canteen in his hands. It sloshes, mostly empty.

Esanth lands at some remove, the stocky blue landing solidly, heavily jawed head slewing towards Ekerth, a grinding rumble of greeting accompanied by a brush of starlit blackness, cold and a mechanical thrum. His rider clambers down, unhooks a pack and sets it aside, then with a familiar flickering of hands and drag of weight, the blue's straps slither free. The rider rolls these up into a tidy bundle, snags the pack and heads toward shade. For all the good shade does. He's not wearing riding gear, typical Southern attire, rather too many clothes for the heat frankly, and he's sweated through most of it but manages, somehow, to look at ease. A neutrally pleasant face as he draws to a halt, straps over his shoulder, pack under his arm. "Ocelot," he says simply, before crouching to unroll the bundle of dark gray leather in the sparse shade. He squints up at the sky and adjusts the straps for how the shade will fall.

Ekerth is a quiet, solitary sort — his greeting confined to the returned brush of a more claustrophobic sort of dark where the cool is borne on obscuring fog instead of found in the impossible stretch of space between stars. V'dean proves more interactive, the light green of his gaze tracking the younger bluerider as T'ral bundles gear towards the shade. Maybe the way that his own pile of stuff looks to be positioned within shadow's reach for some time now alludes to more forethought than the man's apparent laziness might suggest. He has a knee folded up onto the stones, and it's nook provides secure rest for his canteen as he caps it and sets it down. This lets his arms jut back, giving prop for a relaxed sprawl as his easily spread smile makes welcome. "V'dean," he'll claim further individualization. "You're in… Serval now, aren't you, T'ral?" There's only the slighest show of uncertainty sketched by a slight narrowing of his lashes, but his voice is all languid confidence.

A tick of surprise flickers across a sweaty brow that the senior rider 1) remembered his name and 2) knew where he'd been tapped into. None of T'ral's patches are in evidence. He cranes his head up at the rider on his perch, squinting against the glare, "I am," a beat, "V'dean," he puts an emphasis on the name to acknowledge the man's assertion of individuality. He looks down, face relaxing now that it's out of the sun, eyes thoughtful as he looks over the straps, forearms resting on knees, a hand reaching from time to time to finger a fastening or check stitching. He glances up, a flick of dark blue, squinting against the sun and back down, blinking. A question for a question. "Been, what? A turn since we last spoke. Good memory." Hands and eyes continue their study of the straps. Esanth is content not to chitchat unless there's a purpose and he launches to the skies setting the herdbeasts astir again, with their pathetic damp bleatings.

There's a small nod of that scruff-shadowed chin and the twist playing at the older rider's mouth is a vaguely amused sort of thing. V'dean seems content with the lull of a slow pace, like the oppressive heat and humidity is a thing for even time to wade through with difficulty. He lets the turn of his gaze towards their lunching dragons rest his chin upon the braced lift of one white cotton clothed shoulder. "Probably," is his careless agreement with the other bluerider's estimate. It's a beat before eyes, squinted from looking out into the glare of midday, turn back to scan over T'ral and his strap fidgeting. "He was a tumble of energy," he'll also remember absently of baby Esanth. But then his smile skews, weight shifting as he frees a hand to rake fingers across his sweaty scalp before dampness coalesces to beading. "Don't think too much of it," is noted with more casual wry. "You've your father's shadow standing you out," for one thing, "and it's recent enough that your lot's names were on the tongues at the Kitten for wing placements. So. Speedy and agile — it's probably suiting you pair well, then?" The placement in Serval. It's a conversational sort of question, without much weight pressed to it.

Knuckling sweat from his brow, T'ral braces a hand on the ground and hikes along to a different part of the straps, hands and eyes tracing the lines, a safety check done a quite literally a thousand times, but still intent. He smiles in memory of Esanth splashing around Ekerth's feet. "Serval suits us. They're of a size, those two." He gestures with a chin out at Ekerth and Esanth. His father's shadow. T'ral's eyes tighten briefly. Then a thought flickers across the young rider's face, and T'ral sits back on his haunches, weight resting on his heels, a hand shading his eyes so he can a get a good look at V'dean, though his face is still creased in a grimace against the bright glare. "Can Ekerth fly a full flight?"

"They are, aren't they?" The rider's head may pick up a little tilt, his smile shaped by a touch of idle whimsy, but it's Ekerth who actually shifts the placid slide of his gaze to the star frosted dragon. V'dean maintains view of the younger man, his fingers dropping from their ending scritch at the damp nape of his neck to grab up the strap of his canteen. "We don't switch out," is answered with a confirming nod. Humor is twisting unevenly again at one edge of his smile. "We're better at stamina." In contrast to the sort of high-flux flying Serval is known for, surely. There's another little slosh as the metal container bounces off his unfolding hip. "And he likes to see a thing through." Like the goat he just bolted down, maybe. Unlike T'ral's careful tracings, it's a far less exacting grab that V'dean makes for his pile of harness and jacket and cap. "We're going to get out of this heat," is announced with a sigh for the beating of the sun that he slips into. "Don't fry, hmm?" comes as a cheery sort of farewell before he's off to collect Ekerth so they can make their escape from the humid field.

T'ral hums thoughtfully, dropping the shading hand away to resume the study of leather and fastenings. He nods, eyes flickering, filing, storing. He pauses again and raises a hand, palm flipping upward in query, "How do yo- ah." V'dean is leaving. "Another time, then." He nods at V'dean's reason for departure, harness was something that could be checked anywhere, why a sweltering field? "Fry?" T'ral snorts, "Not enough oil," dark eyes crinkle with amusement, eyebrows raise a furrow of brow and a tilt of head that allows, "We might steam though." He ticks a salute at the other rider, "Fair skies, Oce- V'dean." He grins and settles back down to work.

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