==== October 5th, 2013
==== Bailey, Cerise, Crispin
==== Introducing Crispin to Southern.

Who Bailey, Cerise, Crispin
What Cerise and Bailey run into Crispin, a new Healer at Southern.
When There is 1 turn 0 months and 21 days until the 12th pass.
Where Weyr Clearing, Southern Weyr



The rise from sea to Weyr is made serene by a charming road winding sand-trodden from beach below to stonecut entrance above. The path wanders among a surprisingly green valley where purple flowers bloom in charmingly unfettered profusion. The meadows themselves are often in high demand as picnic areas, for dragons are not allowed to land in the narrow valley itself. No trees nor cliff lies near to shadow the clearing, however, and the intensity of sun can be unbearable for those not familiar with the humid drench of Southern's summers.
It is Summer and 93 degrees. It is cloudy.
To the south, you see a brown dragon.

Summer is glorious at Southern — especially a summer that is yet young, with temperatures that haven't skyrocketed with humidity to bring about the sweltering, claustrophic heat that will doubtless mark this stretch west of the Black Rock River later in the turn. Bailey, done for the day - or at least for now - is wandering by herself down the road towards the boardwalk and the beach beyond, eyes cast upwards to enjoy the faint sky-tracings of persimmon heralding sunset's imminence.

Cerise, in contrast, is walking from the boardwalk and the beach beyond, along the road towards the Weyr. The candidate is dressed for her usual daily run, in shorts and a sleeveless shirt. So skimpily attired, it's easy to see the changes that the labor of candidacy has wrought - though always in good shape, what extra weight she'd had has been whittled away and left the young woman looking more muscular than is perhaps popular among the lady-lovin' set. And yet here she is, padding along on bare, sand-encrusted feet with a towel over one shoulder, and sweat still dewing her brow. She's also nibbling on a shishkabob of meat and roasted vegetables, market-style, so clearly she isn't starving herself! Though…as she spies Bailey, she comes to a halt and pauses in her nibbling, appetite perhaps thrown slightly off by the need to perform a salute with kabob in hand.

At some point along here, Crispin, who is not precisely wandering. Not wandering at all, okay, feet entirely stationary as he surveys the clearing with a hand to his fair brow to block a bit of the sun. He's frowning. Indeed, he might be said by some standards to look faintly lost. Does he step up to someone and say something about being lost? No. That would be too close to asking for directions, perhaps, for his chromosomes to tolerate. Instead he just glowers thoughtfully off down towards the beach for a bit.

Salute is returned, though Bailey's has that selfsame irreverent lacking of true formality as it always does. It isn't that the woman doesn't hold herself upright or the gesture isn't crisp — but something about the smirky self-indulgence curling at one side of her mouth throws the whole motion off. "Cerise," low alto murmurs in greeting, grey eyes scanning the other woman in light appraisal; "You're looking well." Her gaze meanders askance to Crispin, settled off a half-length or so from their location; "Is it just me, or does he look quite lost?"

"Am I?" Only then does Cerise think to dab at her lips. Yep, they're greasy. Ahh, beach food. She licks them to provide some cleaning measure, and after remarks, "Dimitri accused me of slicing him open with my elbow the other day, when I caught him in the ribs. I told him he should know better than to comment on a lady's weight." Irreverent? She can certainly comply with that atmosphere. The kebob is returned to her mouth while she then obediently shifts to survey the hapless wanderer. She must agree, because after that study she calls out, "Oy! You lost?"

The glower shifts to an indignant sort of look, still hand-shaded, off at the two girls. The indignance fades, though, smoothed away to something more neutral. "Doing just fine," he calls in return. "Just — having a look around." And then Crispin goes back to the looking, mostly in the direction that the girls aren't, as though that's going to make this any less obvious.

Bailey snorts at the mention of that accusation. "I hope you told him the Healers are giving you special tissane for the blunt force trauma you're forced to endure by having to deal with him daily." The jest is delivered in that same vein of low amusement, eyes rolling. "Oh, come over here," she calls to Crispin with an imperious sort of beckoning: yes, you, you, yes, the one with the red hair and the glowering confusion. "Wherever are you trying to get to?" Her Benden lilt is heavily influenced by Nowtimer vocalities, identifying her in one way at least, as her shoulder lies sans knot.

Ever helpful, Cerise informs Bailey, "He says he's not lost," through a mouthful of grilled zucchini and beef. Could it be possible that she's playing up the hapless lackey role just a little? Given her past occupation, there's a strong likelihood. Once she's pulled the last bit of sustenance from the bamboo shoot with her teeth, it's tossed aside and her hands wiped clean up on the rump of her shorts. "I'm accustomed to it, a lifetime of having him as a brother has inoculated me…Faranth, man, you're going to fry down here, wandering about lost without a hat." It's a game! Guess which redhead that was intended for!

Come over here — that much, it seems, Crispin will finally relent on, although the glance back occurs at least a few moments before the invitation. He wanders in that direction, and then rakes a hand back through his hair upon the admonishment. He at least has got the formalities taken care of, the obvious markers of a Healer, although he spares not a glance for either of their shoulders, really. "Nobody," the tone already taking on a hint of blame-someone-else, "said anything about hats. I was told to pack for summer. And I was hardly intending on being about all day." No, not near pink enough yet to have been out here long, at least.

Bailey shoots Cerise a cryptic look. "I suppose I can understand that." Bailey seems fairly immune to the toothache that prolonged exposure to El'ai can cause, so perhaps she's… not just saying that. Her grey gaze turns to consider Crispin, thoughtfully. "You're new here, then." Captain Obvious, she shifts to glance back towards the boardwalk herself. "They sell hats down there," oh-so-helpfully; she even points towards the market-stalls arranged in a tidy row along the wide way of stone.

The man's response earns a spark of humor, and leads to a new game- Cerise begins to guess his profession. "Starcrafter? Tunnelsnake hunter? Perhaps you're a-" No, wait, she nips that in the bud given there's a weyrwoman standing right there. "Summer in Southern's rather different from summer 'round say…Fort," she adds after giving Crispin another studious looking over, betraying a hint of the analytical behind the laissez faire attitude. "The lady has it right, you'd do well to invest. And, ah…" She flicks a finger up and down, indicating the pants covering his legs. "Something shorter, aye?"

"Ah!" Okay, maybe that there was the direction that Crispin had been attempting to locate in the first place. The hand finally drops, even though that leaves him squinting. "*That*," presumably re: trousers, "is completely unacceptable, but I believe I will manage. I do not intend to be about much. As far as I'm concerned, unless there's a potential for a spinal injury, the patients come to me, not the other way around. I never could understand the obsession for going about partially clothed in warmer climes, although it apparently does suit some." Cerise's shorts get an eye there. Flick of a smile; evidently he's not capable of being sour every moment.

Bailey has a half-hitched smile, again, for Cerise's insight. Her own is more mild-mannered, less heavy on the overt humor. "Understandable for one to think, but until you've felt the trickle of sweat rolling down your…" Her eyes delicately lower, "…toes," not exactly where she was looking, "…you'll not quite understand how oppressive the heat is here."

Cerise opens her mouth- and then closes it slowly again. There's that discretion, the very same lacking in her brother. Instead, she offers up a dimpled smile and bends a knee, turning it in just so to put that leg on display. "I'd think a healer would understand the need for ventilation in certain areas, aye?" she says, opting for the more diplomatic suggestion to bolster Bailey's argument. "They're no so very fond of people sitting 'round on their arses sipping fruit juice all day to keep cool. Much as the environment practically demands the same, aye ma'am?"

"I'll bear your concern in mind," Crispin tells Bailey with arched brows. So much confidence, but hey, he's somehow not a sweaty mess now, and it's hot now, and surely it can't get any hotter than — okay, we'll see what he thinks when it's hotter. "I believe I'll remain in possession of my dignity, for the moment. It is a d… small sight better than freezing all year, although the sun is a bother." The switch away from even the mild expletive is quick, habitual. "And leave the legs to those with legs worth the looking-at."

"Ventilation. Excellent," Bailey concurs with Cerise's supporting argument. "What she said." The goldrider maneuvers to squint upwards at Crispin, amusement creasing the corners of her eyes. "I'll wait a month or two and make sure to poll you again in regards to freeze or… the alternatives. I'm from far north of Benden, myself, and I can't quite get myself to agree with you." Her eyes switch to Cerise, inquisitive - or atleast appearing so; "Wouldn't you agree, Cerise?"

Cerise has her head cocked to the side, the look in her eyes one of extreme bemusement. "You really should meet Daycen," she muses, without clarifying why. Oh wait. "Sir." A belated addition but heartfelt all the same! She'd salute but too busy propping her fist against her hip. "I believe you have the right of it, aye ma'am. I've been hither and yon, and even Boll didn't have air quite this thick. Never soaked through my underpants quite so bad as I've done here, since arriving." Somehow, the ex-performer manages to maintain an entirely straight face while she shares this.

"A month or two," Crispin agrees, although he adds: "If I can survive a Weyr for so long. That much remains to be seen. The things people say — well." A beat. "If you lot are half the bad influence you're supposed to be, maybe it will be halfway tolerable." Although he seems by there to be talking to neither of them, sort of peering over their heads for a moment. The underpants comment draws a throat-clearing. "If you two aren't two busy, perhaps you could come give me some suggestions on this business of hats?"

Bailey is always up to a good bit of amusement; her eyes mayhap gleam a bit as she somberly agrees with Cerise. "Oh, straight through. All the chafing. Especially with skirts. Why I don't wear them, you know." She shudders, and smiles so innocently at Crispin. "Lucky men — don't have tht problem." The redhead tilts her head just so; "Though perhaps more of a problem with hats. You're as fair as Renalde… almost." That last probably for Cerise's behalf moreso than Crispin's. "You'll be crispy if you stay out here without one, so I suppose it's our civic duty to do so."

"If it's any consolation, I'm not weyrfolk at all." Just…do please ignore the white loop that curls over Cerise's shoulder. She's probably speaking of what's in her heart! Or something similarly romantic. "But I've quite warmed to skirts. I did always enjoy them on stage but they seemed like such a bother off of it, until I came here. So much more air movement underneath," she counsels Bailey- and while she doesn't answer back at mention of Renalde, she does wrinkle her nose at his name. "They've some lovely felt ones at the last booth. Shaped any way you like. I saw one that even had headknobs like a dragon," she adds, using her hands to demonstrate the look. It isn't very attractive.

"You don't wear — skirts? Ever?" Crispin, he just needs clarification, he's managing quite admirably to keep a straight face through this. He starts, anyway, in the direction of the boardwalk, clearly expecting accompaniment since it's been agreed upon. "I think I will pass on the dragon-shaped hat. I would much prefer to just look like a man in a hat, if I must. But I will otherwise trust the taste of a couple attractive young ladies over my own, where fashion is concerned."

Bailey arches a single eyebrow, ala Spock, at Crispin. "No," she confirms, "I do not." Hesitation. "Unless I absolutely must." She's perhaps been caught thrice in a skirt - or perhaps that should be, dress - since she's been here. She smirks at Cerise. "A hat. With headknobs? Are you kidding me." She's not really ASKING. The young woman seems to catch something, though, and pauses in her following-after-Crispin start; "Er, if you'd wanted to head back." A way out. Or something. Because who wants to walk around shopping after getting all hot and sweaty?

"A hat with headknobs," Cerise says, "hand to my heart. There was one with canine ears too. I didn't stop to see if they had felines but given where we are, that would be in poor taste, don't you think?" She twinkles at them both, dimples on full display. "But don't trust my opinion, I'm only an Oldtimer. I'll leave you both to it, I'm due at the barracks before lights out. Ma'am. Sir." A brisk salute serves both individuals before she pivots and continues up the path, breaking into a jog after a few paces.

"A pity," Crispin's opinion on the departure. "An Oldtimer. Somehow I thought they would be more…" A beat. "Obvious." Faint frown, but it hardly lasts any time at all once he's had a look over at the girl who remains. "And less polite," added after a moment. "I wasn't intending to linger so very long—but I wouldn't dream on infringing on a curfew, anyway. "So what constitutes an absolutely-must sort of occasion, as far as you're concerned? And have you a name, while we're at it?"

Bailey lifts her brows concurrent to the man's opinion. "Oh, and all that skin didn't clue you in, did it?" A dry, dry note. "Things must be more liberal at Fort." Assuming Cerise was spot-on with her thought earlier. "We have," captain obvious again, "Quite a bit of oldtimers here. Not a lick of propriety, but I've not been proper often, myself, so." She clasps a hand over her heart, trader-style, and executes a florid bow-curtsy hybrid. "Bailey, or so they've been given to calling me." She's in a rare good mood, considering. She doesn't, however, comment on what is an absolute-must-skirt-criteria.

"You're wearing trousers," Crispin points out. "Which is, my mother would have said, the next thing to nudity, letting your legs be seen like that in mixed company. It seems a natural extension of the concept, from showing your legs to baring them." Like this is an entirely academic discussion and that excuses the occasional glances at the legs in question. But, finally, an introduction! And therefore one in return, although not nearly so showy. "Senior Journeyman Crispin." Like those three words are meant to always be spoken as a single unit.

"Skirts aren't efficient," Bailey challenges. "You can't work in them without getting terribly sweaty, they're bulky or encumbering, and Faranth help your ass if you try to run in them. In that situation, as my mother would say," and here her teeth shine very white, "You're fucked." And therefore, in a nutshell: the difference between the genteel-bred and someone who was raised far below the poverty threshold. "Well-met, Crispin. Crispy. Crispin. Excuse me, they sound so similar." Her lips crook again in a half-smirk.

Genteel, and evidently set on not actually drawing attention to her lack thereof, not in so many words. Not that Crispin hasn't found his own reasons for smirkage: "Do you often find yourself running from situations in which that's the alternative?" Oh, he amuses himself. "Crispin," more firmly. Then: "Are young ladies using that kind of language these days as a rule, or is that something you picked up from them, too?"

"Well," Bailey reflects, "Goldflights. Weyrs. Just wait until the next one goes up," she reaches out to pat Crispin on the shoulder, "And you'll likely end up with the new head cook, mark my words." Because who doesn't want to bang Paula Deen. Only then does she allow her skepticism to filter over her face: "You speak as if you're old enough to be my grandfather." Beat. "Which you are not. If you stay around the weyr long enough you'll pick up an appalling lack of decorum in the face of fuck-you's and the most creative anatomically impossible heresies regarding Faranth."

"Your grandfather? I would certainly hope not. But you're, what, twenty-two, twenty-three?" Crispin may not have the best eye for ages, but at least it's on the complimentary side. "It's been some time since I was that age myself, but all I remember the girls being interested in discussing were my career prospects — and my inheritance prospects. Those conversations, I suppose, required far less creativity of language."

"Twenty-five," Bailey returns, dryly, "But my thanks. I think." She cocks an eyebrow at his line of discussion and offers a faint snort in return. "Oh, you entitled people," she states with something that seems akin to nostalgia in her voice. Oh, wait, that's just condescension, carry on. "Weyr-girls," she stage-whispers, "Are only interested in the prospects of what your pants conceal." There goes the eye-roll, probably for her own highflung hyperbole.

A pause in his steps, like this requires real thought to form a response. "Are they?" A beat. "Huh." Walking on, then! "This accounts for my wife's objections to the posting, but she's no longer in any sort of position to object to such things. My work, in current circumstances, is too important to be impeded by that sort of thing." But Crispin's voice has gone slightly distant, musing about this. Another pause.

"Your wife, hmmm? The one who found your prospects appealing enough?" Bailey hasn't paused with him or slowed down, only turning her face slightly in a are-you-quite-going-to-catch-up fashion. They're nearing the boardwalk by this point. "And your work, being…?" Some sort of healing, presumably.

Crispin's got long legs, at least it doesn't take him long to catch up when he does get distracted, even if he has to take a couple swift steps to do it. Nothing so improper as jogging. "Trauma." His wife? No, his work. "Emergencies. What I have to deal with at present is primarily accidents and occasional acute illnesses; I am particularly interested in seeing what Thread is capable of, when the time comes." Up to the boardwalk. "She's gone, now. No sense fussing over what she thought of them, one way or another."

A stiffening of shoulders. "I'm so very glad our injuries are of interest to you," in a remarkably swift turn-around of inflection and emotion. "And fit so handily into your presumable research." Bailey's eyes flash. "Have a good time finding a hat that isn't your ass." And with that, she turns on her heel and stalks back towards the weyr. Obviously, that's the best Welcome-To-Southern,-Crispin! the Healer is likely to get.

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