====October 29, 2013
====Cerise, D'tri, Chorzeczoyth, Jiamoth
====Birthday celebration, sibling-style.

Who Cerise, D'tri, Chorzeczoyth, Jiamoth
What Birthday celebration, sibling-style.
When There are 0 turns, 10 months and 9 days until the 12th pass.
Where Jiamoth's Couch, Southern Weyr

cerise15.jpg dimitri6.jpg


Jiamoth's Couch
A cozy dragon couch, if a little roomy for a new-hatched dragon.


-- On Pern --
It is sunrise
It is 7:33 AM where you are.
There are 0 turns, 10 months and 9 days until the 12th pass.
It is Summer and 89 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.


It's early enough for most of the barracks to still be fairly quiet — the precious hours in which it is still acceptable for Weyrlings to catch some extra sleep after having spent the night prior doing things like oiling hides or learning new things or dreadfully boring stuff they'd surely not want to do as much as slumber. That is, should their dragonets behave enough to let them sleep these hours away, which… one of them is certainly not. There's been idle shuffling going on for a few minutes now, the sound of dry hide being rubbed up against furniture, people, clutchmates, basically anything in sight. Accompanying these noises is the occasional clicking of a beak-like snout, or a careful, throaty 'kraww'. Silence returns for a whole half a minute before, with more sounds of furniture being moved about, swirly blue eyed Chorzeczoyth appears just outside Jiamoth's couch. Not walking. Not hopping. Dragging himself over the floor, the side of his rusty, discoloured bronze head and neck scraping past, front end held low to the ground. One of his wings, poorly tucked as usual, has caught on a chair and has since dragged it along with him. Because why not. KRRKKrraaww. Good morning! Have some noises.

Ever the early riser, Cerise has been awake for some time but (wonder of wonders!), she has precious little to do until the weyrlings are called to muster. So she's still in her nightgown and seated cross-legged on the floor beside Jiamoth's wallow, a number of small pots opened beside her and a cloth in her hand. Her purpose? Testing oils scented with a number of different perfumes. Her subject? The green sprawled on her belly in the rushes, limbs stuck out sharply to the sides, neck stretched and chin resting on the lip of her couch. Partially lidded eyes conduct lazy, laaaaaazy whorlings at her sibling when he appears; Cerise betrays slightly more surprise, glancing up with the pine-scented rag held midair, just shy of anointing celadon hide. "…looks like you're hooked there, li'l man. You want some oil? Get yourself unstuck and you can try some o' this too," the human half greets, while her counterpart burbles, « Poor Chorzeczoyth, did the chair attack you again? »

Chorzeczoyth's head lifts with a curious tilt, freezing in his tracks. His barrelchest slowly rises from the floor, but much more tentatively, so he can peer to the side and discover… a chair! He seems genuinely surprised to have found it, and lunges for it almost immediately, with a craning of his neck, to snatch it up by its back rest. Why? To present it up to both Cerise and the green, like a trophy. « It did! Does it get a name? Where do names come from? Are they born from eggs like dra— oils. » This stone-y rumble of mental rambles is directed at his clutchmate alone, and directly precedes the bronze lifting hopping closer, apparently with the intention of sticking his face right into one of those pots at random, should he not be stopped. If only D'tri was here to - ha ha - tell him off. Speaking of which, more shufflin's going on in the barracks. The shuffling of feet now, and D'tri meanders closer. A mix of nonchalance and true exhaustion, yet still the habit of occasionally clasping his hands behind his back as he wanders remains. "Oh right. Oiling." Deadpan. "I knew I'd forgotten that one thing to take away my truly last bit of sleep."

If there is one thing both Jia and Cerise have learned in the past month, it's to not respond to those things which they'd rather ignore, in regards to Chorz. So that talk of chairs? Summarily dismissed. Jiamoth makes a fluttery, breathy sound that marks her amusement, mindscape awash in jewel-tone champagne bubbles, but that's all she has to say on the matter. And Cerise? Cerise is busy pulling the pot of oil back and out of the way. It's jasmine-scented, and therefore deemed inappropriate for manly male bronzes. As distraction, while the pot's pulled back with one hand, she wipes the pine-scented rag across his nose with the other to make it gleam rusty red metallic and fill his nostrils with fresh tree smell. Take THAT! "I can oil him, if you want," she suggests, oh so generously, nodding towards her cot which is available for the stretching out.

"Oil away." Two words is all Cerise gets in response from her brother. They're been siblings long enough for two words to suffice when it comes to getting across the gist of things. But when he comes closer, the true reason for his hands being behind his back becomes a little clearer — desposited in front of Cerise is a plate with… well. It's really more of a muffin than anything else, but perhaps twice the size they are usually served. It's got a candle on top, unlit, standing decidedly less than straight. And… there is also has a small chunk missing from its top, no more than, say, a thumb could wedge out. Which explains why D'tri sounds like he might be mid-chew when he mutters in greeting, "'Ey, leafgreen," and finally does let himself fall sideways onto that cot, staring blearily out at his sister, lazy grin cracked. "You went and caught up again. You keep doing this. I'm //still/ older."

Chorzeczoyth is STUNNED. There's a scent in his nose and it's nowhere but it's there! No wait, it's on the cloth! A momentary silence from the bronze is broken with a few surprised click-like utterances. The cloth that's been wiped across his face has all of his attention now, and he reaches his head forward to try and SNATCH it— though slower than he may have done, say, a sevenday or so ago, and a great deal more carefully. Despite his wings, with which he shows no such consideration. They faaan out slowly, as in preparation to take off once he's got his prize.

Through all of this, Jiamoth has continued to lie there like the world's laziest Komodo dragon. But when wings spread, partially blocking her line of sight to Cerise? One splay-fingered paw lifts to press down on tarnished 'sails. Gently, of course, no sense in risking a tear. But neither is she going to let him get away with these antics in her domain. « If you hold still, she will make all of you smell that way. A good scent for you. Hold still, Chorzeczoyth? » The most delicately phrase order!

Cerise, in the meantime, continues to prove her reflexes. The rag? Kept just out of reach of clicking beak, waiting until the moment when the bronze has fully extended his neck. Then she proceeds to quickly, briskly, begin rubbing the oil cloth over rusty brow and headknobs, while her other arm slips under his jaw to cradle Chorz's head. What? It's support, not restraint. Honest! Unfortunately, this means that she can't reach for her omg muffincake WITH candle, but when she spies it, her grin grows by leaps and bounds. "Aye, but I'm prettier," she points out with a wry and amused glance at her brother. "And I always will be. You bake that yourself?"

"Wouldn't be eating it if I did." D'tri replies easily, streeetching both arms out over his head before propping himself up onto an elbow. Half slumped, half alert. Ish. "Said I'd clean some pots for it. Sort of cleaned one for the time it took to make it, then stole it off the counter while it was still warm. Things I do for blood." He clicks his tongue, like screwing around and doing nothing for an hour is some great feat to be admired. "Tastes weird. Doesn't it taste weird? Why isn't it sweeter? Sort of buttery but not sweet." He perks up, then, eyebrows budging upward as his grin widens, "Hey, just like you."

Hold still? Chorzeczoyth totally knows how to do this. When he realises he's been tricked, he tenses momentarily. But then, after pulling his wings in to try and tuck them more neatly by his sides, he starts leaning. Right into Cerise, lowering himself onto his haunches. Oilings. Scratchings? He'll sit still for these better than for food, turns out. « I already smell of a thing. You already smell of a thing. I'm holding still. » Sort of. Pushing gradually further toward huuuman.

"You're good to me." Cerise is sure to give the words a twist, to imply the opposite just a little. But the amusement lingers, and she doesn't even contradict his assessment of similarities shared with baked goods. Of course, since she's a little occupied with his dragon, neither can she taste the cake to see if he's right. When Chorz leans, she adjusts her own stance to guide his head into the space between her ribs and her bicep, the way she used to with young runners on the trail when giving them a good scratch beneath the mane. In this case, she's moving the rag on, spreading the piney oil down his neck and along his 'ridges. Who's got the dragonet's number? Cerise does! While she works, she turns her head towards the sibling and opens her mouth. Feed me, Seymour! "Gimme."

« If you let her get the oil everywhere, you will smell of a thing for longer. It won't fade so fast, » says the oil connoisseur that is Jiamoth, ever so reasonably. When his wings retract, she hauls herself up and pads around to take up a flanking position, fetched up against bronzen side. Cuddle! The hook of her snout, so similar in appearance to his, pokes gently at the round of his shoulder. « You get larger. It is easier to see when you hold still this way. Soon you will be bigger than everyone. »

"Always have been. Even when we were little." D'tri comments back, while sliiding ever so slowly off of that cot. Almost but not quite entirely unlike a corpse. Flop. Once he picks himself back up, he does so only just enough to sit himself back down near that plate. "All the attention we gave you. Sure, some of it was rocks at your head, but you gotta take the good with the bad, eh." He leans to pluck a chunk out of the monstermuffin, but… doesn't quite offer it up. Instead, he holds it right by his shoulder, queezes one eye shut, and without warning throws it roughly in thedirection of Cerise's mouthhole. "'S what blood is."

Chorzeczoyth stays uncharacteristically still. Has someone finally found his weak spot? It appears so. Though some of it might have to do with that tricky, tricky mindlink everyone's been pestering him about in undesired lessons. « I am already bigger than most. » Most everyone in the barracks, anyway. His head lifts slightly, under Cerise's grip, so he can adjust and try to look first toward D'tri, and then toward Jiamoth as he settles to lie down, front neat and back splayed in a mess of limbs and tail and wayward wingtips, with much regard for his comfort but little for anyone else's. His mind is calm. Save for… a single streak of feather-shaped black, falling from red and white trees. « … Do you know who is bigger than you. Do you know. »

"…right. It built character, aye?" Cerise might have said more but since her hands are occupied, she has to work for the muffin chunk arcing towards her face. Without letting up on bebby bronze oiling, she bends in a way that seems physically impossible for anyone not trained as an acrobat and catches the morsel in her mouth. No crumb necklace for her today! Om nom nom… "…s'thrue, no' enough swee'ner," she concurs while chewing, though it takes no time at all to polish off that single small bite. "Remember that time you convinced me if I put a pot over my head to hold in the air, and let you tie rocks to me, I could walk on the bottom of the lake and see the fish?" Ahhh, memories.
When Chorz goes flop, Jiamoth topples over, directly atop him. Sprawwwwwwwl. « Everyone is bigger than me, » is her entirely philosophical response. Oh, did she ruin the joke? So sorry. Or maybe not. The slop of water against painted stone walls serves in lieu of laughter, rather than her typical tinkling amusement. « But you are supposed to be, yes? You who will one day lead all of us. »

"Hey, it would'a worked if you'd've held onto the pot! Besides, I fished you out! Sort of. And look at all that character you've got now. And it suits you so well." D'tri seems unimpressed with his sister's antics, though that might partialy be explained through his attention being torn between her, his own memories, and Chorzeczoyth's movements. Maybe he's taking mental notes. Never sits so still when HE goes about oiling. "You've taken to this a lot better than you have any right to." It's… sort of a compliment? Delivered with… sort of a smile, sort of a sneer. A snile. Smeer?

« ME. It was me. » Chorzeczoyth confirms with a proud BOP of his head up and down. Until, wait, what? He freezes again, blue eyes a-whorl, a good contrast to his bronzeish hues. But it's not that the bronze-climbin' Jiamoth doesn't make sense, rather that it was never presented to him as fact. « There will be many things to lead. Things here. Things far away. Important things and little things. Maybe things no one has seen yet. Maybe I will find them. »

He'd better be taking notes, because Cerise is doing a damned fine job here. But then, it's a lot like brushing down a runner, just with oil and pointy bits to avoid. By the time she gets to his tail, she's smeared to the elbows but he's gleaming and smells of pine forests. Not a bad trade! And where does she go then? Right to D'tri, of course, oily hands out in a plain bid to scrunch his curls. Oh no it's the grippy monster! "She loves me," she explains, simple and to the point. As if that's the only reason she's adapted well.

It's possible that Jiamoth agrees with Cerise that the head bopping is maybe the cutest thing evar, because it earns Chorz another affection nudge. Poke. « So very many things and I have no doubt you will be the one to winnow them out. You see everything. Even when they think you don't. That is even better than being bigger, yes? » The placidness of both interior and exterior of the green is then betrayed as she begins a game of my tail on top, slapping the forked tip of hers over top his. Thumb-wrestling, dragon style?

Oh no she doesn't. Because tired and silently grateful he might be, but he's not stupid. D'tri GETS UP with newfound energy, an arm shooting forward to bap his sister's hands away before a leg does the same. Not to kick, but certainly to shove. It is these moments that it becomes abundantly clear who the elegant one of these two is. "No no no not the hair! Not my beautiful locks!" High-pitched and definitely at least 80% sarcasm. "I'm out, I'm out! This is what I get for reminiscing!" The grin he throws her while he backs slowly away and out looks almost genuinely happy - though for all anyone knows it might just be because he correctly used a difficult word! … He guesses.

Chorzeczoyth is no good for games. He already knows he's the best! What use are challenges when you know that. He does, however, sloooowly turn his head elsewhere and goes suspiciously quiet on all accounts. Slowly, so very slowly, his toothy maw opens and his head lowers oooover that monstermuffin. Candle and all.

With all of this sibling harassment going on, Cerise doesn't even noticed the bronze eat her beautiful, specially procured Turnday muffin. It's gone, and she's still advancing on her brother to chase him away from the couch. "But I want to huuuuuug you," she whines as she shambles forward, undeterred by pushing and shoving and even outright fleeing. She'll chase him right to the barracks entrance if she has to.

Left behind with the bronze turned thief, Jiamoth has lifted her head to watch the pair go. The pace of her eyes is set to thoughtful. « You know, » she muses while her sibling consumes his prize, « it is incredible how little they manage to say using so many words, and how neatly they avoid the important ones. »

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