==== October 26th, 2013
==== Cerise, Jiamoth, D'tri, Chorzeczoyth, T'ral, Esanth
==== Talk of straps for dragons goes astray.

Who Cerise, Jiamoth, D'tri, Chorzeczoyth, T'ral, Esanth
What Talk of straps for dragons goes astray.
When Morning
Where Southern Weyr

cerise19.jpg dimitri2.jpg t-ral_wary.jpg


weyrling_barracks.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.


It seems like the hours of each day just slip away, faster and faster, the more the dragons grow. More chores, more care, more everything and that means no time for idleness. Cerise has already tended to Jiamoth's needs and in the interval between feeding and oiling, and more feeing and oiling, she's taken over the table to pick through strips of leather samples. Unrolled nearby, held down by brass weights, are a few simple sketches in charcoal on hide in her hand- prospective strap designs to suit the exacting tastes of someone who used to make costumes as part of their living. The green herself is reared back on her haunches, talons curled over the edge of the table to stabilize this upright position while she watches her girl sift through dyed leather, undyed leather, thick leather, thin leather, and every other variant known to riders. "…so he falls asleep and I get up to let Dimi and Dami in," Cerise is saying, "but no sooner are we looking for the valuables then we hear the door latch rattle and his Lady wife comes in, looking to, ah, cuddle with her husband. We were stuck there for hours, Dimi under the bed, Dami in the garderobe, and me behind a tapestry with my nose itching from dust."

"Haha. Ha." T'ral's ears color at Cerise's story, but he can't help the laughter that bubbles up. It echoes, resonating strangely. He looks at Esanth who's sitting, still for once, eyes whirling at Jiamoth. Her delicate talons. The way her legs jut out just so from her torso. The way her wing sails sit, folded all cattywampus. He wants to tug her tail and run away. T'ral dashes a hand over his eyes. Outta my head, pal. The little dragonet snorts, « Turnabout is fair play. » The young man walks over to stand at Cerise's shoulder and look at her sketches, admiring the economy of line and skill, putting himself between Esanth and Jiamoth. Esanth leeeeaans around Jiamoth, eyes still whorling.

The buoyancy of space is felt rather than seen, Esanth is a thrumming of unseen machinery out of sight, decks below. Warmth and life, small and vibrant, against the vast cold outside. Welcoming. Cargo bay full of long rolls of brightly colored cloth. Sequins spilled along the scuffed metal grate of the floor near a crate, hinting at the contents. A berth, always made up. « Mornin', Jiamoth. »

Voices. They wake D'tri from a nap, and he comes wandering from his couch in the bleariest way one could possibly manage. With a yawn and a stretch of his arms over his head, before straightening with a roll of his shoulders and a few idle smacks of his mouth. He's had a busy few days, between Chorzeczoyth's antics and having been assigned extra remedial lessons due to an… incident that also left him smelling quite a lot like dragon shit for a time. But he's almost rid of that now, having taken to the baths earlier to scrub himself down as well as he thought necessary. So, smelling mostly of soap, he drops himself down into a chair in the midst of this conversation. Near to Jiamoth rather than Cerise, taking a moment to eye her. Both the others present and the conversation are ignored — perhaps he doesn't care for the people and he's heard the story too many times, or perhaps he's busy with… something else. He closes one eye, cocks his head to the side, and lifts his hand for Jiamoth's head. Not to touch— but to measure?

It might be a story worth embarrassment but Cerise seems to possess no shame. She remains focused on the work at hand, setting aside this scrap of leather or that strip sample, hands always busy. But! The story continues, without heed for those who might be listening in. "Dimi had it pretty bad," she says, while Jiamoth flutes a bubbly bit of amusement. "But the worst was the Lord. He'd had his fill of cuddling with me, you see. But his Lady was not to be denied."

Jiamoth doesn't quite understand the finer details of this story but it remains funny to the little dragon- possibly because she's treated to the mental image of poor Dimitri trapped under the bed, all big eyes, curly mop of hair and a desperate need to not laugh. For that reason, she overlooks Esanth's greeting at first, choosing instead to lift one paw from the table and hold it just so in bald-faced mimicry of the young man. Complete with cocked head! The humor lingers, felt and tasted in the champagne bubbles that go fizzing towards Esanth and his treasure-filled cargo ship. « Good morning, Esanth! You seem bright today. » Bright more a feeling than an actual word, glints of light summoned from the sequins, the sheen of cloth, even a few borrowed stars.

Ears still coloring, but amused imagining the three trapped. Dami? Who's that? He opens his mouth to ask and a thought occurs to him. His hands are folded on the table where he leans looking at Cerise's work, but there's a sudden tension in his frame. He steps back, "Wait, you were… stealing?"

« You're bright. » Esanth's thrumming deepens at her miming of Chorzeczoyth's, the cant and set captured perfectly. With the fizz of champagne a comet blooms in the darkness, a spray of sparkling diamonds tumbling behind it. The containers vanish, releasing their contents in a flood of sequins and feathers. They spill everywhere. Drifts of sparkling treasure. For turns hence, until they go between together, T'ral will find sequins in odd places. Or a feather will float down from above, turning lightly in the air, blown through a vent from the circulation of air as if on the very breath of Esanth's soul.

D'tri's hand comes down again to land with a smack on the table. Jiamoth's mimicking earns her a one-sided curling of his lips, but the true amusement shows when T'ral speaks up. "Of course we were. Just as you'd'a done, if you'd'a seen the marks in that fool's pocket and the look on his face when Cerise—" He stops mid-sentence, stopping a brief squint at the green's face to look in T'ral's direction with an ever growing smirk. Simple amusement, though… a lingering look might point more to mockery. "Oh wait, I forgot who put you in your mother for a moment, there." As an aside, and without changing expressions, he jerks his thumb at Jiamoth and asks of Cerise, "She growing at all? Did you get a runt?"

"Right at that moment, we were hiding," Cerise points out, only to have her explanation undone by her brother's honesty. She gives him a look that threatens to undo all of the good humor and cheer for all that she's maintained these past weeks since Jia found her. "They're still a little young for jokes like that, Dimi." It's kind of a warning; the square of leather she tosses at his head directly after is a better one. That, or retaliation for slurs against her green's perfection. "She's grown! She's heavier than she was when she hatched." It's just…all in that round Buddha belly, which pooches out gently before Jiamoth as she maintains her upright stance at the table.

Unconcerned by the siblings' interaction- sure she's heard worse, privately- Jiamoth turns gently whirling eyes towards Esanth, her small head tilted just so as she studies the other dragonet. The forked tip of her tail flicks left, flicks right, back and forth in time with the thoughtful dance of jewel-toned water ripples against ancient stone walls. « That is so sweet of you, Esanth! Cerise took especial care with my oil this morning, it does catch the light nicely, doesn't it? »

Though he's not really totally aware of it, T'ral seizes on D'tri's jab as a distraction from Cerise's titilating story. For a moment T'ral looks very much like the Headman. His hands drop to his sides and his chin comes up, eyes flickering angrily. He too is a trained performer, in control of his face and body, but it's never artifice with T'ral. "You'll have to tell me at some point, what passed for manners in the Oldtime. Some things changed for the better." He takes a deep breath, seeming on the verge of a Renalde style scorcher, but he shakes his head, sadness washing the anger from his face. He looks at D'tri over Cerise's head. He sounds tired, "You know, D'tri. I want to like you. But you make it very difficult." He blinks, at a loss for anything else to say and with a shift of his shoulders and turn of his head, he looks back down at Cerise's sketches, changing the subject all together. He points at one of the sketches, "Do you think something like this could work for Esanth?"

Esanth is utterly unconcerned with the shenanigans of the humans and the rise and fall of their emotions, simply currents and tugs that must be navigated. Nothing next to the pull of the lovely Jiamoth. « It does. » He fans his wings and examines his own hide, it's dusty looking, but servicable. Beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful or a boot. A thing made for a purpose and fit exactly to it.

D'tri's hand shoots up to deflect the piece of leather without thought — thanks, good reflexes. It goes flying off and lands on the floor nearby. Where - it just so happens - Chorzeczoyth is making his half-hopping half-prancing way over. On the way, he leans his head down to snatch the piece of leather up from the ground, taking it along as he proceeds to puuush himelf halfway under the table next to D'tri. It's a poor fit, and the spindly-legged bronze stops to sprawl as soon as he realises his wings might not fit underneath, messy as he keeps them unfolded. Long as his head's under. He'll take it. Meanwhile, D'tri? He seems to think this is all normal. He's too busy staring at T'ral, his eyebrows slowly rising as he waits for the other Weyrling to finish his little speech. Then? He looks to Cerise. Wordlessly, but grinning brightly. It might be an 'I told you so', or a 'You hearing this?', but all that comes out is a poor attempt at choking back a laugh.

« Not much of a talker, are you? » Jiamoth contrives somehow to make this a more fond accusation, more the whisper of ribbons shaken together than the razor's edge that Cerise commonly threatens D'tri with. « You are bright in your own way, » she adds, having noticed that examination, « and really, what good use is brightness? It does nothing special for us. » She might have said more but distraction abounds in the form of rusty bronze, prompting the silvery little green to flop down from the table and peek beneath it to spy Chorzeczoyth. « What did you steal? » Now that is more an accusation, even if fizzy laughter hides behind the words.

As for Cerise, well…she rolls her eyes towards the distant stone ceiling, and if a smile wants to lurk about her lips, she does an excellent job of hiding it. "Just ignore him," she advises the ex-Harper. "Anything else just encourages him to continue being awful." Unless, of course, Dimi takes it as a challenge to try to get the attention. But she doesn't mention that, just nods towards the sketch. "Those should be fine, aye. They're blockier than the ones I drew for Jia, I was thinking they'd do well for the males. You'd just need to size them."

« I have more use for brightness than words. » The warm hold light flickers and the thrumming stutters. Entropy approaches. « Brightness lights the darkness. » The darkness that is so vast, so empty, so cold. The bright, glittering drifts in the cargo hold crumble to dust, fabric rotting, champagne going flat, sludgy. « Chorzeczoyth. » There is a berth for him too. Blankets folded neatly on the shelves, a coating of… dust…? over all.

The 'I told you so,' look sets a flame in T'ral's gut. Steady. Cerise (and D'tri if he cares to notice), may recognize breathing exercises to center and settle. He nods at Cerise's design, jaw muscles bunching. The flush is back, but not embarrassment. He looks at Esanth and back to the sketch, eyes smoldering at D'tri's smug face over Cerise's shoulder. "What color, you think?"

« Chorzeczoyth. » This echo is a confirmation from Chorzeczoyth himself, a content rumble of red moss-dotted rock. A quiet follows, ashes tumbling in from his own brilliantly bright skies, perhaps to join the dust? Or to cover it. « I have leather. I don't want it. Do you want it? » He shifts under the table, nosing at the square of leather he's dropped in front of him until he's got it just so, then scooping it up and offering it up to Jiamoth.

D'tri is so happy right now. So content, perhaps partly due to the bronze that's accidentally shouldering his chair a few inches to the side. Oof. But this does not take away from him the look of smugness when he observes the changes in T'ral. Oh, he knows these signs. He knows them well. He aims to find them in people. "Pink. Cerise. Make us pink ones." He might be grinning, but he's totally serious.

"Maybe a nice dark charcoal, for Esanth? And what else but pink for Chorzwhatsith? But you get to make them. I'll do up the design, maybe even find a tanner insane enough to dye leather pink, but I'm not sewing straps for two dragons." Cerise is drawing the line in the sand right here. Right here. Her tone brooks no arguments, a sure threat to the happiness and contentedness her sibling is radiating. She hates stitching leather; it wreaks havoc on her poor hands. So there.

Jiamoth continues a politely studious attempt at ignoring the humans. The boys do help with that, Esanth with his sweet compliments, Chorzeczoyth with his willingness to share. She tosses a pulse of glitter at the blue, gratitude and encouragement both. « I admit, I had not looked at it that way but you might be right! Of course, if it were always bright, then we would never be able to get to sleep. » She then proceeds to try to wiggle beneath the table to meet the bronze halfway. Not to take the leather but rather to sniff at it, all dainty-like. She is small enough to fit, ha! « If you don't want it, » she inquires curiously, « then why did you take it? »

« There are things aplenty to blot out the light, Jiamoth. » A dim star flickers red in the starscape. Esanth sidles over towards T'ral, making a reassuring contact, before sticking his head under the table. One dragon too many under there. « Chorzeczoyth, » Esanth never abbreviates his clutchmate's name - for that matter, neither does T'ral « Mine's very angry with your'n. Why d'ya reckon that is? » Distress beacons blip into life on an unattended console. He looks at the scrap of leather, curious. A stack of similar scraps appear in the hold. Dark gray. Charcoal even.

Pink? Is this a game? T'ral takes a deep breath, glaring holes in the hide under Cerise's hands. "Gray. Yeah. That'd be good. Hide the dust." That smug look is a problem. That smug look has to go.

D'tri is going nowhere. Except— maybe he very slowly is. His chair keeps budging to the side, sending a ripple of movement through him every time Chorzeczoyth kicks a limb out against it. His eyes do eventually leave T'ral, but they only manage to do so halfway into a sentence aimed at Cerise. "Pink and…" BUDGE. "Pink." Still not an ounce of joke in there, though he does glance ever so briefly downward. What's going on down there?

Chorzeczoyth's head remains raised, square of leather poking out. Waiting. Surely she will change her mind. « It was there. No one else was using it. Did you want to use it? » There is no time for response, because the next thing he does is swing his head in Esanth's direction, lifting his beaked head even higher and giving it a curt bop. As though to say take it take it. « Do you want it? » As for the question the bronze has been asked, his mental presence draws back in response. A small shape of inky black resting amongst rusty leaves, a single eye keenly watching. Waiting.

There are some things one doesn't speak of at the dinner table and while the infants might be beneath the dinner table, Jiamoth still neatly avoids replying to even a hint of the Red Star. Ever the lady, she does partially unfurl one wing to nudge Esanth, velvet against denim, to chide without the need for words. Tsk. « Tell him we should not be mad with anyone. We are a wing, are we not? Here now… » The last is for the bronze, whose evasion prompts her to dark her beaky snout forward in a bid to seize a corner of the leather. Tug of war? If he'll allow it.

"Not just a grey. A richer shade, I think. Deeper. It would bring out the blue in his hide," Cerise says, though she's slowly becoming distracted from the conversation. It's the way Dimi's chair is moving, see. Gradually her hands stop sifting through leather and her gaze rivits to the young man going herkyjerky to the side, a little at a time. "…no luck with those extra lessons, mm?"

« No. Ma'am. 'Th'all due respect, there isn't anything more important than that. That there is the darkness we shine against. » The distress beacons blink insistently on the console, coordinates of the star changing, drawing closer, closer. « And sometimes folk need reminding. »

T'ral's eyes go vague, brow coming down. He steps back from the table and squares up on Dimitri, "You know. It's bad enough that she covers for you." A gesture at Cerise, "But her dragon does too." He shakes his head, angry, "You hide behind her skirts and trade on the good manners of other folk. You take advantage of courtesy without any regard for the fact that that courtesy is why you're still drawing breath." He takes a breath, and if D'tri looks like he's going to interrupt, bares his teeth, "You're just mean. Mean spirited. And now you have Impression to protect you from consequences." His hands ball into fists, "And in not too many more months," he takes a deep breath, calming himself, no high emotions, right? "In less than a turn, I'll be putting my life in your hands. HIS life in your hands." Calm anger burns in his eyes, "And you spend your time with games? Manipulation." He turns his back on the brother and sister. A glare over his shoulder, "Get your head on straight, bronzerider." Esanth scrambles out from the table, knocking over a stool and follows T'ral back to his couch, eyes whirling in a mix of colors.

Cerise blinks, head snapping about to watch T'ral go. "…I guess he doesn't like pink?"

Chorzeczoyth's square of leather is relinquished as easily as it was collected from the floor. This talk of wings have set the gears working in his mind and he's off. His backwards shuffle out from under the table is even less elegant than his sprawl from before, but he wouldn't be himself if he cared even a little bit about such trivialities as GRACE.

"You know what," D'tri replies to Cerise, now lowering his hands to stop a wing from smacking him in the side. Which also, for the moment, takes his attention off of T'ral, and wipes some of that smugness off his face by virtue of distraction. "I've decided, if it's not hurting anyone, then it's probably best just to go with it. You know, let 'm get it out of his system." Then, he looks back up to T'ral, just in time to catch his speech. He does not attempt to interrupt. Oh no. Au contraire! He sits there and soaks it up, looking straight into the other Weyrling's eyes while a grin slowly spreads on his face. Something that might do very little to calm T'ral's newfound dislike for the male of the ex-performers, but alas. Not his problem. And he's quiet all the way until Cerise speaks up, which is when he just— snaps. Breaks. He starts laughing, looking to Cerise as though he has no idea what just happened. People disliking him? What has the world COME TO? But then, in the middle of a laugh, he breathes downward, "Wait— where are you going? Excuse me, Chorzeczoyth— where…" His eyebrows plummet, and the so abused chair is left so promptly that it tumbles back when D'tri goes chasing after his bronze. "You are not finding a pink VTOL in this weather! Get back here!" It's a good thing that, even now, he can't keep the laughter from threading through his words. It might get them into more trouble, but they'll see about that when they do.

Add a New Comment