==== February 13, 2014
==== Veresch, Majel, Cha'el, Sikorth
==== Cha'el ropes a granny, a seamstress and a runner into helping him oil Sikorth and is talked into giving up his trousers.

Who Veresch, Majel, Cha'el, Sikorth
What Cha'el ropes a granny, a seamstress and a runner into helping him oil Sikorth and is talked into giving up his trousers.
When It is midmorning of the sixteenth day of the first month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
Where Igen Weyr, Lakeshore

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LAKESHORE
Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens.


It's barely mid-morning, and the heat fair promises to be like an anvil to the back of the head. Veresch, freshly suckered into being one of the messengers of the Weyr, has had a busy morning already, judging from the way she's crouched at the edge of the lake. Her hands cup up water, then splash it into her face before the second handsful goes over her head to wet down her hair and turn her collar damp. Crouched down, it's less obvious that she's all angles and too-long limbs still, but her unveiled face still has hints of puppy fat underneath the scrawniness of her, not to mention the way her mouth is moving as she mutters to herself. Seriously. Her parents gave up Ista for /this/?

If Veresch thinks this is hot, just wait for summer! Strolling down the shore with a bucket in each hand wearing thick cotton trousers rolled up to the calves and a lightweight, long-sleeved shirt, comes a brownrider shadowed by a rather large rock monster…erm, mottled brown dragon. Given the scowl writ across bearded features and the ‘Screw that!’ muttered, there must be some or other argument going on between dragon and rider. Turning and walking backwards a few paces, Cha’el narrows a tight look onto the big chunk of dragon dogging his steps. “One more word from you and you can oil your own hide.” Of course, such backward walking means that the poor young thing crouched at water’s edge, goes completely unseen.

See, there are only a few things to do when confronted with the immensity of a gi-huge rock monster. One of them is to squeal and run away. Veresch does not follow this philosophy. Unfortunately, with the morning she's had she also doesn't follow the clever way, which is to clear her throat and alert them to her presence. Instead, she charts the third route: squinting at the noises behind her, she tries to see what's up through water-wet eyes and stands. She moves, yes, but seconds later she's hitting her nose on a wall of flesh: it's a toss-up whether that's covered by brown hide or human skin. Luckily, the word that /does/ enter her mind isn't spoken out loud, and she freezes, trying to knuckle the water out of her eyes. "Sorry!" she calls. "Um, whatever or whoever that was."

Did Sikorth see Veresch and did he warn his rider? Yes. And, no. He’s not earned the title of being a bastard for nothing. If a dragon could smirk, that’s what the brown would be doing round about the time the slip of a girl goes careening into his rider who stumbles forward a step and utters a curse to have a sailor blush when oil slops from a bucket all over his trousers. “Awfafuckssake!” The brownrider growls and swings about to glare at…Oh. Kid. Heh. Erm. The glare turns to a bemused scowl and the Weyrsecond drops his chin, the better to see Veresch. “Cha’el.” That’s for the whoever. “Igen Weyrsecond. Brownrider.” That’s for the whatever. Somewhat clipped in delivery.

Wait, what was that word? Veresch has to stop for a moment to try and figure it out, and her expression runs rampant during that moment: scrunched-up, shocked, fascinated, and boggled, all in quick succession. Her first words? "How would that work?" She manages to blink free of the water, and her expression falls as she recognises the little facts. Guy, tall, built like a wall (ouch, /nose/), /Weyrsecond/ and currently pissed off. From there her gaze slides to the bastard, who's also looming like only a dragon can loom, and she gives a step or two backwards. "Sorry, sir." Yeah, that's going to leave a mark. "Can I get you… a cloth or something?"

That…was not a reply Cha’el expected and so a brow cocks upward from out of that scale, smoothing the grumbly lines away. “How would what work?” Is there perhaps a glimmer of amusement in those sea-blue eyes fixed to Veresch as intently as a dragon might eye its next meal? Quite possibly. “Aye,” the brownrider returns to her last and holds out a bucket. “Take this and come with me.” Having not been Igen for very long, his Istan accent is still a thick burr but he doesn’t wait to see if the girl complies, with the bucket set down at her feet if she doesn’t take it and off he heads toward a boulder set a few feet back from the lapping shoreline.

"That… you know, word. That you said." Veresch attempt to mime it, with thin hands completely unequal to the task, and if there's a blush she hides it behind a tan and a nod. She dips to pick up the pail, scrawny enough to give a grunt at the lesser weight remaining behind, and obediently trudges to his side, charting a wide course around the rock monster. It's only when she's almost to the boulder that the Istan burr sinks in, and she turns to Cha'el, rapidly, looking much less like a mangy feline and more a happy kid. "You're from Ista? You're from Ista!" A smile splits her face, baring white teeth, and her whole demeanour changes from surly teen to, well, homesick one. "Do you still go there? Is it… how are they? And.. oh, up on the rock?"

That word that he sai…Aw. Shit. Kids! “If you gotta ask you don’t be needing to know,” Cha’el tells her in that frustrating manner someone uses to deflect having to answer awkward questions. Flipping a glance over his shoulder amusement once again makes a brief appearance, the girl’s accent marked with a twitch of lips. Island buddies? “Aye, that I am,” the brownrider confirms and sets his pail down at the base of the boulder. “You. Up.” As for him, he strips his shirt off over his head and tosses it to one side in a ripple of tanned musculature. Finally a smile emerges for the exuberance coming from Veresch, “Been back but once since I transferred.” A faint shadow crosses bearded features and then the Weyrsecond is scaling the forelimb of his dragon as the large beast settles himself obligingly before the boulder. “Stick your hands in it and begin rubbing.” A demonstration is given and then a question couched as statement. “I don’t remember seeing you about down there. You been here long?”

Strolling slowly along the shore with one of the weyr's older seamstresses, who is well-known for the care and quality of her work, Majel appears to be dividing her attention between murmured conversation and the steady demolishing of a napkin-wrapped pastry. Eventually, the pair draws near enough to catch the tail end of Veresch's homesick happiness, and the merchant halts their progress with a gentle touch to the older woman's elbow. Of course, there's also suddenly shirtless Cha'el. Cheeks heating, she makes to resume her circle around the lake, pausing when her companion doesn't follow. The graying, sixty-something seamstress is giving the Weyrsecond a very appreciative smile and cheerful greeting, winking at her mentee from a few paces back. Majel finally manages a low, "Good morning." She speaks!

Unfair! Still, Veresch is excited enough about finally meeting a fellow Istan that she scrambles up the boulder with all the grace and banged knuckles she can muster, dangling the bucket after her. She turns, just about to smile again, when the guy strips and she's treated to, well, more muscle than she's seen on most people. For a moment there's a curious look, but before long she's agreeably sticking her hands in the pail. Then, without fail, she reaches out grab Cha'el's wrist with one oily hand, and the other is applied to his elbow, vigorously oiling it up. "I thought this was just for dragons, but if you wish," she said amiably. Hey, he's Istan, he gets slack. Then, as Majel speaks, she turns to grin over her shoulder at the woman that helped the previous night. The older seamstress gets a respectful nod and a "Morning, ma'am. Ma'am." At least she's providing them with eye-candy.

Dismissive of the eyeballing he’s getting, Cha’el blinks when Veresch takes his hand and then simply winds up STARING at the girl as she starts oiling him up instead of Sikorth. Stunned into silence, which doesn’t happen very often, it’s a snort from Sikorth that billows a puff of sand upwards and breaks the moment. Suddenly the brownrider throws back his head and laughs until his belly aches. Balancing atop his dragon’s forearm, he swipes a forearm across his eyes, sniffing back the tears of high humor that have formed. “You are one strange, kid! Him,” a gesture made at Sikorth, “Not me.” Still chuckling, Majel and her elderly companion are sent an amicable wave. “Morning, ladies.”

"Oil is good for the skin, " the deceptively grandmother-type says serenely, eyes all a'twinkle. "Keeps it soft and supple. Truly wonderful, mmhm." Would that she were twenty turns younger, says her wistful sigh. Majel, embarrassed, returns Veresch's grin nonetheless. "You don't have to ma'am me, really. Majel will do just fine." Turning back toward her mentor, her eyebrows shoot skyward: the elder seamstress has taken the liberty of strolling up to Cha'el, all but circling him as she mumbles measurements under her breath. "A pity we don't make transparent fabric, " she laments more clearly.

Veresch grins at the laughter, a faint got-you smile tucked away safely for later gloating over. Still, the gaze that she turns on the rock monster is markedly less enthusiastic, since there's a lot more of him than she'd care to do. She has to readjust on the boulder a little, but obediently gets to it. Pretty soon there's a sizable patch of one forearm done, slicked in much the same way as Cha'el was, but rather more carefully. In the end, she settles for rubbing the oil in as high as she could, all whilst listening to the granny with fascination. "I've mostly been in the lower caverns," she answers Cha'el whilst her mind wanders to transparent fabric. "My mother said it was time I earned my keep, so I run messages these days. Majel, how do I take care of oily pants? I kind of spilled on the Weyrsecond… do you want to get up on the boulder, ma'am?" Granny might need a better vantage point, after all.

Granny gets a faintly amused look and a lift of brow for her comment about oil. “A handsome woman such as yourself clearly knows the virtues of oil,” the brownrider tells her, flashing the older woman a teasing wink. With Veresch now on proper course, Cha’el gets down to the business of oiling up that massive mottled chest of Sikorth’s, hands kneading across taut musculature. “Aye, that’s the ticket,” he encourages, Veresch, heedless of whether or not he’s pulled her from another duty. But then, Circling Granny murmuring comments about transparent fabric and for the first time in a very long time, the Weyrsecond’s cheeks darken beneath his tan. Clearing his throat, he focuses on the task at hand. “You’re runner? Haven’t met one of those in a long time,” he returns to the girl formerly from Ista. Majel is next to earn a glance before he clambers up between stony neckridges. Pointing to the bucket of oil, “Can you hand me that?” Yup, Majel’s now being pulled into service too.

Majel, very much looking as though she would rather hang back, ends up hurrying over to help the older woman up onto the boulder as she begins to attempt the ascent alone. "Why, thank you, you're a dear, " the all-but-auntie says cheerfully, favoring Veresch with a warm smile. Granny is most appreciative of her new view. The brownrider's teasing garners a hearty cackle. "Oh, I've years of experience, " she replies solemnly. "You can try scrubbing with a mild soapsand, " the merchant muses, "but the sooner that gets done, the more likely it'll be that you can get the oil out. Unless it's some form of leather. I'm not sure what to do in that scenario." At Cha'el's request, Majel simply wraps her pastry back up, securing it in a deep pocket before cautiously making her way up the rock, then partially onto the nearest forelimb to pass him the aforementioned bucket. It takes both hands to heft it up there; there's next to no upper arm strength here.

Veresch watches the unfolding scene with fascination, stowing away mental notes from Granny Awesome in case her hormones hit one day and she can actually get in on the enjoying of the muscles. It must be something interesting if it's causing the rider to flush like that, right? As Majel is subscripted into help she obligingly scoots over to make space for the two on the boulder - all the better to ogle Cha'el up close - before she eyes the massive stretch of back and spine and tail still to do. "I need longer arms," she mutters to herself, and gets off, wandering around to start with the bits that she can, at the moment, reach easily. "If any of you have messages to run, I'll be more than happy to help." Because, marks. Maybe. Majel's shop stall doesn't look very cheap.

With one arm wrapped about a neckridge and leaning out sideways to snag the bucket when its handed up as requested, Cha'el does a bit of a double take when Granny Awesome (tm) makes her way carefully up onto the boulder. Well now, there's something you don't see every day. The old duck's comment about turns of experience earns her a low chuckle and a knowing pull of lips. Leaving the women to talk laundry, even although its his trousers under discussion, Majel is given an approving look despite how she struggles to lift the bucket. "If you want to help, he won't mind at all," the brownrider tells her, "In fact, he tells me a woman's hands are better. They're softer. Or something like that." Sikorth, who has until now been still as the boulder the ladies are perched upon, lifts his great head and swings it about, setting Veresch with a faceted stare as she slips around to his other side. With a rustle and a clatter of wingspars, he unfolds a giant wing and makes a low rumbling sound, dipping it down toward the runner - Wing please. "Why don't you just use a runner," the Weyrsecond asks of the human runner, balancing the bucket between his thighs. "The four-legged kind."

"I'm sure you could run a few for Neb, " Majel suggests offhandedly, carefully casual. It would, of course, keep the girl around the stall in case future job opportunities should arise. And with jobs come employee discounts, right? Granny, who really needs a name, turns a cataract-heavy eye onto Veresch. "We can find her something better than running errands for some lecherous grandpa, " she rebukes. For all of her flirtatious behavior, she's at least harmless. "I could use someone with young legs like yours to help fetch me supplies from the bazaar every now and then. Majel started out doing that for me, you know." The younger woman shrugs lightly at the rider's invitation to help, shedding her gloves and carefully setting her coat aside. "My hands could probably use the oil, " she jokes, rolling up her sleeves as far up her elbow as she can before setting to work on the nearest unoiled bits of Sikorth. Her fingertips are notably callused, but gentle as she encourages the oil in on this bit of shoulder, that patch of hide.

"I'll take the pants with me later and ask in the lower caverns," Veresch promises Granny. "Thank you, ma'am. I'd be happy to help out. As long as that creepy guard doesn't hang out there… anytime." All of a sudden there's a new thing to ponder, namely the wing stretching out in her direction. For a moment she's fascinated by the thin skin and the ailerons, that and the clattery noise. She sinks down on her knees to peer in underneath the large wing, then nods, hauling up her less-than-full bucket and drizzling a series of thin, long line over the spars. "Well, unlike a runner, I might not get distracted by a nice smell," she answers equably. "And I'll manage to speak to others and ask them where a person is, if they're not there. Sometimes people just want two-legged messengers, I guess. It beats washing babies and chopping roots." Pause. "Will it be okay if I tell him he has nice eyes? And huge wings." This is her arm workout for the day, at least the way she stretches to reach the inner bits of fragile wing-hide.

Listening in on the conversation while shifting with agility from one neckridge to the next, oiling down Sikorth’s thick neck as far as he can, Cha’el cants a look down to Majel and Granny, his question completely off topic. “Have you had any problems lately at the shop?” But then, creepy guards are being mentioned and the brownrider twists about to fit Veresch with an intent look. “What creepy guard?” Talk of why a two-legged runner beats one with four legs, temporarily set aside. There is however a curl of mouth to one side at the question from the youngest of the three women. “He’s a compliment whore,” ahem, “the more you pump his ego, the better he likes it.” A smirk tells of a comment snapped back at him via mental pathways.

"Creepy guard?" Majel echoes curiously, too. Unspoken: Which one? "We see a few of those through the day, but they don't linger often, thankfully." Granny huffs, displeased, folding her arms grimly over her chest. "I still don't like that you have to work there with that odious little man. Still, there's no denying that he knows his craft. You've got to buy him out, one of these days." Majel shakes her head quickly at Cha'el, leaning over to focus more intently on her task. "No, no trouble. Just the usual louts stirring things up at night around us." It's nothing we can't handle yet, says her one-shouldered shrug. "You see, young man, you should just let me measure you for a new pair if she's whisking yours off for a cleaning, " Granny concludes. "I've got a tape on me, somewhere … "

Again, there's a split-second pause — Veresch's vocabulary is definitely growing in leaps and bounds. "I don't know. Few turns older than me, and he smokes more than some chimneys I've seen. He was rude, and kind of manky-looking in that pretty-boy way. So I, um, retaliated and ran away." The description might, at a squint, fit Thierry. She soothes /that/ bit of miserable morning experience with a gingerly pat of Sikorth's shoulder, a well-done-old-chap gingerly pat. "You have pretty eyes," she informs him solidly before smiling at Majel. "Thanks again for letting me hide out there, I appreciate it. The perfumer lady walked me home." Then, of course, there's Granny Awesome again; Veresch gets a teen-thin grin on her face, one that sees a Moment coming, and nods innocently. "I can run it over there now as well." Because, well, Majel deserves a treat for being so nice.

Pausing in his task, Cha’el stretches a crick out of his lower back and fits Majel with a contemplative look when she replies. “At night, eh? What sort of things are they…stirring up?” He goes on to ask. When Granny pipes up, the brownrider blinks and then flicks a look down to where Veresch is doing a very good job of oiling delicate membranes. “Whisk my pants off? Uh…” Now there’s no doubt that he’s blushing because lets face it, Veresch is young enough to be his daughter and Granny is old enough to be his, well, grandmother and as for Majel. Ahem. Glancing down at the trouser leg that had had oil slopped all over it, the dragonrider turns out a crooked grin. “I don’t think the Weyrsecond trudging about in just his undershorts is going to go down very well. But I do appreciate the thought.” Though which thought, he leaves open to interpretation. But then, creepy guards are being defined and sea-blue eyes narrow, the information taken in and filed away in a folder labeled ‘To Be Investigated’. “I’ll look into it.” And as for Sikorth, he sends a whuff of breath the young runner’s way. A pity it reeks of firestone and his latest kill.

Majel stiffens the tiniest bit, hand pausing heavily in a puddle of oil. "I see." It's tricky keeping her voice all even and neutral. "What was your, uh, retaliation?" Resuming her oiling with an apologetic whisper to Sikorth's shoulder, she waves off the younger girl's thanks. "Anytime I'm there, " she promises. "I'm glad Saci walked you home. I didn't want you to get caught up in that mess two stalls down." Shifting to better reach another bit of brown hide, she tilts a quick look up at Cha'el. "There's been some arguing in the streets lately. Nothing major, but tensions seem to be running high lately over goods and agreements. None of it's come to our shop, " yet, "but I worry that it's only a matter of time before we get hit with something we don't want." Then there's more talk of even less clothing on muscular people, and Majel abruptly turns back to her task, ears crimson. "Too bad, " Granny sighs. "You're right, it wouldn't exactly be respectable. But my, you /are/ a pretty one."

Veresch manages /not/ to wrinkle her nose at Sikorth's breath, though she pales a little at it. It's so very, um, strong. "It's okay," she babbles, trying to get rid of the foetid memory of it. "I kicked him… you know. /There/. So we're even, I think, even if I did kind of miss." 'There' is indicated with vague pantsly direction, surely much less targeted than Granny Awesome's knowing gaze. "But next time, if he threatens to show me what good girls' tongues are for again, I'm going to try and punch him in the nose." For a moment the teenager's gone, and the narrowed-eyed girl looks precisely like an alleycat, ready to scratch eyes out and skin off. Then, with a blink, her friendly grin is back. "They were breaking pottery and stuff — I think they might have been drunk." That's the extent of her low-down on the Bazaar roughs as, with a slither, she finishes oiling the last bit of upper wing, only to creep beneath it and begin on the underside. Blessed relief from the sun, win. Predator-breath, not so much.

As Majel expands, so dark brows drop toward one another in a frown forming into a veritable scowl when Veresch weighs in with what the creepy guard had said to her. “Little shit!” Cha’el growls, mostly to himself. “I’ll rip his tongue out and shove it…” At a bark of sound from Sikorth, words cut off. « Ladies present! » The brown reminds sharply keeping his wing canted just so for Veresch to creep in beneath. Granny earns herself a tight look for her compliment though the brownrider does try to add a smile, which comes out more as a grimace than anything else. Someone is clearly uncomfortable with flattering remarks. Back to Majel as he slithers down his dragon’s oily side and lands a mere hands width outside of her personal space. “You got a ‘lizard?”

Granny tut-tuts at Veresch. "You want to watch yourself, dear, " she warns. "To those types, getting even means a lot more than it might to you. Best keep your nose clean and your head down for a bit, you know." Majel grimaces further at the younger girl's explanation, looking for all the world as though she'd like to shrink down into the nearest solid object, out of sight. "It could land you in a bigger mess, " she cautions, "but I can't say that you wouldn't have some silent support if you happened to not miss the second time. For your sake, I hope there won't be another chance for something like that to happen." There's a disgusted purse of her lips, a wrinkle of her nose. "I have access to one, " the merchant allows, glancing briefly over at Cha'el who is much-too-close. Introvert bubble alert! "She's young, though. I could borrow one of Neb's. He has a pretty gluttonous little brown who will carry messages for anyone willing to feed him."

"Yes, ma'am," Veresch choruses obediently. "I'll watch out, promise." She will too, at least until she gets curious or tries to apologise. The teenager doesn't quite hear the threat that Cha'el grunts out, nor Majel's replies. For the moment, she feels strangely, oddly peaceful, protected by a sail of rock-hued browns and a feeling of tremendous heat. It sifts up from the sands, from the hide, from all corners, until relaxation is virtually forced. She scrapes her hair back with oily hands, uncaring, before she gets on with the job she's been conscripted into, playing spa-hands for a creature at least ten times bigger than she is. No baby-speech, no cooing, just small hands and the occasional grunt as she has to dip into the bucket for a fresh handful. Some weyrbrats would think it hell, some heaven. Her? She's sneakily glad she has an excuse to get grubby still.

“She’s right,” Cha’el weighs in, supporting Majel and Granny’s advice to the younger girl. “Boys that age only think with the one head. Need a knock to the other to get sense outta of ‘em.” Blunt but to the point from one who once was one. A boy. Not a snotty little pervert. Correction, most all teenage boys are perverts, some just know to keep it to themselves. “Good,” a nod goes to Majel, “Next time there’s trouble down the Bazaar that has you worried, you send him to either me, N’thu, K’ane, or Tuli. Or any other ‘rider if none of us are available.” With Sikorth mostly done, save for his tail which he’s very private about and which only gets done on his ledge and by his rider, the Weyrsecond turns a smile full of charm onto the two women atop the boulder with him as he reaches for his shirt. “Thank you kindly for your help. We appreciate it. But now, I need to hit the bathhouse and get cleaned up for a meeting. “Hey, kid,” that’ll be Veresch. “Meet me in thirty outside the Tea Room and I’ll give you my pants.” Er, what?

"I will, " Majel replies seriously, finally sitting back with a little wince. Aching shoulders, commence. For all that she clearly does her best to ignore such things, she isn't immune to that charming smile; cheeks stained rose, she manages a little nod and an almost-offhand, "You're welcome, sir." Granny just winks and makes to hand Cha'el his shirt before turning to face the task of climbing back down from the boulder. "Help me down, dear, " she says unnecessarily to Majel, who does just that after collecting her coat with a genial farewell called back over her shoulder.

Veresch grumbles as she has to sail out underneath the wing, slithering a little like a very sandy tunnelsnake. She looks far from presentable, with patches of sand-covered oil covering her like a patchwork quilt. Grinning that wide smile again - Istan accent! - she steps away. "Yes, sir," she mentions cheerily enough, as if she's not planning on running through the caverns shouting 'Maaaa, I've got the Weyrsecond's pants!' at the top of her lungs. Then, because she was raised sternly, she moseys to the rock to help Granny get off with Majel, providing a thin, sturdy shoulder to press down on. The old woman is seriously too awesome to get hurt falling off a stupid rock. "Majel, can I come see you later about some, um, advice?" Girl advice, likely.

Crooking a lopsided grin Granny’s way, Cha’el pulls his shirt on, heedless of oil slicked skin likely to stain it from the inside out and hops off the boulder ready to lend Majel and Veresch an extra hand if need be. Sikorth, the center of all the oiling attention, slowly pushes up into a sitting position and extending his wings upward snakes his head low and offers his personal masseurs a rumbling croon of thanks. With the two of them having things well in hand, the dragonrider gathers up the now near empty buckets in one hand and ticks off a casual two-fingered salute with the other. “Ladies,” a polite incline of head and then he’s turning and sauntering off. Towards the baths one assumes despite his lack of a fresh set of clothing.

Majel pauses long enough while wrestling back into her coat to catch Veresch's request for advice, nodding. "Just bring the colors with you, " she says matter-of-factly as she resumes her stroll with the elderly seamstress, this time back toward the weyr proper. Any implications that the advice in question could pertain to something more than fabrics and dyes, well. Those are clearly lost on her, for the moment.

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