==== October 26, 2013
==== Yules, D'tri
==== D'tri found The Thing. Now, he has to get less smelly. Yules is there to encourage this.

Who Yules, D'tri
What In the baths, Yules tries to encourage D'tri to get… less stinky.
When 10 months and 18 days until the 12th Pass
Where Baths


The steamy fog of the baths could be an entirely different world, transitioning from the well-lit brilliance of the inner caverns: a different world entirely, one wrought in dreams and humid fog. Steam lifts from hot waters, obscuring those who bathe within, drenching any who dare enter. Well-maintained, well-stocked, the baths offer pre-netted portions of soapsand in various scents, fluffy towels in orderly rows, and five separate spring-fed pools, all of differing temperature: from scorching hot to soothing chill.

It is the midmorning and despite the fact that it's SUMMER when there should be sunshine and chirping firelizards flitting about in warm, mango-scented air, Yules is hiding in the warm steam of the baths, from where any drop of rain might get her. She's got a full mug of klah, steaming, on the lip of the baths and she's busy scrubbing soapsand into her hair, muttering something about stinks. Who would she be talking about? Whatever, Yules is rinsing the sand out and then grabbing another handful to work right back into short, dark hair.

Speak o' the devil. Or the dragon? Which one is it again? They've both got tails. Either way, whatever it is, it's got a certain… scent to it. The closer it gets the more distinct it becomes. And it's heading straight for Yules' bath. At an increasing speed, just short of running. Why, it's an idly smirking D'tri, and he's jumping — naked as the day he was brought into this world and with an utter disregard for anything approaching decency, STRAIGHT into that water, knees up to his chest for maximum splashage. FWOOOSHSPLASH— and he's under.

Yeah, yeah, Yules has seen and smelled more of D'tri than she ever wanted to, thanks. It's not so much the view of impending doom that makes the female Weyrling straighten in horror mid-head-scrub, it's the absolute certainty that D'tri is going to do something catastrophic… yup, and he did, his little cannon-ball dive soaking almost everything in sight - maybe a small corner of ceiling escaped. But probably not. Having been the first victim of D'tri's tsunami, Yules looks mournfully over at her klah which could not have been missed in the deluge, wipes her face clear of water and then crosses arms over chest, waiting for D'tri to surface. If she could do so underwater, she would tap her foot.

It's a good thing these baths aren't generally places people manage to drown in, because if anything should be clear by now, it's that D'tri's not a good swimmer. Or a swimmer at all. He comes back up for air with the grace of a giraffe on a spiral staircase, finds his footing, but keeps his attention downward. Grabbing handfulls of water as if he's… dropped something. And indeed, something thin and sparkly sinks in chaotic little movements toward the bottom of the bath. "Nononono you little—" The words are hissed through his teeth, but the smirk remains. EVER so briefly, he glances up to Yules, still drenched. "Heeyy, Yulesie, how're you doin'. Klah, eh? Nice, nice." Then, back to clawing just below the water's surface. Where is it, where is it.

D'tri's surfacing does not actually lend Yules to uncrossing her arms, but she does eye the water that D'tri is fishing around in. "It was klah. Now it's water with klah-flavouring." Her tone? Flat. Expression? Unamused. Yules doesn't even bother to correct him on her name. Instead, she makes her way over to where D'tri is sme… er, standing, and starts churning the water in an imitation of searching, "Did you drop something?" she asks, splishing water in case whatever he's looking for is buoyant - her hand could totally run into it! "Maybe a pair of fresh eyes will help you find it." So that's why she's here!

"Yes!" D'tri confirms immediately, bending lower to rake his fingers through the water a little closer to the bottom. Clearly the klah is of no concern, but when have his actions ever been. He sticks the tip of his tongue out for some much needed concentration, then continues ever so cheerfully, "And I only just managed to find it! You wouldn't believe the amount of shit I had to sift through to fi— THERE IT IS." He straightens again, now positively (and smugly) beaming and holding a fist out to Yules' face. From between the fingers dangles a fine silver bracelet. Or, well, it was, until it was snapped off an arm by a certain someone's bronze, and now it's got two ends that hang down. "'S it clean yet? It looks clean."

The bubbled amusement of a nutty lager, its carbonation rising to the top: « Is that the thing you ate? » Desmeth asks, « Was it tasty? » A moment of quiet and Desmeth's tone colours in bemusement, « Mine says I'm not allowed to try it. Or anything like it. » The sad, disappointing flat tone, reminiscent of stale beer passes quickly, though, « How was it?? » Inquiring minds want to know!

The only reason Yules isn't trying to drown D'tri herself is the rules, and the klah sucked anyway. Or so she's telling herself. "So that's why you smell like the wrong end of a dragon's tail," Yules says, like she wasn't there for every painfully stinky moment in the Barracks, "And why the couches all stink." She does eye the two ends of the bracelet and shrugs, "You'll have to wash it thoroughly yourself to know. Maybe with a soft cloth." The item found, Yules backs away and rinses her hair out, heading for more soapsand to try to remember what 'clean' is as a noun and a smell. "Who did it belong to?" And do they want it back?

For a while, little more than Chorzeczoyth's quiet is offered in return, a deserted field of reddened foliage dotted with white barked trees and the occasional noise of something just out of sight hopping from branch to branch, hidden behind crimson leaves. Something so impatient, so restless and distracted. Something far larger, almost catastrophically so, threads effortlessly through in a rumble of « It was pretty. So I took it. It did not taste pretty. Now he took it. I want it back. » Again, something black flits from one branch to the next, disappearing into the red leaves. « Where do they come from? Are there more? There are more. Why are there more? Do they make them for me? »

TCH, 'clean'. Perhaps D'tri's been far too busy lately with said sifting and an increasing number of Ja'kai's lessons to concern himself with 'clean', because he looks dubious of Yules' claims. "Nora. Seems my rustbucket's more of a menace to people I like than the ones I don't. Funny how that works. But hey, good news for you, eh. Seeing as we've never really talked." All of this leaves his mouth in a single stream of words, while his eyes pick over the bracelet in his now opened hand. Until… he looks up, grin lopsided. Somewhat disconcertingy, perhaps, to those who know him. "Why is that, Yulesie, pray tell?" Next thing, he's waded over to hang out next to her. Leaning so casually of the lip of the bath, bracelet still held. Somehow, the wet has managed to get rid of none of his stink. Has it made it worse? Call it a miracle, call it whatever you want. He seems pretty content with it, peering up at the other Weyrling, equal amounts cocky and expectant.

Fields of golden grain become malted and saturated in the caramel-flavoured suds of Desmeth's thoughts, a chum's companionable response, « It was prettier than it tasted? » This doesn't seem to be quite cricket, so Desmeth continues, « Perhaps yours can make one for you, one that tastes prettier. » Because lifemates can do anything, right? And Desmeth doesn't have much of a grasp on how 'metals' work yet.

WE KNOW. Yules' ears perk slightly at Nora's name, "He stole a bracelet from the Assistant Headwoman?" True, baby dragons may not have much sense of human ranks but this ex-cook blinks in surprise. As to why the barracks stink? Apparently Yules is tired of that, "Because you've been sifting through your dragon's poop, looking for that thing and," a pause and then Yules weighs in on to more immediate concerns as D'tri gets close, "You still stink. Have some soap. Have all the soap," and Yules pushes away from D'tri a few feet, "Or even bathe in what's left of the klah. Just stop stinking," she says, like it's so easy, "We could talk when you're not smelly anymore."

Chorzeczoyth's rumbles quiet, while a black avian thing sees to sharpening its beak on a branch in yet another tree. Is it the same one, or are there several of these creatures abound? « But there are many. I have seen them. He has seen them. I do not want to eat them, I want to have them. He has stolen them, with Cerise and Damian. His dreams tell me this. There are many. I have seen them. » Echoing so eagerly that it almost overlaps his last claim, comes the boulder-heavy inquisition of, « … Does yours know how to make them? »

"Aw, Yulesie, come on. It's not that bad! It's earthy!" D'tri replies, with the face of someone who knows full well this stink is not earthy in the least. As she draws away, he approeaches again, A bit unwieldy, and a bit— is that a twitch of his eyebrow at something going on entirely elsewhere? Likely. Still, he's clearly set on annoying Yules for as long as he's able. "Alright, alright, fetch me some sand, I'll rub it all over me for your enjoyment, while you chat." Then, leaning to leave the broken bracelet in a pile up on a (relatively) dry spot, "Let's get to know you."

Desmeth considers that, the stillness of head on a glass of black stout, thoughtful deep flavours colouring his response, « But why did you eat the first one? » Surely such indulgence was not by mistake! A clear-water moment of absence, as if Desmeth is consulting, and then he returns with dark cherry-red fading flavours, like waking up the morning after with a sherry hangover, « Mine does not. She makes things that taste good. » And since bracelets don't feature in that list, Desmeth is pondering this mystery: « Maybe the hatted man can help. Mine says so. » A vague, blurry picture of a wall-shaped human wearing a hat, buoyed by flavours of thick, sweet liqueurs.

Earthy is a very abused term, according to Yules' expression, but she does take the excuse to get out of the bath and reach down several little baggies of soapsand, lobbing them accurately near D'tri, trying not to hit him in the head. Honest. Modesty? What is this modesty, when there's a near chance of ridding D'tri at least of this smell. That done, she grabs one more and drops back into the pool, wondering, "What was your name in the kitchens again? Because we'll have to rename you." She pauses for a moment, sand sitting in her hands before foaming, eyes absent with the new experience of speaking to one's dragon. Back to the situation (and sand) at hand, Yules dips it into the water, and starts to wash herself again. Also, on the topic of getting to know her? "You first," she deflects.

Leaves rustle in the barren wind that passes through Chorzeczoyth's mind and into another. « I wanted to have it. So I took it. » That might be an admittance of mistake, devoid of reluctance to do so. That new picture is flocked with the rustle of leaves in a barren gust of wind. « Man. With hat. » Then, all that's left to be heard is what the cold draft leaves behind.

"Legs!" D'tri answers this in a laugh of a breath, as though he finds it even funnier now than he had on the day. "So what'd it be now? Probably hard to find a name more offensive than I've been called already, but you're free to try! Might I suggest Sir Stinksalot?" On that note, he grabs two hands full of sand and just smacks 'em right on top of his head. RUB RUB RUB. Some of the sand might go flying. Hey, gravity'll bring it down ot the rest of him, right? As foam trails its way past his mess of what were once curls and is now just a wet, soapy mop, he peers one eye at Yules. "Me first? Oh, where to start! Me, I'm Bitran. I know, I hide it well." When he means to. Right now, and lately? Not so much. That was likely sarcasm, considering the half of a chuckle that leaves him. "Raised by felines until I was two and a half, I was too uncultured for their sorts, yeah? So then I crawl into this wagon, right? And— bllhpph-" … Soap in his mouth. He swipes an arm past his lips, "And they raised me as if I were their own! You know, after I stopped biting." Just for demonstrative purposes, he snaps his jaws shut toward Yules. Only— to end up with more soapsand trickled in his mouth, and subsequently making faces. HHBLPL.

Desmeth is cheerful, apricoty wheat-beer in his easy solution, « Well, my good brother, it's only equitable to… » and then his rust-coloured brother's absence from the conversation is noted, and Desmeth's tone turns petulant, like sour champagne, « Well then! » A harrumph, full of warm white wine that has aerated too long, its scent fading to sulky vinegar.

Yules nods, "Ahh yes, Legs." She eyes D'tri's under-water self briefly and shakes her head, "It doesn't need to be offensive, just accurate." And somehow in Yules' mind, they're not correlated, "Right now, 'Stinky' would work." She listens to D'tri's life story with half an ear, nodding at approximately the right places, the rest of her attention caught between making sure D'tri's washing himself free of stink and cleaning her legs. "Felines. Uh huh." Though when D'tri has a case of soap-in-mouth, Yules can't help but snicker a little, "Soap isn't very good for the insides of you," she asys seriously. And then her eyes go flat and she freezes, "Um. I have to go. Desmeth is wanting me." Dipping her hair to rid it of sand, Yules pulls herself out of the bath and starts drying off with a conveniently placed towel. "You should keep bathing, though." No, really, Yules' nose wrinkles slightly, "I think I can still smell dragon poop. And return the bracelet to the Assistant Headwoman." Has Yules always been so commanding? Bossy? Maybe it's the lack of her own kitchen to order about that's getting to her, "I'll see if Brel can sneak us some pies or cookies, later."

Hair's fun. D'tri's just in the middle of attempting to make his stand up with foam when Yules announces her soon-to-be-departure. His grin leaves him then, so he can pull an almost exaggerated expression of sadness, eyebrows slanting under the soapy mess. "Aw, come on. I pour my heart out for you and I get nothing in return? Those pies'd better be good." As for the smell? Whatever foam is slowly creeping down his neck gets spread inefficiently around his shoulders and across his front, his grin reappearing the moment he stops putting effort into his look of disappointment. It's slowly being overtaken with soap anyway, and he's sort of blindly mucking about now, eyes shut as the foam runs past them. "You go flee to your Desmeth. If he ate something," clearly this is a common occurrance, "I'm not helping."

In pulling on her uniform of green and black, Yules doesn't see a lot of D'tri's put-out look. She's busy tying up her boots, so when she looks up to see D'tri looking like a big pile of sandsoap foam, she chuckles a little, "Ya know, I think 'Soap' would be a more accurate nickname for you now." Then Southern can have phrases like 'that's so Soap' or 'Soap again'. Yules is making her way to the door, mouthing new lines to herself and grinning, but pauses at the door, "And you to yours," she tells D'tri blankly, like he's just wished her a great day. With that, Yules is on her way back to a little brown dragonet who dreams of eating fancy rare-meat hors d'oeuvres but is gonna get rare herdbeast instead. Close enough, for now.

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