==== December 30th, 2013
==== Renalde, Nika, Beauregard, Sori, Bailey T'ral
==== What began as a quiet father/son exchange turns into a naked hoedown. Well, not really, but Nika was present. So, close enough! Beauregard loves Southern. Sori has a nasty bruise. Bailey is serene. T'ral is tapped into Serval!

Who Renalde, Nika, Beauregard, Sori, Bailey T'ral
What What began as a quiet father/son exchange turns into a naked hoedown. Well, not really, but Nika was present. So, close enough! Beauregard loves Southern. Sori has a nasty bruise. Bailey is serene. T'ral is tapped into Serval!
When There are 0 turns, 4 months and 3 days until the 12th pass.
Where Southern Weyr

renalde_bath.jpg nika_icon.PNG beauregard.jpg Sori-Icon.jpg bails_1.png t-ral_right.jpg


baths.jpg

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.


Steam swirls up and around the Headman as he stands in the largest of the baths. A net of soapsand with little sceent lays nearby at hand. With the same singleminded perfection Renalde puts to all things he attends to his short clipped fingernails. Dirt doesn't dare to sit where he pricks it out of place.

Renalde always seems to carry a bubble of privacy wherever he goes. He gets his own everything. His own table in the living caverns. His own pool in the baths. Small wonder. The man wasn't the sort to invite company and most everything about him said 'Stay Clear.' T'ral is rather more inured to those signals than others and knows that his father won't make overtures to conversation. So this works. Because T'ral isn't really in the mood for chitchat and the other pools are crowded. He shucks his clothes, folding them into the cubby holes and, scrubbrush in hand, the young bluerider slips into the water with nary a word. The scar across his ribs and abdomen is a nasty dark pink swath, still raw looking, though fully healed and not seeming to cause discomfort. T'ral hisses at the heat, dunking, slicking his hair back (which sticks up all crazy) and then leaning back with a quietly grunted sigh, to soak. With any luck, in silence.

Renalde raises a single eyebrow as T'ral joins him in the baths. Few enough do wish to join the blond man, as work often follows when Renalde notices imperfections and chooses the closest worker to fix them. Perhaps T'ral is safe though, as a rider with an injury? "Rider T'ral." Renalde says, his voice perfectly pitched in greeting to the young man. Sweetsand is gathered up as Renalde begins to scrub himself.

Life is work. Work is life. Who the tasks came from mattered little. T'ral has little to fear from Renalde in that regard. His days were full to the brim and anything Renalde wished to task him with would have to be cleared through the chain of command. So. What could the Headman pile on? He opens dark eyes to regard the older man, "Headman, Sir." Protocol in the baths did not require a salute and so he stays put, closing his eyes again to let heat leach away the day's strain. Drills were intensifying. Sweeps. Three weeks and naught but a single terse message from Prymelia. At least she was okay. And not taken back to Igen. He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out, water rippling in front of his mouth.

Greetings given, Renalde returns back to the cleaning of his body. Bit by bit is scrubbed, the sand and water clearing away impurities. If Renalde's eyes peek backwards to where his son soaks in to the water they do so only for fleeting seconds. A cup assists the headman as he bathes, as Renalde lifts the cup to pour over himself and wash away the scrub.

T'ral soaks in silence. And darkness. What with eyes closed and everything. All that's visible of the rider is his head, from the jaw up. The scrubbing and sluicing and the soft splashes and murmurs from other pools, soft soothing sounds, are a welcome change from the roar of cold wind at altitude. His ears still ring, despite the earcovers on his helmet. He shifts, rubbing at a shoulder. Catmint had flown re-stocking drills today. Always a nightmare on the shoulders.

Silence is good. Silence is GOLDEN. With T'ral's eyes closed Renalde does take a moment to look at his son, top of dark hair down to where the water hides the rest. "You might try the sand at the left. The healers suggest it might help with strained muscles." Renalde shifts his gaze away from his son again, returning to the careful cleaning of his own body. Water cascades down himself.

T'ral reels his mind back in to where it had flown. A girl with flashing eyes and a ready smile, sure hands. "Hmmm? Yes. What?" He blinks, eyes opening. "Oh. Thanks." He sits up, sighing. It was about time to get on with bathing. T'ral leans over to snag the suggested net of sand, that ugly scar even more raw and pink looking with the flush of heat from the water. T'ral stands at an oblique angle to his father, dunking the sand and setting about the work of getting clean. He pauses in scrubbing about to ask a question and with a little shake of his head dismisses it and continues scrubbing.

Renalde pours water over his head, wetting the small buzz that is his hair completly in one go. The harshest of sand is saved for this area, and Renalde scrubs till the skin is pink upon that head. The shreds of deadskin that had attempted to linger are pushed away. The attempt at question is ignored.

The question just won't go away though. Right there. In his teeth. He takes a breath, sandnet flipping in his hands as he looks down at it. He finally screws up the nerve to ask probably the worst person in the entire Weyr that he could ask this question: "When did you know you were in love?" He turns his head, still looking down and not at but towards Renalde, "With Mother?" His brow is furrowed, eyes distant.

Wait, huh? Renalde opens an eye, water still cascading down his torso. A hand is raised to flick water out of that open eye. A small frown curves itself into Renalde's brow. "Why do you ask?" Not an answer. Surely T'ral knows better then to ask that kind of question!

He should have asked Nika. Or Aaron. Or anyone else. But he knows Renalde loved his mother. So much that losing her shattered everything. He's rather certain that Renalde knows why he asked. There's a girl, of course. There's no real other reason to ask that question. He'll not be put off. "When." It doesn't sound like a question, but not a demand. Somewhere in the middle. Intent and … really, come down to it, there's no one else in the world he should be asking this question.

Renalde eyes T'ral intently for long moments. "I did not know until after we had been married a turn. Her father thought it best for her 'wild ways' to be contained and thought that I would do for it."

Wild ways? T'ral thinks back to the riverbank, and their remembrance. Stormclouds on the horizon and his father's strange, unstitched look. He thinks of his mother holding him laughing as lightning fell and thunder rolled and rain lashed the Weyr. So many turns ago. "And how did that work out?"

Renalde levels a look at T'ral. A look that suggests that his son should stop asking questions right about now. "Your mother and I had a relationship which was never questioned by her father."

T'ral looks down. He'd overstepped, "My apologies, Sir." He'd earned that look. But he still doesn't really have his answer. Suds have gone all gummy and, no cup for this one, he ducks under and stands again. He boggles briefly, wonder what his mother must have been like before. So many questions. Why would Renalde consent to such a match, instead of a meek proper girl? His mother had been a kitchen worker and her father a dragonrider. Stranger and stranger. But. He will not be denied his answer. He re-soaps, scrubbing intently, "But… after that year had passed. There was a time when you didn't know. And a time when you did. What was it?"

And yet, despite the look which would have sent any other sane person into silence, T'ral continues to question and poke. "I realized I loved your mother after she gave birth to our first child." Renalde steps out of the water, steam rising from his wet skin to join that rising from the water. A towel is searched out and found, then wrapped around his torso. Turning back Renalde looks downwards at T'ral. Do the math boy.

First, T'ral's brow furrows. He turns, eyes averted until the towel is in place. "What happened?" He's never gonna get scrubbed at this rate.

"It was stillborn. Tara was crushed and I realized that I loved her." Just keep digging a hole in Renalde's heart why don't you? Renalde moves away in the steam to where his clothing has been laid out neatly along side the bath. The towel stays tucked neatly in place around Renalde's waist.

That hole was already there. And this is as deep into that gaping, icy abyss in his father's chest as T'ral has ever seen. Maybe the steam melted it. He can only imagine the heartache. For both of them. His eyes drop to the water's surface. T'ral's voice is hoarse as he asks, "What did you do?" He clears his throat, "What do you do. When you can't do anything."

The shirt slips over Renalde's head, its crisp fabric fitting perfectly over his chest. As Renalde fits one leg, then another into his pants and pulls them up. The belt is clinched abruptly around his waist as T'ral speaks. Renalde turns, his eyes ice cold again. "Blast it all T'ral! We do our Duty! Perhaps you ought to take a page from that trader girl's book, at least she seems to know where her priorities lay!" Renalde lays the towel that had been around his waist and lays it out to dry on a rack.

A turn ago T'ral had been fleeing his duty, chasing dreams and bucking authority. A turn ago he would have (and had) cast the rebuke back into Renalde's face, defensive. He's a different person today. He stands quietly, looking up at Renalde, calm, clear-eyed, back straight, scarred, bare as the day he was born -a day Renalde is sure to remember- as vulnerable as he could possibly be and all the more strong for the quietly delivered reply, "I do my duty." Renalde would know if he didn't. It's really rather dirty pool on his father's part. Petty. His eyes flicker at Renalde's mention of 'that trader girl.' "Prymelia?" He narrows his eyes and looks at the Headman, "Tell me what you mean."

Renalde meets T'ral's gaze head-on. No flinching from the headman. "Then by Farnath's wings young man, stop mooning over the chit and pull yourself together. You do her a disservice when you distract her from earning her place." Renalde shakes his head once more as he turns to step towards the doorway.

Chit. T'ral's eyes harden, jaw muscles bunching. He grates, "Pull myself together." T'ral blinks, "Asking you, my father, for advice is 'falling apart.'" He nods. "I see. Sir. I won't trouble you any more." He was definitely moony over Prymelia, there was no denying that. But he didn't shirk. He never shirked. Did he grab restdays with both hands? YES. Something Renalde might try now and again. But T'ral had never though he was distracting Prymelia from any duties. She was gone most of the time. He really should have talked to Nika. Or Aaron. Or anyone else. "If her superiors have any dissatisfaction with her work, I'm sure they'd let her know. I wouldn't presume otherwise."

Family drama? Lessons being learned? Here's one to break the tension - enter Nika who's mostly nekkid as she skirts in from the inner caverns. She's only wearing socks. And as she slides in through the door she slips across the floor, arms flailing knocking at least one basket of sweetsand and out someone's hand on the way by. Rather than looking disheveled at the unexcepted turn of events she's squealing, "Weeeeeeee!" as she pulls to a stop in front of the occupied pool. She splashes in beside T'ral without taking her socks off, her bundle of clothes and other things left hanging over the side of the pool getting wet in the lapping water. "Who are you disservicing?" Wide eyes turn to the weyrling, "Duty, duty duty," She sings at the senior, before nodding at Renalde assuming he'll agree. "How do you have any time anyway? Unless it's at night." Her badly cut curls, which are slowly growing in bounce about wildly, "Ohhh… unless it's at night. Are you bonking a girl?" She pauses blinking, and adds on, "Or a boy?"

Can the stoic headman remain frown ridden when Nika comes through? No, and even though she is naked (dragonriders, am I right?) and this causes him to shake his head slightly, he does smile, JUST A LITTLE. "Rider," she gets a nod before Renalde's gaze returns to that of his (man, he is less foppish these days) son. "Trader Prymelia wishes to remain in the South despite the wishes of her father for her to return north. If I am to risk the relationships we have with her clan then she must be invaluable. Spending time canoodling with you only keeps her from her duties."

Scientific fact: It is impossible not to smile around Nika. Even Renalde can't resist the tiny rider's irrepressibility. Protocol of the baths states that no salute is required, but T'ral greets her formally regardless, face and tension in the set of his posture relaxing as he grins -keeping eyes carefully on her face, damn, but he hates the baths- "Afternoon, ma'am." The salute is implied. He answers both of his superiors, the room is getting a little overbalanced with rankers, "There is a girl. And she has to eat. And… sleep," his ears color but he drives on, "And help in the infirmary. And occasionally -very occasionally- take a restday." His posture straightens again as he looks at Renalde specifically, "I do those things too. And we snatch what moments we can. What do you have to say about how she spends those moments? The ones that are hers." His jaw bunches, then relaxes as he looks down at Nika, "Do you have any complaints about my service in the Infirmary, ma'am? I'd like to hear them if you do."

T'ral has made his point, but Renalde is not about to budge. "Ma'am," he nods to the little rider and turning exits the baths.

Beauregard comes in to enjoy a relaxing bath. He smells a bit like the kitchens. He gives a nod to the others that are there as he starts to undress, "Hello all. Hey T'ral how are you doing? Did you solve your lady trouble yet?" He asks as he tugs off his shirt.

Nika looks out after Renalde with a shrug, but her attention is back on her unofficial dragonhealing padawan, with a squeal of greeting her tiny arms wrap around the senior weyrling. "If it's her off day, T'ral, you can boink her all you want." After all, that's what rest days are for. "Look. You'll need a way to…" Releasing the male she does some mini-pelvic thrusts in the air, "release tension. Especially after a threadfall… and all that time in the infirmary." Nevermind how she releases that tension, there are several men who kill anyone who looked at her in that way. "And I dunno have any complaints about ya. You have a lot of learning to do, but that's good. We all still have learning to do." Her normal beaming smile having turned quite serious by the end. But then there is at new person, and a tiny finger points at Beauregard as her smile returns, "Who are you? Are you new? Where are you from? Do live here now? You smell like bread. Do you love Southern? It's awesome, isn't it?" Round eyes turn on the unknown male expectingly.

Beauregard looks up as he hears the woman and he chuckles a little bit as he finishes undressing and he heads into the baths. He gives a smile, "I'm Beauregard, what's your name, love? I've been here a couple of months. I'm from Fort Hold. I do live here and I'm working in the kitchens. That's why I smell like bread. I'm a Senior Apprentice Baker. It has become my very favorite place. How about you? What's your story, love?"

T'ral lowers his head watching Renalde leave from under his brow, eyes Thread-hot, She doesn't deserve this and you know it. You will not hold this over her. How he'd make sure the wrong-headed Headman would see reason he didn't know. Beauregard enters and gets full measure of angry glaring before T'ral blinks and schools his face to politeness, "Not exactly, Beauregard." The hug would be most welcome if not for the nakedness, T'ral tenses, "This is, uh…" most inappropriate. Scrubbed and pink already, his ears and neck go even more red at Nika's words. However much he agrees with her. He relaxes when she lets him go. Why didn't I find a weyr with a bath? He blinks down at the other bluerider, "You make my points for me, Nika." T'ral flicks a glare up at the door, "I don't know why I bother." He listens to Nika's barrage of questions, a grin quirking the corner of his mouth as he -finally- gets back to the business of bathing. Soapsand, water, scrubbing. He listens to Beauregard's answers. Not too much new information, but he blinks at the return… what WAS Nika's story? He cocks his head, scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing as, eyebrows raised, he awaits her reply.

T'ral is red? Nika doesn't notice. Getting hugged by Nika is about as dirty as getting licked in the face by a puppy. Naked or not. "OOoo…Beaurrrrregard." The 'r' rolled for an extended time as she swirls the name around her mouth. "That's pretty. Mm. Bread. Of course you love it!" The tiniest bluerider falls into the water with a fit of giggles, as if not loving Southern would just be absurd. But then she's pulled herself together and she's staring real hard at the baker her smile as naked as her body. "I'm Nika, to At-man. He's a blue dragon. We're dragonhealers." As for the whole of their story. Well. "We're 400 turns old. Well. I'm 423."

Beauregard gets some soapsand as he starts to scrub his body having no problem openly admiring Nika's body. He smiles, "Thanks, how could I not love Southern. Warm weather, wonderful food, beautiful ladies and handsome gentleman. A paradise on Pern if there was ever one." He ahs "You are one of those riders that's jumped ahead that must be pretty exciting, getting to jump ahead just like that. I bet you've brought a lot of much needed knowledge with you. I make more then bread, although my bread would melt in your mouth. I enjoy making sweet treats." Beauregard turns to T'ral, "I'm sorry to hear that you still have the lady trouble. I hope that it works out for you."

If that puppy outranks you. So. There's that. T'ral shakes his head, grinning. Talk of At-man is certain to bring a smile, T'ral flicks a look to the baker, "At-man is great." And back to Nika, "How is he?" Last T'ral knew things were fine. But you really couldn't take things for granted. At Beauregard's condolence, he shrugs, head cocked a look of frustration flickering across his brow, "She's not the problem." Scrubbing, scrubbing, scrubbing. He moves to the side of the pool, dunking under as he goes and surfaces so he can grab the long-handled scrub brush at the side.

Nika nods knowingly, "Yah. At's the best. He's all healed up now. A little back burn isn't going to keep us down. Not when we have stuff to do and life to live." Turning her sing-songy voice to the baker with a giggle she continues, "Yah. I guess. No matter where we are dragons need healing. Only now, with thread coming… here…" She shakes her head, who knows, either way soon it will be for good, "Its like dragon healers are more needed, you know? We came to live and help." She points a finger and Beauregard, "And you keep us fed. We all have our part." Right? Right. Which brings her back to T'ral. "T'ral. T'ral! There is no problem. If you do your stuff, which right now is being a senior weyrling and soon to be a rider…and then a real dragonhealer trainie if you want…and she does her…" Arms flail about in the air cause she doesn't know who the girl is, "Things, then what you do in your spare time is okay… and, AND if it's… you know… relaxing you… then it really is her doing even more of a duty to Pern." Get you some, T'ral.

Beauregard smiles, "I look forward to meeting him one day, hopefully soon." He nods, "I've heard about that and all ready volunteered to be on the ground crew." He smiles as he continues to wash, "Well fed if I had my way, pretty soon I'll be cooking up my journeyman meal and then the real fun will begin I'll be allowed to cook on my own and maybe in time be in charge of one of the meal shifts. From there the sky's the limits." He looks from Nika to T'ral back to Nika, "She has a point if you do your duty then things are bound to work out for you and if not there are many other beautiful women."

Quietly slipping into the baths, Sori remains equally quietly as she slips out of her dirty, ash filled clothes and into the bathing pool. It's been a long time since work has caused her to bruise, and the one she has now is a lovely deep black tinged with purple and green. Sori will just sit here and soak to get the fine metal particulates out of her pores.

"Glad to hear it," T'ral dunks again, then swaps out the netted sand for a coarser grade, scrubbing his head. Arms raised, folks can get a good look at the long twisting scar on T'ral's belly, starting on his ribs and twisting onto his belly. It's nasty looking, raw and pink, but doesn't seem to cause any pain, given how freely T'ral moves. He's frustrated with all the advice that repeats just exactly his point and this comes out, "I do my duty. And I take my… rest. It shouldn't be a problem." As much as he'd like to set the record straight about how NOT simple this was, Prymelia's troubles are hers to share, not his. Even though he's relatively sure Nika could help him sort it out, one way or another. Sneakily wise as she is. Effervescent guru. He sighs at Beauregard, "If beauty were the only factor, baker, you'd be right." His brow furrows at yet another bather entering the pool that was supposed to have been quiet. Soap trickles into his eye, "Ow," but not before he spies Sori's great blotch of a bruise. He leans over, scooping water into his face, asking, "Great stars, are you okay?"

"Beautiful?" Nika's little face squishes up at Beauregard, "Beatiful!?" And then there's a tiny fist shaking in the bakers face as she's hopped across the pool up into his personal bubble. "You think that's all life and love is about? Life and love - their beautiful and they are ugly, but it doesn't matter which one it is. It's all worth it. You got me? Women and life." Her brows furrowed as all 4' 11" of her screws up in anger at the man. Be terrified. Only tne Sori is there and she melts into laughter and happiness, "Sori! Sori! Sori!" Singing the name she waggles fingers in the direction of the bruised person. "How are you?!" And then back to the weyrling with a sudden moment of delight. "Oh! Maybe I can help! Or not. I really don't know how this will help at all. Except that it will make you more busy… totally more busy. Oh! Except… What if I told you I could order you to have fun?" She blinks. "Sort of. Only indirectly. But I bet we could talk Ari into helping…" Her nonsensical babble pratters off as she doesn't wait for an answer but starts back to the side of the pool where her half soaked clothes lie.

Beauregard looks down at Nika and he smiles, "Women are beautiful, unique, mysteriously and wonderful there is nothing to get upset about. I love all women, although they do not all love me. I would not be so crass as to judge someone based on their physical appearance alone. Some women have an inner fire that pales the physical appearance and makes them more radiant then the sun." He smiles, "I totally agree with you Nika, we must live life to the fullest and experience everything that we can. You are very cute when you get angry." He says before he dunks himself in the water to get off the soap and he starts to rub his hair. He winces as he sees the bruise on Sori and he frowns, "Did someone hurt you?" He asks with a frown before he looks over at T'ral, "If you'd like some help I'll help. Nothing like a romantic dinner for two under the stars. I could pack you a basket with all the trimmings."

"Nope, dropped an anvil on myself," clumsy Sori is not really clumsy at all, "It doesn' hurt," really. Back to soaking because it does feel good to feel the dirt, and stuff from the smithy loosen up. She'll attack the grime in a bit. Nika is given a giggle and a finger wave, "Hi Nika," and back to soaking because hello? Forges are dirty, T'ral is given a grin, "Well sometimes relationships can be tricky," after all she's been working around that little knot of frustration with a fellow apprentice for a while now, "I like to think things sort out eventually," because she's cautiously optimistic about everything.

If ever there were a well-matched pair, it was At-man and Nika. T'ral grimaces at the woman's wrath, meted out on a poor (relatively) new resident of the weyr. But Beauregard holds his own. His eyebrows hike up at the declaration of Nika's angry cuteness. It's undeniable, really, the cuteness. But… not something T'ral would say. T'ral winces, nodding at Sori's explanation, "Looks awful," ah, heh, smoooth. Harper in the house. Former Harper it should be noted. "A soak'll do… it… good." Right. Sheeze. And then Nika's all up in his business. He looks hopeful at first, Nika was one of the people he'd considered going to, but hope turns rapidly to alarm as she rambles on, "Ah… with all thanks, ma'am, I rather thi- Arianne? Help with what?" He looks wary and unsettled. It may be time to leave. At Sori's commiseration he nods, grateful. That's his hope too. Beauregard's offer has his complete attention, "Let's talk about that later." If there's a later to speak of. He squints, scrubbing lather into his hair and wondering what he could barter for such a dinner. The picnic he'd packed had been fine, but a crafted one… that would be terrific.

"Yes, yes, Ari! My wingleader…" Nika is back to mumbling as she fumbles through her clothes, shirt tossed one direction, then pants in the other, the latter landing with a splash in the water. And then she's found her jacket and her jacket pockets. "Ah-Ha!" Yanking a wrinkled up, matted knot from the inside, she bounces back over to the senior weyrling. "Here! This is for you! See. You're going to be one of us. I might as well give it to you now! Then Arianne can order you to hand out with your girlie friend on your day off. Then you have to. Then Renalde can't say nuthin' bad. Cause it is your duty if its an order." Okay. So, maybe there are a few holes in the plan but its a start. And the knot is being lifted up toward the taller, not a weyrling anymore. You been tapped son! "Put it on! Put in on!" Naked. Yah. Wearin' nothin' but a knot. That's going to be HAWT.

Beauregard ahs, "Sorry to hear that. I hope it doesn't cause you too much discomfort." He nods to T'ral, "Sure whenever you want." He rinses out his hair and wipes the water away just in time to see T'ral get tapped, "Well, there you go, problem solved. If only all such life's probably can be handled so easily."

Into the steam goes mildly a redheaded weyrwoman; she pauses only slightly at the threshold of the sight of Nika forcing a knot onto T'ral. "Only in Southern," heralds from the lips of Bailey as she shakes her head and doffs clothing in a quiet, competent manner. Nothing to see here; these are not the breasts you are looking for, carry on.

Sori pulls her supply of sweetsand over and starts to the process of cleansing the grime away, "Eh, it doesn't hurt," now that is, "I'm just waiting for it to fade," Sori is sometimes too stubborn for her own good, "Oh, congratulations T'ral," she says with a grin, then a duck under the water to rinse. Look at all that dirt billowing away what fun.

T'ral nods at Beauregard. He goes under as Nika scrambles for her clothes and so he's wiping his eyes clear when he opens them onto a tiny fistful of Serval knot. "I… wh-" He's blinking at the knot. He takes the rumpled knot from Nika, grinning, throat unexpectedly tight. He'd fly with Nika and Atmanth. An Caelth and Arianne. Br'er, Inlayraith. He coughs as he works out how to, "Thanks," to Sori. How to hang the knot on… he cocks his head. Oh. Bailey. My boyhood crush. Great. "Afternoon, ma'am," T'ral says, fending and not-fending off an insistent bluerider. "I'm working on it…" Hang on! He gets it more or less settled and, despite the protocol of the baths, snaps a salute at Nika, unable to keep a dopey grin off his face. "Thank you, ma'a- Nika!" Oh. Wait. They're peers. He scoops the bluerider up into a hug and squeezes her guts out.

Nika's just sitting there cheering him on as he tries to get the knot on, only sparing a moment to waggle happy fingers at Bailey, "Junior weyrwoman!" Is sung, "I'm tapping T'ral." In a way of unnecessary explanation as the boy is trying to put his new knot on in the buff. "Yah! T'ral! Serval is the Beeeeee…." Only the 'sstttt' is squished out of her in a happy lack of air as she's taken in a naked bear hug! Tiny arms wrap around the male as much as they can. Once released she falls into giggles. "Serval is the best wing ever…No offense." Is given sideways to the goldrider, then back to T'ral, "But its totally true. We fly like this." Arms spread out and she goes slow running around the bath, then up the stairs grabbing her wet clothes as she flees the pool. The fake sound of wind being pushed through her nose as she streaks out, "See you at drills tomorrow!" Her voice fades out the door.

Beauregard smiles, 'Congratulations T'ral." He adds in his and he nods to Bailey as she comes in to be polite, "Hello." He leans back to relax a bit and laughs as Nika heads out the door, "Well she's quiet a character isn't she." He looks to Sori, "From the size and color of it it looks like it's going to be a while before that fades out."

"Not in public, I hope," comes Bailey's dry return to Nika's declaration of… tapping. She moves into the water shamelessly, smirking after the bluerider's dramatic flight of exit. "That's Nika for you." Must be to the room at large. Her eyes shift to T'ral and her smile crooks: "Congratulations, T…'ral." She's still not used to all of the names, all the time passing notwithstanding. "Serval is the best fighting wing in the weyr." It helps that Serval works tightly with Puma, most likely, for that particular thought. She nods to Beauregard and Sori as she passes by to collect space in a corner, with her soapsand and her suds.

Bailey is given a nod, "I've had bruises like this before. Probably a month or two?" Sori says to Beauregard. She'll finish scrubbing clean, and slip out so she can go get some rest.

Beauregard nods to Sori and he gives her a friend wave as she heads out, "See you around." He nods, "So I have found out. I'm Beauregard, senior apprentice baker. It's nice to meet you." He says with a smile as he just relaxes right now in the water. He's had a long day in the kitchens and is content just to soak at the moment.

Pride glows in the weyrlin- the Serval Wingrider's eyes. But he's… T'ral is dumbfounded. The Serval roster cycling over and over through his head. Dumbfounded. No less so for the whirlwind that is Nika and her knot-dropping. He waves at Nika's departing tush… Ah… eyes averted. "See you at drills. Less of you… hopefully." He grins and then goes scarlet, mouth dropping. "I totally just …she was…" Mental facepalm. "Th-uh, thank you, ma'am," T'ral stammers, still a bit at a loss. And who does he want to tell? Prymelia. He clears his throat, "Oh. I shoulda… introduced, ah." He's blinks between the remaining folks in the baths.

Bailey scrubs, because that is what one does in these kinds of situations. She's overheard Beauregard's self-introduction, so her eyes flicker to T'ral with a bit of amusement. "Come on now, you can't be turning red every time you see someone naked." Beat. "Especially not in the wing that you're in." Cryptic comments GO. To Beauregard after T'ral's latter comment: "I think I've seen you around recently. Bailey," self-introduction with a wry slant of lips.

Beauregard nods, "I just recently transferred from Fort a couple of months ago. More opportunities here in the Southern kitchen then in the northern ones." He smiles at T'ral, "Don't worry I don't think you did anything that will have consequences later. Although you were hugging her pretty tightly." He teases the blushing T'ral.

T'ral slips the knot off of his shoulder and looks at Bailey, "This. This is an honor, ma'am." He clears his throat, "Ah. Thanks, for picking me." Back then, as a Candidate. A turn gone, but that day had changed everything. And set the new shape of his life. He grins a little ruefully at Beauregard AND Bailey, "I fear for whatever shreds of propriety Candidacy and weyrlinghood have left me with. Father always did give Riders more, ah, consideration." He shakes his head, "I think I'll understand that even more very soon." Oh, boy, will he. He hops out of the pool, snaring a towel and wrapping it around his waist. He snags another to begin drying off, knot still held in his hand.

Bailey shakes her head after T'ral. Her smile is inwardly-turned. "It's a duty, T'ral, not an honor." The difference between a son and his father. There's not much to obscure which Bailey is most familiar with. She sketches something of a salute to him as he leaves, eyes drifting off of his retreating form after a moment to find Beauregard. "How do you find Southern from Fort? It's been a few turns since I've walked the stone halls."

Beauregard nods to T'ral and then turns to Bailey as she addresses him, "Well the weather is better for one. I am enjoying it. I'm getting ready to start to plan out my journeyman project. I'm hoping to do something sweet that a lot of people can enjoy."

T'ral's head pops out from the towel where he's scrubbing. "They're not mutually exclusive by my lights, ma'am." There are slight changes to how the young man speaks that aren't Benden and aren't Harper… an odd easy gentility. Esanth, more than likely. He slings on the clean drawers and pants he'd brought, but pauses, looking at the green weyrling uniform shirt. Holding it out he purses his lips, blinking. Finally rolling it and tossing it over his shoulder. Green wasn't really his color. He laughs at Beauregard's repeated (they'd been here a while) approval of the weather, "This is winter." He shakes his head. "Better gird yourself for Summer, Beauregard. The flip side of this is beastly hot. Humid." He holds out a forestalling hand, not to be a downer, "Just so you're prepared."

"Mmmm. Sweet." Bailey tastes the word as she considers Beauregard for a longer moment. "You'll have some stiff memories to compete with. We've had our host of delicious foods from cooks past and present," she mildly comments. It doesn't take her long to be done - especially with her hair still vividly short - and she's utilitarian in drying herself afterwards. "It was nice to meet you, Beauregard," she comments to the boy, nodding once to T'ral: "Congratulations again." She gathers her dirty clothes, offers a slight smile to the guard by the door of the baths, and pads out on bare feet to the weyr at large.

Beauregard hmms, "Why you come from a hold that's under the snow for at least half the year if not more sometimes having all the hot weather." He lifts up his hands, "Well I think that I've had enough too." He gets out to dry off and get dressed. He nods politely to Bailey, "it was nice to meet you Bailey." He finishes dressing, "Congrats again I hope this alleviates your lady troubles."

T'ral pulls on his boots, shrugs into an undershirt and gathers up the rest of his bits and bobs, grinning at the knot all the while. He nods a farewell, "Thank you, ma'am," He nods agreement at Beauregard, "Just fair warning." He's walking out and turns at Beauregard's comment, "Thanks." He laughs, "That's unlikely, but it can't hurt." He winces, I think it can't hurt. "Say, have you ever considered cake that's a kind of paste?" If he had the vocabulary he'd probably find that he was talking about mousse or something like it. "Let's talk later. And thanks for the offer of that dinner. I'll take you up on it as soon as I'm able." The newly tapped Serval Wingrider strides out. T'ral's not one to swagger. But it's there. If you look.

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