| Who | V'dean, Ekerth, T'ral, Esanth |
|---|---|
| What | Blueriders meet in the rain. |
| When | Afternoon |
| Where | Southern Weyr |
Upper Bowl
The graceful sweep of spacious bowl lies scoured clean by an easterly breeze. Detritus is whisked neat to the eastern steppe of the bowl that lies several feet lower than the western plateau. White walls contrast the rough granite of the rivercliffs: the giant maw of the Hatching Cavern lies in the thickest part of the western wall, sheltering the training grounds and weyrling barracks lying nor'west. Directly north lies the leadership courtyard, heavily humid and subtly scented by intrigue.
It's a soggy afternoon in Southern, the storm that's rolled in obscuring the high-above rim in a steely blanket of cloud. Thick, fat raindrops do little to dampen the season's warmth as they smatter across the bowl floor and all within it. Ekerth hardly seems to mind, the drab blue almost seems at one with the dimmer light as he sits neatly nearby the most trafficked path towards the leadership courtyard. Perhaps there's an air of recent conversation lurking about him, as he turns his blunt face up to the weyr openings dotting the whitewalled cliffs above. But at present, he's alone, waiting — his rider but a ponchoed figure amongst those making their quick-stepped way to and from the Weyr Entrance.
T'ral is slogging his way back from the weyr entrance, presumably to the barracks. He's wearing Esanth like a stole, the dusty blue's little wings spread and draped, a living umbrella. Take that, rain! Well, really, the rain is winning. But that doesn't do anything to dampen T'ral's mood. He's whistling a tune as, head down to watch the ground in front of him (and take best advantage of Esanth's umbrella-ness), he makes his way. He stops, jaunty tune trailing off into an appreciative whistle at Ekerth.
There's little reaction at first from the elder blue, even though the wide-view granted by swirling faceted eyes must encompass the nearby arrival. "Blocking the way a bit, isn't he?" instead is noted from behind the weyrling pair. V'dean, following not far behind and swifter due to lack of… umbrella, makes up the distance to come wandering wide around on of the younger man's shoulders. Between the tall leather boots and hooded oilcloth parka, the rider is doing well enough to stay dry. His grin is crisp enough, anyway, as he offers it. "V'dean," is his name given along with the reach of his hand. "Which one are you, then?"
Ekerth may not be looking, but he does ease closer with the dark glossy shine of lamplight on leather. His amusement is as a soft, relaxing creak.
Shifting Esanth's bulk on his shoulders, he reaches out a to return V'dean's gesture, a firm, quick shake and then, back to balance Esanth's bulk. "T'ral and this…" He totters, briefly overbalanced, "This is Esanth." His eyes unfocus and he lets the dragon down, careful not to snag any of the talons in his poncho. They'd learned that lesson. Only a gazillion more. Esanth is pretty roughed up. Nicks, scratches, scrapes. The dragonet scarpers over to go Ekerth, standing on hind legs to look the grown blue in the eyes.
Esanth most definitely is looking. A sense of sweeping lights in a dark void, a little presence hanging in the vast darkness, lit from within, a warm window onto home. «Need a ride? It's cold out there. »
"Well met," says elder bluerider to younger, dimple setting lightly. Recovering his hand, V'dean drags raindamp knuckles under his poncho's hood, unnecessarily smoothing his hair as he turns to watch the weyrling dragon cavort up to his own. "Looks like you two've been having a good time," he wryly notes the dings and scrapes. Ekerth has given up his lofted watch in order to swivel single-lidded regard upon the youngster, mantle-winged pose otherwise steady. "T'ral," his rider is meanwhile placing. "You're the Headman's son." There is, perhaps, some cryptic rue flickering about the expression turned back upon the young man.
Ekerth thinks « Hey kid. » He's cozy like a woolen uniform - a little scratchy, a little formal. « What'cha been getting up to today? »
Nodding at V'dean's assessment, his face is resigned, "Yeah, he's uh, coming into those limbs. Spend half our time in the infirmary. Doesn't seem to slow him down much." He shrugs, whaddya do? At the mention of his father, the weyrling tilts his head back and scratches his jaw. He's gotten used to cryptic rue regarding his father. And other things. "I am."
Esanth lets 'kid' pass. He squirms in the itchy confines, formal, not his bag. Not social-like, anyhow. « We went all the way to the weyr entrance. »
"Why should it," V'dean shrugs along. "I'm hardly one to speak against a bit of youthful rambunctiousness, anyhow," is noted with a touch of a grin upon his lips. Cool green eyes scan over that scritch of jaw, something in the motion putting a greater skew to his smile. The rider's own hands have disappeared into pockets under his poncho. "Must like the guy alright, to come all the way down here to his house." That ruefulness - it's more a knowing glimmer of amusement in his eyes, now, as he loosely sways into a closer lean. "Sorry." At least he has to offer, with a reappearing gesture towards their blues: "You'll be solidly in your own domain, soon enough."
Ekerth has only the barest patronizing trace of stiff-leather. « All that way, huh? You walk out, or catch that ride the whole way? » That umbrella-ride act, which is still scuffing amusement at the elder dragon's edges.
"I didn't know he was here." T'ral looks up at the downpour, letting the fat drops hit him in the face, eyes closed. He shakes his head and sweeps a hand across his brow, "I came for the Harpers." There is a flash of ice at V'dean's 'sorry.' For a moment he strongly resembles the headman. It melts fast enough. "That's never been a concern. You don't live in my father's shadow so much as in his wake." He grins, plenty of rue and a side of… whoa, pride?
Esanth snorts, a creaking of metal and a deep thrum felt below foot, « Walk? » The thrumming grows, a vibrating roar, « I know I don't look like much now, but this body's made for- » the little dragonet fans his mighty two-meter wings and overbalances, klaxons wail and red lights flash, the little warm presence in the darkness is red-tinged… Tump. He falls over. His mindvoice muffled, « Flight. »
This further revelation only serves to twist further at the bluerider's more privately held humor. The frigid stab of a glance doesn't seem to ruffle him much, though it does see V'dean relaxing back into a cozy near-slouch from which to study the younger man who bears such a resemblence to Renalde. "His wake." The ripple of a smirk remains. "What does that mean for you?" he wonders with a touch more than idleness to his curiosity. "Tossed about in the chop? Or dragged along, riding his wave, benefitting from him making the way?"
Ekerth thinks « Sure it is, kid. » There's a fond warmth despite the woolen scratchiness, the elder dragon agreeable despite his scruffed ribbing. « You'll be up there, soon enough. »
He snorts a laugh and cocks his head, fixing the elder rider with a steady look, "Same for you as for me. It all depends if you're pulling your weight or not." He considers and relaxes, studying V'dean critically, but not harshly. Sharp. He admits, "But, uh, I meant the first." He snorts and looks at Esanth, shoulders slumping. He hustles over to give the dragonet a once-over. All clear. He smiles up at Ekerth, and gives him a nod. He walks back to stand shoulder to shoulder with V'dean, looking out into the rain, "But, really, the second is true for all of us."
Esanth thinks « You'll see. »
The steadily given assertion twitches the rider's brows into a bit of a loft. While V'dean isn't inattentive, his study comes from the apparent lackadaisical low-brush of rain catching lashes. Slouched where the younger man is sharp. There's the barest of nods for the weyrling's clarification, likely lost as T'ral goes to check the growing blue. Ekerth is all slow-whirled stoicism to his rider's waiting smirks. "Now let's not go piling us all onto your father's coat-tails," he objects with wry humor upon the other man's return. "As omniscient as they might seem, no man has that great a reach."
Ekerth creaks a chuckle of leather. « I expect I will. »
"Naw, not omniscient." He looks sidelong at V'dean, relaxing a bit, kicking at a stream of water flowing down the path towards the weyr entrance. "Competent. Extremely competent. And," he shrugs, "We all benefit from it." He kicks at the water some more, "I can't say I always agree with his methods," kick again, "But I can't fault his results. From what I hear this place was a ruin half a turn ago."
Esanth's eye lights dim and the thrumming quiets to a soft rumble, felt more than heard. The little blue drops to all fours and makes a circuit of Ekerth, splashing in every puddle.
"Alright," V'dean will grant. He's a little too sly, still grinning a little too much watching from the young man's expression to water kicking, for it to be grudging, but. "I am glad that someone is putting meat on the table, leather in stores, and cleaning up all the shit in between. Though, let me tell you, the first time I tried to take my laundry down… Well." His grin sharpens a moment. Shifting from his stance, he reaches out a friendly slap to the younger bluerider's shoulder. "Time to get out of this rain. I'll see you around, T'ral. Looks like that one is going to keep you out and about." Frolicking Esanth, who he'll go to extricate his watching blue from for the ride up to their weyr.
T'ral stops kicking at the water. "What happened at the Laundry?" Then the older rider is thumping him on the shoulder and taking his leave. He nods at the man's prediction of Esanth's handful-ed-ness, but he's still curious. "Wait…" As the bluerider mounts, he calls, hands cupped around a grinning query, "What happened at the Laundry?" he laughs, shaking his head. To Esanth, "I wonder if any of the weyrlings were around for that."
"Terribly understaffed," V'dean calls down in distraction as he slings his strap of jump leather snug about Ekerth's neck and winds it tight about a fist. "There was…" His grin blooms as the elder blue's dull hued sails spread against the rain. "I'm afraid Jiamoth's rider made a poor washer woman. Perhaps Nora told your father — I gather he gave Cerise the knot that landed her in your weyrling class. His coat tails." Maybe there is something to them? In any case, the rider will tip his free fingers into a salute before they move out to where they won't spray the weyrling pair too much with their launch.
T'ral's eyebrows raise, he hadn't known that Cerise had been Searched by his father. There was such animosity between the two. He raises a hand in salute and farewell to the rider.
Esanth, for his part, is bounding around the space where Ekerth was. In fairness, to call it bounding is … optimistic. He's lurching, tripping, stumbling, hopping. It's the spirit of bounding. T'ral takes note that Esanth likes the rain. "All right, you. Let's get back to the barracks." He's expecting some complaint, but the blue takes off and it's a moment before T'ral can shift his weight to trot after the sturdy little blue.