==== November 3rd, 2013
==== E'don, Qianvaelth, D'tri, Chorzeczoyth, T'ral, Esanth
==== E'don, D'tri and T'ral feed dragons in the Training Grounds.

Who E'don, Qianvaelth, D'tri, Chorzeczoyth, T'ral, Esanth
What E'don, D'tri and T'ral feed dragons in the Training Grounds.
When Afternoon
Where Southern Weyr

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Training Grounds
A broad and sheltered swoop of bowl lies bare for the talons and tread of countless weyrlings that-will-be, encased by stone scoured and scarred by those-that-were. Dirt lies as neatly as dirt can lie, swept and raked daily, at the mouth of the caverns that must indubitably be the weyrling barracks. Devoid of decoration, the place stands strangely absent of pressence when empty, the everpresent wind of Southern giving strange acoustics to those under the shelter of the towering bowl-wall.

The cut-with-a-knife stifle of humid summer has yet to lift from Southern Weyr, even though Hannah once told E'don that it was nearing autumn. Well, the weyrwoman must have been a LIAR, because it's still hot, so stifling hot everywhere, that the only place that has even the hint of a breeze would be outside. The training grounds seem to fit that definition, with enough space for growing dragons and their hot, miserable riders. Feeding time seems to have been moved to be an outside activity today, and E'don sits on a piece of overturned rock near the edge of the grounds, pulling out bits of entrails and fat from a tin bucket to slice into smaller segments. Qianvaelth, a victim of what looks like an overnight growth spurt, is waiting patiently for his meal, claws firmly rooted into the ground as he waits, tree-like for his mid-morning snack. The pair looks obviously heat-sleepy, sweat-plastered hair matted to his forehead, and his clothing? Oh, they are sweat-stained. Alas.

T'ral comes out of the barracks, lugging a bucket of viscera, Esanth in tow. His natty green shirt is open down the front, untucked. Hair plastered to his head. He grimaces up at the sky and shakes his head. Autumn. And morning? Where were the brisk breezes? The turning leaves? The little blue is bandaged as normal, green ichor darkening the bandage. After chow, a bath, and the dressing will need changing. For now. It's mess time. Esanth plods along stoically, surveying his domain. The whole effect ruined by frequent tripping. "Hey, E'don." T'ral has been ebullient, very little of the snarly Charlie he'd been with D'tri some days before. He goggles at Qianvaelth, "Is he bigger?! I think I could watch him grow!"

Qianvaelth's branches stretch into a cold, star-washed void. Adapting to his clutch brother's mindspace, Esanth becomes a tiny, bright presence alights upon the branches, shifting from a strange metallic contraption to a blue-gray bird hopping from branch to branch. « Mornin' squirt. »

Slicing? Screw slicing. From out of the barracks, not long after T'ral exits, a thing comes flying through the air! It's… a leg, of sorts. A big hunk of meat. The femur's still in it, though the skin's been removed, leaving it hard to tell exactly what it belonged to before it was severed from the rest of its body. It hasn't even landed yet before what threw it in the first place goes chasing after it — the by now 11 feet long Chorzeczoyth darts out of the barracks and after the chunk of food, claws digging deep into the dirt as he BOUNDS his way on disproportionately thin limbs. Some of the dirt goes flying, inevitably, towards bystanders. D'tri? Hasn't quite made his way out yet, though his voice does eventually make it there before he does. "Very FUNNY!" A pause. "No, really! VERY FUNNY, I mean it! Good job!" Oh, the thin line between genuine amusement and exasperation. The life story of a badly adjusted Weyrling.

"T'ral" E'don responds back with a clipped greeting, hands plunged deep into the pale of guts; he seems to be fulfilling a quiet request, eyes locked on Qianvaelth as he digs until he pulls out a length of tripe for his dragon. The bronze, now just as long as Chorzeczoyth, but probably twice as bulky at this point, extends his head forward to delicately take the piece of stomach and intestine from his rider's bloody hands, before whipping it around his muzzle with a bloody *splat*. It's sure to spray humors everywhere. "Every day. Every damn day I wake up and there's more of him to feed and oil," the weyrling gripes with a wince as blood speckles across his face from his dragon's whipcord movements, "If you want, you can definitely oil him to make up for Esanth's growth if you're missing that part." He throws a teasing look at the blue rider, before his gaze moves off to watch D'tri with a raise of brows. "They're in top form today. Not just Qian." Spray, spray, spray. Qian is still twirling intestines in a lazy circle back and forth over his muzzle. Make it raiiiinnn.

Qianvaelth extends his sapling boughs to the Esanth's metallic presence, his whipcord branches seemingly longer and thicker than the day before. His tree creaks, a soft susurration of lazy greeting towards his smaller brother, autumnal leaves of orange and russet fire shaking together in a whispering samba. «Esanth» he echoes with a hollow tenor, notes of gravel and bark rounding out a once high pitched lilt. «You have grown.»

After a soldi month of this - dirt, ichor - it's becoming old hat. T'ral brushes off the dirt of Chorzeczoyth's mad dash and wipes the ichor splatter from his brow. He settles down out of Qianvaelth's 'splash zone' as much as is possible. Before tucking into that yummy barrel, he plucks at his shirt, dotted with dark spots. "You know, I hadn't considered that green was a utilitarian choice." He's done prep inside and has a set of shears to cut the partially butchered meat into smaller chunks. Esanth fans his wings and rears up, he's big too. Big ya hear? His eyes are whirling red with hunger and as soon as T'ral goes to the bucket, his attention is riveted. "I can give you a hand, if you still need it after baths." Despite his ambivalence towards the rider, T'ral rather likes Chorzeczoyth. He grins at the madcap rush of the spindly-legged bronze. Elbow deep in guts, a nod and a wry grimace down at the squelching noise, "I think Chorzeczoyth's on to something there."

Esanth hop, hop, hops from branch to branch, whirring hum in his quick movements. He is pecking at the branches, eating invisible things. « Yup. You too. You okay? » The bird pauses, head cocking one way then another. Beady eyes blinking.##

The moment the chunk of meat Chorzeczoyth is chasing after hits the dirt is the moment said bronze is on top of it, wings a-twitching wider as he grabs hold of it between beakish jaws. Once D'tri's approached close enough to catch sight of the two other Weyrlings proper, he hardly even seems to pay his own monster any mind - focusing instead on T'ral and E'don. The splatter brings a grin to his face, but a quick run of his eyes over the bandages on Esanth seem to keep it from widening as far as usual. "Tits. What happened to you?" This probably in reply to the bandages moreso than the splatter, because the next thing he does is duck to the side to hide behind Chorzeczoyth's shoulder the moment he spots humor flying. The bronze is all too happy to oblige, lifting the uncut leg as high up in the air as if can manage while it trots slowly forward, his eyes swirling a curious blue and green while a 'krraw' noise manages to make it past the meat.

Chorzeczoyth does little to reach out, his mindscape a quiet red and white of once-ruined forest, its reflection in a still, nigh-lifeless lake doubly silent on top. An inky black //thing is the only thing that moves between the leaves, but even then only out of the proverbial corner of one's eye, and in short bursts. Watching.//

"I'm fine getting him oiled on my own." E'don responds curtly, leaning forward to try and grab at that swinging piece of visera with a deepening frown. "Qian, cut it out?seriously?pleck!" The swinging piece of intestine slaps right up against the side of the weyrling's jaw, leaving E'don with a nice, bloody streak down the front of his face. He shoots an exasperated look to D'tri and T'ral both, belabored sign making his boney shoulders rise towards his ears. "Yeah, where did those bandages come from?" he asks for good measure, drawn to Esanth's bandages with a curious cock of his head, eyes darting to D'tri with a slightly accusing look. "I wouldn't let him move that much if there's still ichor leaking, though. I can't imagine it'd be all that good for 'em."

Qianvaelth holds himself as still as a mighty oak tree, boughs steady against his brother's fleeting ministrations. The soft whispers of breeze-dancing leaves belies Qianvaelth's overall enjoyment of his blue brother's attention, save for the turn of autumn sunlight, which dapple further away from his glen, towards the shifty movement of Chorzeczoyth on the periphery of his mental landscape. « I am okay. Why would I be anything but?» There's a lapse in silence, as if in quiet examination of the question asked. «You wear bandages. Why?»

« I won a bet. » The whirring slate-blue feathers of Esanth's bird-presence fluff up.

"He lost a bet." T'ral shakes his head, tossing a hunk of meat at Esanth who snags it out of the air with a grinding grunt. T'ral fixes him with a steady look, "Lost. Short version, we've got one less stool. Shorter version: Don't let Iaxryth offer odds on anything."

« Won. Iaxryth said he didn't think I could collect a stool sample afore T'ral got back. » The little bird preens. An image of the dragonet's foreleg and headknobs trapped in a stool flickers. A splintered rung poking into his side. « He was wrong. »

"You know, when I lose bets, I don't usually end up causing anyone bodily harm." D'tri pipes up from behind Chorzeczoth, who suddenly springs away to go happily prance his way over to Qianvaelth. Apparently he's had enough to eat, because that chunk of meat is promptly dropped from his chompers so he can lean his head forward to push his nostrils right onto the other bronze's shoulder with a WHUFF of breath. "Now, dignity's another story! Though I think I may've dropped most of mine a while ago, in a dark alley somewhere in," he freezes for a moment, eyes tracking his bronze as he smacks a hand over a cheek and rubs at his face, "In old Bitra. Doubt it's still there for the taking. But then again. Who'd pick it up, eh." His smirk twitches slightly wider, as though that was a joke, before disappearing entirely under an expression that's far more tired looking.

The keen-eyed creature in Chorzeczyoth's influence remains, but remains out of sight as it's focused on. The lake comes to life instead, a myriad of white ashes falling onto it to send tiny ripples along its surface. So subtle of a thing in contrast to the earth-shaking rumble that follows in the words of « Why are we bigger? Are we better? » Keeping on-topic is not in this dragon's job description.

E'don can't help but reflectively wince, bloodied hands moving to his side with an empathetic glance back over at the blue dragon. "I only bet favors with women. It's far safer that way; relatively." He reaches in for another piece of meat, shoveling it into his dragon's open mouth with a reflective whine. This hand-feeding thing seems to be wearing on the weyrling and his delicate sensibilities. With mouth full and chewing, Qianvaelth moves with a slow and steady turn, back round to meet Chorzeczoyth's beaklike muzzle with a creaking groan, his wedge-shaped head bumping with uncoordinated efforts into his brother's neck. It's definitely an affectionate motion, or perhaps just a pragmatic one, because the blood splattered all over the bulkier bronze's muzzle smears off on his lanker siblings neck. Napkin! "Did they tell you how long it'd take to heal?" E'don asks curiously, eyes locked on Esanth's side with a worrying play of his lips. "Does that mean you're stuck in the barracks until then?" Yes, because E'don wants to know your movements T'ral. HE WANTS TO KNOW.

Qianvaelth meets the dancing of his bronze brother's white ash with a spread of autumn leaves, his sapling branches reaching up and outwards to catch the ashen flecks in the nest of his branches. « We are bigger. » He agrees, warm heartwood lacing his bark-laced tenor. « It is how we are supposed to be made. In the same way Esanth is supposed to be smaller.» There's a bluster of amusement, a whipping gust of wind that clatters his forest into a sudden percussion of creaks a groans. Oh Chorzeczoyth, you so crazy.

T'ral snorts at D'tri's piping. "I didn't make the bet." He gestures at Esanth, who has been is chewing deliberately, head low. His hasty bolting of meals is what caused the upset stomach, which is what caused the constipation, which is what caused 'stool samples' to get mentioned. Neither is interested in a repeat of that fun treatment. T'ral is fragrant still with his own eau d'tri after that. This D'tri, T'ral likes. Tired D'tri. Funny D'tri. Not smug D'tri. "Your dignitity is probably in a museum of oddities." Ruatha's Believe Or Not. Finishing his statement, "He did." He shakes his head at Esanth, inspecting the bandage, with a squint of eyes. "Naw, he'll be fine. Numbweed's got most of it covered. Itchier more than anything else. He got worse falling off the bookshelf." T'ral flexes his hand, still picking up twinges of alarm from Esanth when weight settles on it just the wrong way. To E'don, he ticks off fingers, smeared with ichor and rubs a forearm across his brow, "A little less than a sevenday until the bandages come off. Yeah. I'm too keep him under close watch."

The little metal bird flutters down from the tree to hop along the shore of the dark water, pecking here and there, flipping little stones and pecking at insect life that seethes. « Big seems useful. » He hops up onto a fallen rotting log, a small shiny stone in his beak, his light weight supported easily by the porous dead wood, mechanical whirring. He hop, hop, hops out to where the log rests over the water and drops the shiny rock into the dark depths.

If Chorzeczoyth minds his neck being used as napkin, he doesn't show it. In fact, he only pushes his face into Qianvaelth's hide further, his long tail giving a flick to the side as his strangely broad chest swells. SNIFF. That tail almost manages to club D'tri in the shoulder, as he's on his way to pick up the dropped chunk of meat. It's a good thing turns of practise have kept him limber enough to lean quickly out of the way, but it does seem to help him change his mind on who, exactly, should be doing the carrying. His thick eyebrows lower and stay there as he seems to try and follow the conversation for appears to be failing, grin also failing to come back - either he's having a bad day or this lifestyle change is finally getting to him, indicated further by his shoulders slumping down. For a moment, it looks like he might just sit down right then and there, in the dirt. "I'm… gonna go do a thing." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward the barracks, then starts in a lazy meander towards it. Now

Chorzeczoyth's head draws away from his clutchmate's, to direct a look toward D'tri. He wastes no time in picking up the (now dirt-covered) chunk of meat he brought in, clumsily struggling to get a tight grip on it as he lifts his head up high to juggle it into a more comfortable position, and then hops towards the barracks as well.

Ash falls much more heavily from Chorzeczoyth's mind, onto whatever it manages to catch. The red and white forest fades before its reflection does, bright light overtaking until that, too, dissipates with a boulder-heavy crumble. « Gonna do a nap . » Clarification, ever so eager, is what he leaves with. »

"So no movement outside of the barracks then." There's a conspiratorial hum that E'don emits, and he watches D'tri and his bronze go with a roll of his eyes. "Do you know how often I have to tell Chorzeczoyth to stop sniffing my dragon? It's weird. They're both weird."

Qianvaelth for his own part doesn't mind, letting loose a soft croon as he watches his brother go, attention now turning to the bandaged blue Esanth, homely muzzle reaching out to snuffle about the smaller dragon's paws. There seems to be a curious lilt in the way Qian pokes about his brother, searching for something even. "That must put a damper on your social life then, eh, T'ral?" E'don drawls back, a teasing bit of humor crimping around the edges of his voice. Someone is trying to pry at something. But what? "D'know that girl Prymelia?" He cuts right to the chase, palms wiped against the front of his dark pants. "Y'know, the trader."

Qianvaelth is a rambling bouquet of leaves, following Esanth's march along the periphery of the little bird's march. Roots creep along the edge of the mental pond, skirting away from the depths of inky water for the reprieve of more leafy, drier glens. « Small is useful too. » He opines in soft tenor, wrapping his branches protectively around Esanth's presence, all the more reassuring. « Mine is curious. » He suddenly says, sidetracked by his rider's own thoughts. « Does yours like? » He'a ambiguous—what does he like? Ah, and there's the image, of soft curves and springy branches, flashes of dark curls and straight brown hair. Qian seems to be mixing people together, but it sure is clear. Does T'ral like girls? Particulars, at least to this little bronze, does not matter.

T'ral grins and cuts up more guts in the bucket. He sifts the mess through stiffened fingers, trying to find bits he hasn't made up into small chunks and cutting them down. He chucks bit after bit to Esanth, making sure the little blue chews thoroughly. A snorted laugh for Chorzeczoyth and Qianvaelth. To E'don's lament, "Not a normal one in the bunch, I'd wager." He pauses, cutting eyes at E'don, a grin flashes, "Yeah." He looks down, sheepish, at his bucket of guts. "I know her."

Esanth hops away from the pool and the light, picking his way around the trunk of the great tree, flipping leaves this way and that. « One girl. His Jiamoth. » A constellation sparkles around the little metal bird, like motes of dust caught in a beam of light. The little bird whirs, cocking his head to examine the glittering, tiny beady eyes blink, blink blinking.

"Oh." E'don's response is clipped, albeit curious, and he's rising to pick up the bits and pieces of leftover meat that Qianvaelth hadn't hoovered up. "So you know her. Or you /know/ her?" Head tilts with a well measured beat, watching the blue rider, head tilted sidelong, and he shoots the other weyrling a soft of a lopsided smirk, totally implying /everything./ "Because, well, she's hot. She tried to kiss me once." Whatever E'don is pulling, it's mischievous to boot, and he turns around to pick up the intestine bucket with a grunt. "D'want the rest of this?" He motions to the pail furtively. "Otherwise I'm just going to throw it out."

Qianvaelth 's branches shake with slight agitation, maybe even renewed curiosity and confusion wrapped in this little dragonet's emotions. « But Jiamoth is no one's but her rider's. » His response is pointed and direct, Esanth's sparkling stardust blotted out but the sudden kick-up of forest detris. It's as if Qianvaelth is shooing that idea away— such childish ideas. No one is anyone! « How can you have Jiamoth? »##

« Jiamoth is her own, for certain. » Esanth's little bird tumbles and disintegrates and reassembles far above, strange and angular. The whirring becomes a thrum, a spark high in the sky, unblinking, like the Dawn Sisters, reflecting the light of the unseen sun. « Nobody owns Rukbat. But she brightens our days all the same. »

There are moments where it seems like T'ral couldn't be less like his father. And others where, well… T'ral stills, movements becoming more economic, less, fluid. "I’ll ask you not to speak that way of a lady, E'don." His eyes narrow and then drop to the bucket at E’don offer. His eyebrows go up and the likeness to his father vanishes as if it’d never been, "But, uh, if you've got any eyeballs in there, I'll take 'em." He grimaces and shrugs helplessly. Dragons.

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