==== February 16, 2014
====Coora, Br'er, Z'bor, Arianne, Q'fex,T'ral
====Serval riders have a practice in the HEAT of Southern Weyr, only to be called to The Tipsy Kitten to haze two new wingriders, Coora and Z'bor.

Who Coora, Br'er, Z'bor, Arianne, Q'fex,T'ral
What Serval riders have a practice in the HEAT of Southern Weyr, only to be called to The Tipsy Kitten to haze two new wingriders, Coora and Z'bor.
When It is afternoon of the twenty-fifth day of the first month of the first turn of the 12th pass.
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.
It is the eighty-fifth day of Summer and 130 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.


Now that Sidaaeth's strained leg is healed, he's been cleared to resume drills. But there are no drills taking place today, not with the extreme heat wave going through the area. Sidaaeth lies in the shade of the bowl wall, his skin mottled from the heat, along with another dragon of his wing. A third dragon is nearby, while the riders stand in the sun physically walking the flight formation. Coora is practicing being the point of their 'V' shaped wing, her leathers discarded for a light weight dress that flutters about her legs with movement. The other riders are also casually dressed, it being way too hot and humid for full leathers in the sun.

Ozriath lays in the training yard, out of the way. (Not that she /could/ be in the way, wee thing that she is.) She bakes in the sun, emitting thoughts of sleepy contentment. Z'bor rolls his eyes at his green and continues to walk the formation, trying to keep place. He wipes the sweat from his brow, even being caually dressed, there's no escaping the heat. He looks forward, spotting the back of Coora's head, checking his point once more.

Off to the side and observing, Br'er has taken shelter in the accommodating shade of Inlayraith's wing. Half his attention is on the wing; the other half is on some conversation with his dragon: "- No, you're right, it was cooler in Igen. Less, ugh, humid, too." He has his shirt off. It isn't helping much. He'd sent off a note some time ago via firelizard, without comment: the reason for it is soon made apparent when a pair of be-hatted drudges come carrying trays of honey-soaked lemon, and water. COLD WATER. "There we are." Br'er sounds pleased, before raising his voice in a raspy shout: "BREAK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN."

Her appearance isn't late, really. Really! Ari doesn't wind up at every drill. There's meetings and paperwork and all that good stuff. And dragonhealing if she's lucky. And today she has absolutely perfect timing. Why? The cold water is being served just when she lands and dismounts. Huzzah! "Anyone drop from heat exhaustion?" she wonders, finding herself standing beside Br'er, while she lifts a hand to wave at the riders of their wing.

At Br'er's call, Coora promptly veers to the bowl wall, wiping a hand across her face to remove some of the sweat. "Shards, it's hot." Coora's not saying anything new, but she felt the need to repeat the complaint. She seats herself by the wall, waiting while the drudges finish setting up the drinks. She's quick to pour a drink of water, but slow to drink it. "Don't drink too fast," She reminds her wingmates, slowly sipping the water herself. When she finishes her water, she refills her cup and approaches Sidaaeth, to pour the small cup of water into his big mouth.

Z'bor trots quickly over to his dragon and the awaiting water. He sips his first cup slowly, refilling it quickly after. During this process, Ozriath shakes herself from her doe and lifts her head. Z'bor is distant for a few moments, talking with his lifemate. Z'bor makes his way over to Ozriath, and she buts him affectionately with her wedge shaped head. Z'bor slumps against her side, relaxing for a moment as Ozriath unfolds a wing to offer him shade.

"Not so far, but it's early," observes Br'er, with a certain note of macabre amusement. "If it's this hot again tomorrow, I vote rest day." Rest day, hanging out in their nice, COOL weyrs. "Or perhaps practice a disaster drill… down on the beach." He'll bring a beach umbrella! The greenrider watches as the water is distributed, and reaches out to snag a glass from one of the drudges, and a lemon slice as well. Two, actually - one of which he offers to Arianne.

Caelth, on the other hand, is offering nobody any shade. He's too busy watching the other dragons with his eyes narrowed to slits. He's judging, with judgy eyes. And asking questions randomly, like « What was your altitude? » or « Did your cluthmother lift and drop your egg a lot or something? » of those who seemed particularly clueless. Fortunately, by now, most are used to his uhm 'special brand' of questioning. "Thanks." Arianne gives her wingsecond a friendly smile, taking the water and lemon slice in hand. "Agreed. Maybe a disaster drill at night, on the beach. Challenging, and much less hot without Rukbat beating down on us?" Her eyes start to focus on dragon hides and coloring. "Make sure they all take a dip in the lake to cool off!" she calls out.

Sidaaeth gulps the sip of water down. He rumbles a thank you aloud as he bespeaks his rider with his thanks. "Do you want a lemon slice, Sida?" Coora asks aloud, rubbing her free hand along Sidaaeth's eyeridges. He bobs his head and rumbles again, so Coora steps away to grab a couple lemon wedges. She gives one to Sidaaeth, carefully avoiding his teeth with her hand. He closes his mouth and swallows, catching the sour taste of the lemon along with the sweetness. He gives a grumble at the displeasing taste, while Coora giggles. "Guess he's not a fan of lemons." She says to the wingmates.

"Hm, yes. A disaster drill at night, on the beach. And then," Br'er's expression is faintly dreamlike… or maybe he's about to go down from sunstroke, "we can spend the day indoors. Where it's cool and comfortable. And there's baths." Not everyone lives in one of the fancy be-bath'd weyrs, Br'er, don't be a jerk and rub it in. "Now then, before we reconvene, I really need to talk to In'comp about Petenth's straps, I noticed them earlier - don't do anything if you hear screaming -" And he's off, pulling aside a stoned looking bluerider for a Serious Private Conversation.

Z'bor shakes his head. "We're new here, I'll find friends eventually Oz. We seem to be getting along well with T'ral and his… don't forget." He grins as Oriath bobs her head in acknowledgement and agrees. "I know I'm right." He snickers at his green and sips on his water. No lemons for him thanks.

Q'fex swaggers in from the Upper Bowl.

"Petenth. That must be who Caelth is asking if his clutchmom dropped his egg a lot." Arianne muses, as Br'er hauls the bluerider away to have that serious talk with him. "Sure no problem! Used to ignoring strange noises anyway." she eyes her lifemate. Nuff' said. "Indoors. Baths. Mmmmmmm." She approves of the idea, surely. But, time to be social. Or, rather, more social then her dragon is at any rate. "Z'bor. Coora. You're both new to the wing; have you had your lifemates report in to the dragon infirmary yet?"

<All> Sidaaeth senses that: To every end is a beginning, and to every beginning a touch of the end. So it has been and so it forever will be: for a moment, a bare moment, the barest moment of them all, those of old will be touched by an echo of hearthfire and home, a headstrong blast of heat so fierce and strong and proud that it leaves only cold in the wake of it's passing. Brilliant bonfires brighten all of Pern, for only a moment of perfect farewell: and then it is silver, silver and cold, and sudden cries of alarm far in the frozen North. Winter has come… and so with it, Thread. (Aevryscienth)

Sidaaeth rises up suddenly, trumpetting to a message that Coora cannot hear. She panics for a moment, standing stock still and staring at Sidaaeth. "Sidaaeth!" She cries, eyes wide and mouth agape. As Sidaaeth returns to all four feet, he reassures his rider mentally. Coora breathes a sigh of relief, pushing herself against Sidaaeth's hide in a hug.

Arianne goes still when the call echoes through every dragon on Pern. And so it begins. There's even a moment of fear from the young wingleader, but her lips press together determinedly just as Caelth roars a challenge at the sky. At least now all that aggression of his has the proper outlet. "Well, I suppose that puts to rest any questions on the matter. Any of those who had doubt can no longer deny the obvious. But it means we have to make sure our preparations are fully made. So.." Finishing up the glass of water, she hands the empty cup back to the drudge and urges them to carry on their rounds. "Before the disaster drill tomorrow night, arrive early. Pass the word on to others. Full straps check, and when I check in at the infirmary I want to see that all of Serval's dragons have been checked out. Transfers to the wing included." Pause. "Are you both alright?" she addresses, to Coora.

Q'fex had just come to check on any drills going on — or perhaps the weyrlings from the latest clutch — and he was very happily crunching on an apple when Kraakenaeth's message is relayed. "Well," the Weyrleader comments, "I guess I saw that one coming." Ahem. He pauses a few feet off from Arianne on this little walking trek of his — does he EVER use Kraakenaeth as means of transport? The man is ALWAYS walking around — to stand, glassy-eyed in a moment of inward communication.

Coora blushes at Arianne for her overreaction. "Yes, thank you. And we were seen at the infirmary after Sidaaeth hurt his leg." Sidaaeth's strained muscle did not keep him from drills, but he did have to ice and elevate it when not on duty. Coora, however, has not been checked out, so if Arianne wants both dragon and rider looked at, Coora is still delinquent. Coora gives a short bow to the Weyrleader, remaining beside her dragon with a hand pressed to his side for reassurance.

"Weyrleader, sir." Arianne salutes Q'fex crisply once he's in sight. Which is probably closer then the few feet away that he is now. But then, he went all glassy eyed. But whatever. He's saluted as soon as it's appropriate. "Were there really a lot of doubters?" she wonders, brow furrowing a second before Coora gains her attention again. "Good, good. I've a background in dragonhealing and I try to put it to good use for our wing. Which leg was injured, and were you injured along with it?" She's hardly one to talk about others being delinquent regarding their own injuries. That sees to be asked out of simple curiousity.

Q'fex gives a nod to Coora, squinting a look to her brown before turning his gaze to the wingleader. "Arianne. I suppose you've heard," his voice is dry. "High Reaches." His voice doesn't quite sound satisfied, but it definitely has a burr of something that's not necessarily negative to it.

Observe Br'er, over in the corner, dressing down In'comp. When the call goes out, he falters in the harangue; when Inlayraith identifies the source, he stops altogether, ashen faced. He's at too much discreet distance to be overheard, but man, you just KNOW the word his mouth just formed was a certain person's name. But he is a PROFESSIONAL. When In'comp incompetently reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, Br'er's reply is palatably sharp. And he launches reach back into tugging pointedly at a shoddy bit of leatherwork, all the more determined now.

"His right leg, he just landed on it weird. But T'ral and another dragonhealer, a trained one, looked at it and gave us instructions." Coora smoothes her hand along Sidaaeth's side lovingly, but she is sweating profusely in the sun on this exceedingly hot day. She gives Sidaaeth a pat and moves to where the Weyrleader and Wingleader stand in the relative shade. "I think we all heard," She says dryly to Q'fex.

Arianne has absolutely no fond memories of High Reaches Weyr, even if she grew up in a cothold within their coverage area. Which must be why her lips twist into a bit of a smirk at the tone Q'fex is using. "I'm interested in hearing how well they fare. Everyone knows how disciplined they are." Is that, perhaps, a bit of a drawl? Could be! "You'll pass those details on to all the Wingleaders, I hope, sir. It will help us see how we stack up in comparison." She actually hopes to be able to gloat a little. Q'fex will know it, even though she doesn't say it. Any woman who impressed at High Reaches would probably feel the same way. A concerned glance is spares for her wingsecond though, and then a professional and studious look for Sidaaeth's leg. "I didn't see him favor it on landing, so that's a good sign. Have some more water." she suggests, gesturing at the barrels full.

Z'bor salutes the Weyrleader when he makes his appearance. At Arianne's question, Z'bor slowly shakes his head. "We have not yet been…" and he's intterupted by the call. He looks at Ozriath with worry. "Time to test our wits my love. Are you ready?" He is unfocused as Ozriath replies, his eyes looking completely unfocused.

Q'fex squints over at Br'er — there's no possible way he missed that whole little interlude over there — but he doesn't say anything, instead turning back to Coora and Arianne with a tight expression. "It was fairly…" The man drifts off, and he shakes his head. He DOES, however, trade that smirk back to Arianne. "Yes. It will be very… instructional." He glances to Z'bor, offering a slight nod in greeting.

Sidaaeth senses Esanth thinks « Ozriath. Sidaaeth. Get yours to the watering hole immediately. » Across the stars of Esanth's mindscape a tottering baby feline. « Last one there will hear about it. » »

<Local> Sidaaeth senses that: Ozriath shakes herself in nervous unrest. SHe snaps her open wing o her side, exposing her rider to the sun. HEr thoughts are chaos for a few moments as she registers the threat of thread. «It is finally come… THREAD!!» Her mind voice is strangely echo filled, like the deepest thunder of an Istan Hurricane. But even so, she responds to Esanth's taunt, urging her rider up, she wants to be like quicksilver. COME Z'BOR! She says by butting him. She wants to win this!

"Then report in when we're done here, if you would, Z'bor. I like to have a baseline to compare against." Arianne is painfully conscientous about these things. "Oh, absolutely. I'm sure it will be. Instructional, that is." And now she's going to think about it nonstop. It will drive her nuts and she won't get ANY sleep. Which is why… "Okay, you have your orders, wingriders. Cool off your dragons and yourselves and then look over your straps in preparation for tomorrow." She needs a DRINK.

<Local> Sidaaeth senses that: Sidaaeth thinks « We come. » Sidaaeth stretches his wings and stands, much slower than the sleek green. Coora nods at Arianne and salutes Q'fex before setting down her cup and returning to Sidaaeth's side. She mounts up and Sidaaeth takes two running steps across the grounds before leaping into the air. « We come! »

<Local> Sidaaeth senses that: Ozriath manages to get Z'bor up on her back and they are off! Ozriath speeds along the ground to follow the others quickly gaining ground. Z'bor mentally notes to get Ozriath in to be seen. But he can't say anything for the air flying past his face with Oz's speed. «We come too! Time fr a swim!» Ozriath is back to her happy bubbly self, emitting ure joy in the speed of the chase.

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 is the eighty-fifth day of Summer and 130 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.

<Local> Sidaaeth senses that: Sidaaeth thinks « Beat you! » Sidaaeth bugles to Ozriath, backwinging his way into the upper bowl, as near to the weyr entrance as he can. When Coora is dismounted and off through the door, Sidaaeth moves away from the entrance, trumpeting to Ozriath and Z'bor again. « I apologize, that was rude. »

The Tipsy Kitten
Here there be drunkards: a marble bar and the gorgeous array of colored bottles behind it would be enough to draw them in, but more yet lures those to enjoy the recreation the Kitten has to offer. Windows allow light to naturally illuminate the first floor of the tavern in the daytime, while green-tinted glows shine after nightfall. A door behind the bar leads to the tiny kitchen, while a stairway leads above to the rooms available for rent. Among the hubbub and the ruckus, a calamity of tables scatter through the open space, plenty enough for dragonpoker tournaments on restday eve.

The long shutters of the windows of the Kitten are thrown open to let in any of the meager breeze. At best, it means that the air can at least circulate. Outside the insect noises of the jungle rise and fall. Tables and chairs normally scattered throughout the room have been shoved to the sides leaving an open space. Riders, Serval riders ring the open space in the center of which are two chair facing each other. The riders are watching the door with expectant looks.

Coora jogs her way through the weyr to The Tipsy Kitten. She arrives, panting from the heat and exertion, and looking around in confusion. There's a crowd of wingmates, but Coora looks for T'ral, as his dragon was the sender of the message Sidaaeth heard. She skids to a stop just inside the door, searching.

Z'bor slides off Ozriath and jogs slightly after Coora into the Kitten, almost running into his wingmate. Apollogies are stalled on his lips as he too notices the stares of his fellows. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and Z'bor goes perfectly still, brown eyes leery and watchful.

T'ral is off to one side amongst the riders. He gives a nearly imperceptible nod at the chair when Coora finds him in the crowds. Dark eyes flicker when a voice rings out, "Take a seat." P'irar, a brown rider who flies anchor on a lot of the formations steps to the front and center, bootheels grating on the floorboards.

Coora pants in a breath and walks towards the chairs, taking a seat in the closest one. Once seated, she looks back to Z'bor, waiting to see what he does. There's an assumption that the other chair is for him, since they were called here together.

Z'bor follows orders and sits, though he's ramrod straight and on alert. Something fishy this way comes. He looks at Coora, his sweat sheened face relaying his tension. Then slowly, he looks back to the crowd in front of him.

Riders shift here and there throughout the room, it's hot and sticky. The floor creaks. Outside the insect noises rise and fall in a steady grind. P'irar folds his arms over his chest, sweat rings… heck sweat swaths, along his sides. The brownrider looks from Coora to Z'bor. From Z'bor to Coora. He blinks. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, over the curve of a cheekbone. He just… looks.

Coora looks back at Z'bor, giving a little shrug. But as they continue to be stared at, Coora begins to shift in her seat, the sweat dripping down her cheeks like tears.

Z'bor can't supress the shiver that runs down his spine as his skin crawls with anticipation. He watches the bead of sweat trickle down P'irar's face, his sense in hyperfocus because of the silence. What the hell is this? The question is just written across his sweat sheened face. He knots his hands into fists and stretches them out again, nerves creeping up on him like a tunnel snake in the dark.

"WHAT is Serval?" P'irar's voice breaks the silence, the tall man emphasizing the question, with a palm open before him. The gathered riders shift. The brownrider's eyes look at Z'bor. Coora. An eyebrow raises.

Coora shifts again, eyeing P'irar in disbelief. "The best wing in the weyr?" Coora answers, taking a wild guess at the appropriate answer. She's too old for this kind of thing, having been through hazing rituals before. Not that she knows for sure, yet, that this is one. It's just a half-formed guess.

"Serval is best!" Z'bor blurts out, Faranth knows he's heard it enough. Is this to be a test then? He wonders, relaxing his hands on his knees. He has no idea what's going on here, having never been cornered quite like this before. He darts a look at Coora and back to the crowd.

"Are you sure, Coora? You don't sound sure." Then Z'bor blurts out his answer. The brownrider tips his head towards Z'bor. "Him, he sounds a little more certain." Arms fold again across the brownrider's chest.

"Well, I wasn't sure if that was the kind of answer you were looking for. It could have been a description of the wing, or an explanation of the animal, or…" Coora's voice fades off as she realizes everyone is staring at her for her audacity to answer so longwinded.

Z'bor relaxes a little as Coora is longwinded but not much. Ozriath rumbles from without disturbed by her rider's tension. Z'bor sends cooling thoughts, nothing has harmed him… yet. He sits at attention, ever the duitful rider, only his stance and his eyes giving away his worries.

Someone's tittering in the back is cut off by what was probably an elbow to the ribs. P'irar's arms drop to his sides, "Pah. I didn't as what is a Serval?" He cocks his head, considering his fellow brownrider. "You weren't sure. And yet you answered." He turns his head to peer at Coora sidelong. "Huh," as in, 'whaddya make of that?' Eyes go around to the group. He crosses his arms over his chest again and looks back and forth between the pair of riders.

Z'bor watches P'irar with avid attention. He wonders again what this is. A test? Punishment? He rubs the beack ofhis head, scowling at the dampness there, shards, this heat! He tugs at the collar of his shirt, in a vain effort to cool himself a little.

Coora giggles nervously, "Well, Serval is obviously the best," She just wasn't sure if that was the appropriate answer. Coora shifts in her seat again, letting out a deep breath, almost a pant in this heat. She lifts one hand to fidget with the folds of her skirt, attempting to discreetly waft the skirt to get the air moving around her legs.

There is little to announce the sudden thud of meaty hands on Coora and Z'bor's shoulders except an extra, and closer, creak of floorboards amidst the inside thrumming and the shifting of riders in the heat. WHUMP. An exasperated groan comes from the right behind the seated riders. "UNGHHHH! Shards, stars and spars, man, SHUT UP and let's get these fools drunk already."

Z'bor nearly jumps out off his skin at the feel of hands on his shoulders. His hands instinctively go up and grap at wrists, eyes widening in consternation and shock. Startled would be an understatement.

Coora starts as well, her body jerking away from the hand on her shoulder. Coora's startlement is short lived and she grins at the voice from the crowd. She's smart enough to keep her mouth shut this time though. Finally, one bare arm is lifted to wipe the sweat from her face with the back of her hand.

P'irar's somber face dimples as he grins, eyes never leaving the two new riders. "You heard the man," P'irar rumbles, deep voice quiet. The scraping of tables and chairs fills the room as Serval puts the room more or less back together. He snaps out a finger at Coora and Z'bor, "Stay put, you." Riders crowd up to lift the seated riders up and move them apart. A table thunks down between the green- and brownrider. The two are placed across from eachother. A greenrider strides up to the table, Marby's her name, she slams a bottle and a shot in front of Coora. "First one to pass out gets a haircut from the other." T'ral slams a bottle and a shot in front of Z'bor, "Second one to pass out gets a haircut from ALL of us." He grins down at Z'bor then over at Coora. Glasses and bottles are circulating through the group as the turns attentions to the real entertainment for the evening. P'irar, master of ceremonies, strides up to the table, "Who'll give the first toast?"

Z'bor grins at the happenings around him. A game it is then. He bravely pours the first shot, lifting it to the room around him. "To Serval!" He shouts, downing the shot and growling at the burn. He licks his lips. This might be easy.

Coora grabs a shot, a fraction of a second behind Z'bor. "Serval!" She shouts, grinning. The shot is swallowed and she calls out laughingly, "Jinx!" for saying the same thing at the same time. "Another!" Coora is down for this game and she's ready for the next round, but she will likely be the one passing out first.

Z'bor pours another shot. "Salude." He states and downs it, already pouring his next. He eyes the riders around him, lucky for him there's not much to cut off his head. He just hopes they're somewhat nice about it.

Oh, Z'bor. It's not how much they cut off, it's where. And how… evenly. Many toasts follow. To 'Southern.' To 'New Blood.' To 'Ocelot, Puma, Lynx, Tiglon, Nyan, Liger.' Somberly… to 'Surving the Pass.' To 'Getting N'uru laid before Eligoth rises.' It is nearing sunset when…

After much drinking, Coora slips from her chair to the floor, barely conscious and liquid boned. She tucks her hands beneath her cheek and falls asleep…. passes out? right there on the floor.

Z'bor looks down at the unconscious Coora and lets out a whoop of excitement. Given the option, Z'bpr decides to be nice-ish. He cuts her hair into a stylish pixie cut, though if there's a few chunky spots, and maybe a few locks left a little too long, who could blame him, he's quite drunk. He pours himself a celebratory shot. Makes a show of drinking a few more, before collapsing to the floor himself, his snores schoing through the kitten.

With a whoop at Coora slipping from her chair, the Wing presses in to urge Z'bor on. Some in the 'stylish' camp, others in the 'disaster' camp. When the greenrider finally falls out the Wing descends gleefully. Oh, Z'bor? There was no debate on which camp your do comes from. Disaster all OVER the place. Enjoy.

Welcome to Serval.

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