Who

Rh'ysar, Ryott

What

A candidate and a wildling bronzerider walk into the stables… (There's no joke, that's literally what happens.)

When

It is evening of the twenty-second day of the sixth month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Stables, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 11 Mar 2019 07:00

 

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"Well that's a bummer most people probably haven't thought about in all their back-slapping celebration for having almost a hundred eggs on the Sands."


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Stables

The stone stables of Southern sweep breezily in arches and vaulted ceilings, done in the same architecture that figures so prominently within the inner caverns. A half-loft in the back shows neatly stacked hay bales, the sweet scents from the fodder drifting down to commingle with the aroma of runner and leather and sweat. There, broad box stalls house inhabitants safely away from the fancies of dragons: nickers and restless stompings fill the air, nirvana to those so inclined.


With suppertime imminent, most of the candidates assigned to mucking out the stalls have drifted towards the Living Caverns, the state of the Stables left in moderately better shape than they found it. One particular Candidate stayed behind, offering to finish giving the runners their evening feed of hay. But even though the beasts are happily chomping away, still Ryott lingers, as evidenced by the pair of legs dangling idly from the hay loft, the rest of obscured by the way she's laying back, her head resting on her folded arm.

Imminent suppertime means fewer people around, which means the rarely-spotted Rh'ysar leaves his self-imposed solitude to run his errands without running into too many other people. "Why haven't I heard anything from them lately?" he's asking as he makes his way into the stables, speaking to someone just outside the entry to the stables. The answer is indistinct, but obviously unsatisfactory. "If you can try to get to them, I'd like to know where they are. Your runner is this way." He leads his companion into the stables, exchanging a few more words before the man is mounted and dismissed with a wave. Those dangling legs aren't noticed, but Rh'ysar lingers for a moment, muttering a somewhat derisive, "Who keeps a runner in the jungle?"

Oh voices! Ryott freezes instinctively, her head lifting just slightly off it's pillow as she focuses completely on her hearing. Catching snippets only pique the girl's interest, as she even shallows her breathing for the duration. Once the other makes his departure, she relaxes a little bit until she hears that derisive mutter. Without moving a muscle, save for the lazy swing of her legs, the teen pipes up in a chilling deadpan, "I don't know, runners are useful beasts to have around no matter where." Her accent is faint, but if someone is familiar, they may catch the hint of Bitran brogue to it.

Rh'ysar doesn't jump at the sudden voice, but his gaze does snap upward at the unexpected sound. "Have you been in the jungle yet?" He may not recognize her accent as Bitran, but he can at least pick out the fact that it's not from here. "It's faster on foot, and dangerous for the beasts." There's a runner peering out from one of the stalls, and Rhu reaches up to run a hand over the creature's snout.

With a mild groan of effort, Ryott pulls herself up to a sitting position and leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees. Dark eyes do a lazy sweep of the bronzerider while lips remain pulled into a line of neutrality. "Not really deep into them yet, no. But good to know." Reaching up with one hand to push her long bangs out of her eyes, she tilts her head to one side with some consideration. "So who are you trying to locate in the jungle then?" she asks with bored interest.
The runner snorts and noses against his hand, and Rh'ysar leans in closer to murmur something quietly to the creature. There's another snort, and then the beast withdraws. The bronzerider watches him go with an approving nod. "Maybe they'll take a few of you into the jungle to make the barracks less cramped," he comments thoughtfully, glancing up at her. He doesn't bother checking for the knot before making his assumption of her rank, knowing the number of candidates who are running around. "A wildling clan. I've lost contact."

Not too much searching needed, the white knot stands out on the girl's otherwise dark clothes. Ryott snorts softly at his first, a dark chuckle following, "Sounds like a fun time. Can't be any harsher than Igen's deserts though, and survived those wi' nothing but my wits before." And a few handy supplies, but that makes it a lot less impressive. "And the barracks ain't so bad, roomy compared to what I'm used to, if I'm honest," she'll add with a shrug as she pick up a piece of hay and begins to pick at her teeth with it. When he actually answers her question, she hikes a brow up in mild surprise, mostly for the fact that most strangers don't trust Ryott enough to tell her things. "Wildling clan? From what I hear, most wildlings don't have much to do with the Weyr." She hears a lot when she wants to.

Rh'ysar shrugs as he moves to lean against the wall between two stalls, positioning himself so that he can better see Ryott. "I have never been to Igen's deserts, so I can't offer any comparison." Although the deserts likely have fewer things eager to eat you, if nothing else. "I doubt they're done bringing in candidates. It may not be so roomy when they are finished. I thought some people slept outdoors, last double clutch." His impeccable poker face gives nothing away about the truth of his words. There's the faint hint of a smile when it seems she's surprised to receive an answer. "There is a small coalition of clans willing to work with the Weyr. Many of us have had to adapt."

"Fair enough," Ryott quips easily with a one-shouldered shrug as she continues to work at her teeth with that piece of straw, tongue sweeping over them every now and then to help. "Oh, I'm sure they aren't done yet. They gotta make sure those eggs out there get all the choices they could want. I think I can survive cramped quarters for a few sevens though" Her tone is cocky, but the girl is nothing if not confident. "Sleeping outdoors is fun too. We'll see," she adds noncommitally, studying his poker face for some cracks and is actually pretty surprised when she can't find any. "Neat," she drawls at her most deapan, "So that means…you are a wildling yourself. Must say, from what I'd heard of them, you seem very civilized by most standards." Uh oh, maybe the girl has been hearing some of the less than flattering tales of Southern's indigenous people.

"I pity the fools in charge of all those young dragons once they hatch." Rh'ysar scuffs a boot along the floor, nudging aside a bit of straw which someone has used to over a mess that remains uncleaned. Hmm. Ryott receives the benefit of the doubt, however, as she doesn't seem the type of fool to hide a job poorly done and then linger around to be caught at it. "Maybe they'll take you to the ruins." Where creepy things abound! He confirms her words with a brief nod, that smile again teasing at his lips when she calls him civilized. "There are different kinds of wild, girl, and a 'civilized' exterior can be lost quickly. Don't mistake calm for weakness."

"Could be why they are having such a hard time replacing the Weyrlingmaster, no one wants the job," Ryott remarks in an offhand kind of way as she flicks the piece of hay away once she's got her teeth as clean as they are going to get. Her dark eyes follow his revelation of the poorly done job, but there's no outward indication on whether she is responsible or not. Poker faces all around. The talk of ruins perks her up a little bit and she was just about to ask him to elaborate when she catches his last. "Oh, you don't have to tell me twice. Some of the scariest people I know can be as cool as ice most of the time, and you never want to be the one to make them lose it." She shakes her head slowly at that.

"I don't find that surprising. Higher numbers of weyrlings increases the likelihood of casualties, too." His voice is emotionless, but there is a momentary tightening of his jaw before he moves away from the subject. Wordlessly, Rh'ysar reaches for a shovel and moves to dispose that leftover pile of poo, returning moments later when the job is completed. He dusts his hand off and sets the shovel back in place, resuming his lean against the wall as though nothing happened. "Some of us choose to be wild on the outside, and some choose to contain it. I grew tired of being angry all the time." Now he has Rekitryth to be snappish and aggressive for him.

Ryott will gladly let the bronzerider deal with the runner poo if he feels so strongly about it, the teen isn't quite so fastidious. "Well that's a bummer most people probably haven't thought about in all their back-slapping celebration for having almost a hundred eggs on the Sands," she remarks off-handedly. Shifting for the first time, she moves to the ladder, but instead of climbing down, she pauses with her feet on the first rung down. "Yeah, can't imagine being angry all the time. must be exhausting. But hey, you changed…so that's…good and stuff." Ryott offers, trying not to twitch at what she considers an almost saccharine response on her part. To hide the shame on her face, she chooses this moment to step down a couple rungs further, before she just hops off the ladder all together to land neatly at the bottom. Straightening, she starts to brush the straw off her various pieces of clothing.

Rh'ysar hates to leave a job unfinished, even one so unsavory as shoveling runner poo. Of course, once you've dealt with the leavings of a young dragon, runner poo seems like nothing. "We can't all be celebrating, even if we do need the dragons. Not everything waiting for you on the other side of impression is good." He shrugs, not pressing the point too much. he's not here to discourage candidates from standing, after all, but Rh'ysar has never been one to hold his tongue when it comes to his honest opinions. There's a quiet chuckle from the man at Ryott's awkward words, as he senses her discomfort in saying them. "Everyone changes, eventually. So will you." Whether it be thanks to a dragon or otherwise. This part remains unspoken as the bronzerider watches her dismount, quietly assessing. He seems to know the conversation is drawing to a close, as he says, "Follow the rules, learn as much as you can about what you are getting yourself into, and know that anyone who care about, you may very well lose. Do that, and you'll be fine."

Ryott actually appreciates the man's more pessimistic attitude, her mouth finally curling into something that might actually pass for a smile…if you tilt your head and squint a little bit anyway. "Yeah, I know, don't mean I like it," she mutters with a sprinkling of sarcasm to her deadpan words. In fact, escaping change is basically the reason she's here…ironic no? When's she's managed to clean off the majority of the straw left clinging to her, the girl tips her head one final time in the bronzerider's direction, "I'll keep that in mind." She doesn't seem too concerned about losing those she cares about, she manages that all by herself. "Anyway, food time. You have a good one now Sir," she farewells a little generically, not having bothered to learn his name. The salute is technically correct but a bit lazy before she stuffs her hands deep in her jacket pockets and makes for the exit, an eerie whistled tune following along in her wake.

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