It's been several weeks since the hatching, plenty of time for the newly impressed to solidify the bond between weyrling and dragon. It's still a tender tether for some, which is why they are mostly left to their own devices. Sawyer and Wyrraith are walking, one hand on the dark brown's neck as they take their time making laps around the training grounds. Though they're silent, there's an intensity that rolls off the pair, a warning for others to keep their distance. Sawyer is dressed in Igen black and yellow, eyes half lidded and glazed over as Wyrraith leads them on the right path.

Several weeks is time enough to be getting on with weyrling regulations, and so Tasna and a couple other riders handy (or not) with a pair of sheers have been assigned the task of finishing up those haircuts. Tas finishes gathering the wispy locks from her previous "customer" by moving them into a linen sack nearby. The tall stool gets a quick brush with a towel before she goes to work cleaning her shears, then checking the blades. Satisfied, she looks up in time to see Sawyer and Wyrraith and gives the intense weyrling one of her (usually) disarming smiles while she uses Tseylath to gently try to get his fellow brown's attention. His interruption just skims the surface of the mindlink like a puff of warm, arid air dappled with dust motes. "Come on over. I don't bite," Tasna calls to Sawyer in a cheerful drawl, indicating the hair-free stool. It's more than likely she was warned (perhaps by D'kan) that Sawyer does bite, but if so, she doesn't give any indication of it.

Tasna is ignored as Sawyer's eyes, while open, are unseeing. It's only when Tseylath brushes against Wyrraith's thoughts that both freeze, two sets of head and eyes snapping toward the older woman. Just as sparks of yellow and red build up in the dragonet's gaze, so do they flash at Tseylath from the safety of that dark, hard shell that he throws up against the puff of air. Sawyer stands, simply staring at the other woman before her gaze drops to Wyrraith, glazed expression returning. The hefty brown gives a huff of air, and they alter their course to head toward the stool, though the weyrling doesn't climb on it right away. "What." « What. »

Tseylath, while nearby, is only marginally paying attention to the brown pair, as he spends some time letting one of the green dragonets use his forelegs as a jungle gym. At the question from Wyrraith, he looks towards the brown and the two women, but it's Tasna who answers, indicating her own hair, still as short as it was when she did her own stint as a weyrling. "Time to shorten your hair," the rider explains, switching her gaze from Sawyer to the young dragonet, then back rather quickly. "Did the weyrlingmasters explain about the hair?"

Sawyer lifts a hand, fingers sliding through known nooks and crannies to get a good fistful of those otherwise unruly dreadlocks. She takes a step backward, which prompts Wyrraith to turn his head and stare. She promptly returns to the spot she was moments ago. The brown's boyish rasp is the harmony to his weyrling's feminine mumble, "Why? « Why? » It's not directed at Tseylath in particular, and the aftershocks of emotion may even be felt by Tasna herself. They're still not moving, both sets of eyes looking at and possibly through the woman with her sheers. Not so helpful in answering her questions, are they?

Unnerving? Yeeeeah, probably. Tasna's reaction is shown primarily in a slight narrowing of her eyes, but she stands her ground after another weyrling-to dragonet-to weyrling study. "It's one of the rules of weyrlinghood." She chin-nods toward another rider-weyrling pairing where a rangy girl is in the process of having her own brown hair cut short. "It has to be above the shoulders," she adds, though there's an air of more to be added right after, except she pauses. Soooo not a weyrlingmaster. "It makes weyrlinghood a whole lot easier, I can tell you that. Won't get in your eyes. If it gets dirty, it's really fast and easy to clean. And once you're wearing a helmet, it won't get so tangled."

There's no visible reaction from either pair of eyes, draconic maw unable to emote and Sawyer unable to offer any emotions past the blank mask she wears. Slowly the weight of her head drops down, coaxed to find her lifemate's gaze, a rich if active blue. For some weyrlings, it's difficult not to answer out loud. Not these two, their conversation unnervingly private and far too obvious to ignore. Sawyer's fingers creep up to the brown's head, smooth save for the nubs that will grow into 'ridges one day. "Like this." She finally speaks, looking over at Tasna, "We want this." Her fingers graze over his smooth dome, her touch a mix of affection and reference. Wyrraith's intense approval buffers her words, youth unable to help some of his thoughts from spilling out. Sawyer is reluctant to break contact with the dragonet, but does so in order to climb up onto the stool without much fuss.

"You want it smooth?" Tasna asks, clarification not at all undermined by the undertones of curiosity and some small dash of admiration. "Because I can definitely do that. I just want to be sure." She relaxes when Sawyer climbs onto the stool and glances toward Tseylath who has moved closer now that the green from earlier has been shooed back into the barracks. Tas reaches out to feel a couple of those dreadlocks while her own brown settles into an apparently lazy lounge, though his eyes give him away. mostly a vivid, almost electric blue, they quickly whirl in outward spirals sparked now and then with orange-tinted gold.

"Smooth." Sawyer tests out the word, eyes glancing to Wyrraith before she turns to Tasna. "Yes. Smooth. We want it smooth." Though her vocabulary has grown since those first days at the Weyr, its use is still limited to simple sentences. Tseylath's motions have both heads snapping over, and as Wyrraith waddles to wrap himself around the stool, Sawyer bares her teeth at the bigger brown. "Stay." « Stay. » As if he were an actual threat to their personal space, rather than just lounging there. Wyrraith circles the stool once, unable to help his twisting gait that knocks into the wood, Sawyer clinging to it stubbornly. It teeters, and she pushes back up with a leg, steady once more as Wyrraith moves to push his head between her arms, leaning against the front of her legs. It doesn't seem as though he'll continue to be disruptive, both settling into an anxious stillness as they wait for Tasna to do what she's supposed to.

Tasna hesitates only long enough to make sure she's not going to accidentally bump into the weeks-old brown, and while Tsyelath lets out an audible, sighing hum, he does not otherwise move except to watch Wyrraith's path around the stool. When the young brown grows still, though, so does the older one. Tasna arches a brow at her lifemate, then gets to work, starting at the top of Sawyer's head. This job isn't as simple as some of the others were, though having nicely sharp shears certainly helps. One by one, the dreads fall to the ground. While the other weyrling having her hair cut is chatting up a storm with her own hair trimmer, Tasna stays quiet as she works.

It's likely for the best, as Sawyer makes no attempt to start a conversation herself. Though her head keeps steady, her eyes drop down to try and peek over her cheeks at the dragon's head in her lap. Wyrraith has chosen his spot so he can be close to Sawyer while still keeping an eye on Tseylath, fat little wings occasionally lifting to make himself look larger. The entire time, Sawyer's hands are smoothing along the brown's eyeridges, head knobs and along the smoother hide of his head. They are not happy, it can be felt, but they are committed to doing what must be done. Then again, the pair are rarely pleased when their attentions are pulled from each other by outside forces— this time it's Tasna.

The dark pile of hair at Tasna's feet continues to grow larger as piece after piece of dreads hits the ground. In seemingly little time, she's down to a smaller pair of scissors, taking care of the more delicate areas around the ears and the nape of the neck. She then begins to work her fingertips through what's left to help loosen the hair, making it easier for the final step in this particular choice. "You know," she muses while fingers continue to work, "this really suits you. You look good." Careful not to come near stepping on Wyrraith, Tasna appears in front of Sawyer, just to the side. "You still want me to take it all off?"

Slowly, the rhythm of Sawyer's fingers shift to mimic Tasna's, head tilting back as a grinding groan leaves her throat. Wyrraith also rumbles, not only enjoying his lifemate's touch but the echoes of bliss as tight, matted hair is loosened up. For a moment, they're receptive. "Mhnah?" Were she a canine, Sawyer's tongue would be hanging out of her mouth as she's roused by the older woman's words. Half-lidded gaze focuses on Tasna, fingers slowly as Wyrraith lifts his head and angles a look up at Sawyer. "Suits me?" It's again echoed by the brown's rasp as one of her arms lifts to scratch through the half-inch of curly fuzz that covers her head.

Tasna nods in the affirmative to Sawyer's question, then she glances down at Wyrraith briefly. There's a question there, but rather than ask it, Tas just smiles at Sawyer and shrugs as she brushes hair bits from her hands. "You want me to shave it smooth, still? Just… point of no return, kind of. It gets cold at night these days." Unperturbed by the girl's apparent lack of vocabulary, Tasna just keeps going. "I can even out what you have. It's good hair. Thick. It'll be warm. I just want to make sure we do whatever it is you want to do."

More of that intense staring from both before Wyrraith decides, « We like it. » And so, "More even." Sawyer nods, still running her hands through what remains, fascinated by the unfamiliar texture and the lack of weight. Much better. The dragonet slips his head back under her limp arm, and both hands return to running over his craggy 'knobs and face. "Good. It's good. We like it." Though her lips only twitch, she sounds pleased, voice light and happy as her eyes drop back down to her lifemate's. Meant for Tasna, "Good job." When one can see through the eyes of a dragon, even if the image is fuzzy, there's little need for a mirror. She'll sit still for the rest, for the brownrider to even it all out.

For this, Tasna uses the smaller scissors, fingers quick as they brush through Sawyer's hair, picking out the longer bits and evening them out. By the time she's done, the weyrling's head sports a neat crop of thick dark hair. She gives the girl's scalp a couple extra brushes with her hands just to be sure, then she smiles and begins brushing hair off Sawyer's shoulders. "Your weyrlinghood just got a little easier," she announces, clearly pleased with how this last hair-cutting session turned out. "You'll want a bath, or a wet towel or something. Get all the little bits off your face and stuff," Tas adds, brandishing her own hand briefly, the fingers and palm covered in tiny black pieces of hair. "Feels good, though?"

Once again, there are happy-noises from the pair as Tasna brushes through the hair, a sprinkle of tiny black hairs falling to Sawyer's shoulders and the ground. Wyrraith snuffles, not aware of the hazard of being so close, scuttling back for a head-shaking sneezing fit. "Oh!" The weyrling hops off the stool, reaching forward to wipe her palm over the dragonet's slimy nostrils and then onto her pants. Once the little brown has recovered, Sawyer turns to look at Tasna, arms re-wrapped around Wyrraith's head. "Feels good. We like it. It's much better." Wyrraith gives a sudden, hard push of his muzzle against her cheek, visibly rattling Sawyer in a silent reminder. To Tasna, "Thank you." Once her vision steadies, she's otherwise unfazed. Straightening up, her hand returns to his neck, "Done now?"

An odd half smile shows Tasna doesn't quite know what to make of this particular weyrling pair, but she nods in the end as the smile evens into a wide grin. "Done now," she confirms. To the side, Tseylath finally stops watching Wyrraith and glances toward the rest of the bowl while Tas continues to brush hair from her hands and arms. "Well. Good luck, Sawyer. Wyrraith. If you ever need a touch-up," while pointing toward her own head, grin going crooked, "I'd be happy to help."

"Okay." « Okay. » They aren't eager, per se, but with this duty done they are able to fall back into the dark, writhing intensity of their thoughts. Sawyer's eyes glaze over, and a sigh of relief leaves her as the two turn back toward the training grounds. Just because Tseylath has stopped watching doesn't mean the dragonet has. When the two pass by, there's a sudden and deafening crash paired with criss-crossed streaks of orange, « Mine. » The hand on his neck becomes a circled arm, Sawyer resting her brow against Wyrraith's as the two carve an unstoppable path toward their nest.