The candlemark at which Rocio is meant to meet up with her partner is fast approaching. She’s not late, nor is she early. Today is a day that is uncommonly quiet for Southern this time of the season with zero precipitation and not a breath of wind. It’s one of those rare, calm days when a disturbance can be heard quite clearly well off into the distance. Like, right now for example. A low, dull rumble can be heard on the other side of the hill accompanied by the trembling of the ground as the thrum grows louder. Closer. Rocks from a nearby stone fence lightly clatter at the tremulous movement that’s fast approaching juuust beyond the hillside. It’s coming. Whatever it is, it’s coming.

Esanth hears it first. The blue’s eyes, closed, snap open as he lifts his head, muzzle pointed towards the crest of the hill, nostrils flaring. T’ral, pacing the pasture, eyes fixed downward, looking for signs of passage, stops, head coming up to match the direction of Esanth’s look. “Rocio.” A hand flashes out behind, fingers flared, “Do you hear that?” He turns his head to the side to point his ear more at the rumbling. Dark eyes pinch, T’ral is thinking, listening closely, mouth slightly open. He shakes his head vaguely and darts a look at the hunter-Candidate.

Or maybe Rocio heard it first. The lass is leaning up against a nearby stone fence, her hip against the rocks and her elbow propped for balance as she peeeers in the direction of the thundering rumble vibrating the ground beneath their feet. “Yessir. I hear it.” She looks calm and relatively unphased as she gnaws on a small piece of wherry jerky she pilfered from a stash in the barracks. Esanth is glanced at and she nods knowingly at the blue dragon before climbing on top of the wide fence that runs the length of a paddock on the western side of the field. She squints while observing the gate further down the pasture, her jaw muscles working at chewing that last bit of tough jerky before she returns her attention toward the ominous rumbling. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

PSHAW. Dragon ears are AMAZING. But… maybe she did. Hear it first. “You don’t seem concerned.” T’ral sounds mildly alarmed. His eyes dart over the hill, brow furrowing with canine concern, arms lowering as he peers up along the pasture. In his periphery he notes Rocio’s amble and clamber along the fenceline. He nods permission, “Yes.” Speak. Please. What is that sound? Esanth rumbles, it’s not dissimilar.

Rocio rolls her shoulders as if limbering up. “I’mma tell ya what’s gonna happen, Mister T’ral.” The last bit of jerky is chewed and swallowed before she tosses her chin in the direction of the rumble. “In about thirty seconds there’s gonna be a pile of woolies and caprines chargin’ up over that hill. And they’re gonna be lookin’ for a gate.” A thumb is jerked down toward said gate. The gate that’s shut. “Now they’re gonna be awful confused if they can’t find it, and they’re gonna scatter aaaall over this here field if we can’t funnel ‘em into that there paddock.” The rumble reaches its peak and the first few caprines start racing up, over and down the hill off in the distance. “You a runner, Mister T’ral?” Still calm, Rocio griiins at the wingsecond without so much as twitching her feet to move.

Thirty… T’ral freezes at the first sight of a scrambling caprine. How many of them to make that sound? His mouth drops open, body stilling carefully. Coiled. Mystified, yes. Twenty seven… “I am very fleet, Huntress.” Twenty six, “When the occasion warrants.” His tone says he’s betting this is one of those occasions. Esanth lumbers to his feet, “Should,” T’ral, feet also unmoving, shifts, his torso turning to take in Esanth, “Um. Esanth?” Both blue and rider look to Rocio. Blink. Twenty three…

Esanth is considered for a moment — a very looong moment, or so it would seem — until Rocio gestures for the dragon to stay put. “It might be best if Mister Esanth just… parks it. Right there.” Her expression given to the blue is one that says ‘don’t move’. Pivoting toward T’ral again, that grin of hers is still present and she looks amused. The caprines and woolies, they’re coming. And they’re barreling down that hill at full tilt. “Two things gotta happen real quick, Mister T’ral.” she says, gesturing with her hands. “I’mma meet ‘em head on and lead ‘em toward the gate. Now you gotta sprint like you ain’t never sprinted before in your life to get to that gate before we do. Unhook the rope over the latch and throw it open. Wide.” Leaping down from the fence, the candidate rolls up her sleeves and starts walking, then trotting, then jogging toward the racing animals. “Get to that gate, Mister T’ral! And fast, ya hear?” Now she’s running to direct their attention so that they chase her.

Eighteen… Esanth eases back and away, keeping his head low, pressing himself out of sight as best he can. Nothing to do about that spicy dragon musk, but… hey, you do what you can. So what if there’s a new blue boulder in the pasture, ovines and caprines can’t see color anyway, right? Right. “You’re… What? I — yes.” He fidgets in every direction at once and then bolts. T’ral is fast. He’s a distance runner at heart, endurance, but capable — when inspired — of bursts of speed. He is inspired. Twelve… The bleating and bawling and … good grief, the caprines… they sound like screaming children. Scrambling over the rocks and scree and divots and bumps and grassy tufts and dips and it’s a miracle that his hasn’t broken his neck or his legs when he slams up against the gate with a thud. Panting, he looks up to track Rocio’s progress. And the herd barreling down on her. What… she really… why, where’s the, she’s gonna get creamed! Ten… Eyes thrown wide, he fumbles for the rope. Rope. Rope. Rope. WHERE’S THE ROPE? There’s no rope. Nine… There IS a lock. An honest to goodness lock. Metal and everything. T’ral’s mouth rounds out. He shakes himself out of contemplation. “Um.” Hinges. Hinges. Seven… He scuttles sideways and heaves, hoisting the gate up so he can scrabble at the hinge pins. Fiiiiiirst one, clear. Crap. Crap. Six… Second one, sticks. T’ral shoves the gate bodily. SHOVE. Crap! Clear! Three… One more pin to go. Clear! He staggers, tripping and holding himself up against the gate as it slips free of its mounts. He leans back hauling, hauling. Two… Hauling… stuck. Damnit. The gate is pivoting on it’s lock hasp. “Stars and shards… “ Wooooolly THUNDER… T’ral dives out of the way, covering his head, sheltering in the lee of the stone wall. Hopefully the gate was ‘open’ enough.

If she were looking, Rocio would be quite impressed at the speed and very short time it took the bluerider to make it to the gate. But, she’d be less impressed with the amount of time it took him to unlatch the darn thing. The Herders must’ve replaced their makeshift rope latch with a heavy duty alternative this past seven— would’ve been nice if she’d known that. “C’mon Boss!” she hollers for their attention. There’s a massive bleating response to her voice and the mob of wool and fur shifts in her direction rather suddenly. “C’mon!” It’s working. Collectively, they set their sights and head straight for her while she races toward them. And before they actually collide, Rocio cuts left and circles the woolies and caprines wide across the field until she gets them all where they need to be. It’s a straight shot into the paddock now. She’s out in front of the animals and manages to stay ahead at a good clip when she notices T’ral struggling with the latches on the gate. What? They’re charging for that aperture and there’s going to be quite a pile up up if— FINALLY. It’s open and flung wide just in time for her to race through with the thundering flock hot on her heels. “The gate!” she yells while sprinting by T’ral. It takes a moment for the animals to funnel in given the mass quantity of fuzzy bodies, hooves and tails racing through an opening meant for a much slower pace. When the last bouncing caprine crosses through, T’ral better be latching that gate shut.

At Rocio’s cry of ‘the gate!’ as she sprints by, T’ral uncurls from his headlong sprawl and gives her a big thumbs up! “Pbbth.” Pbthfft. He scrubs at his mouth. “Dirt.” Phbhhtbbt. There was no mention of shutting the gate. None! When the last of the critters are through and past, he gets up and pats at his leathers. Pat pat pat. Where’s the huntress Candidate? Uh oh. Rocio, Rocio, wherefore are thou, Rocio?

The thundering hooves begin to slow down when Rocio slows down and, finally, when they’re far enough into the field, the caprines and woolies scatter and begin to graze. A small group of woolies remain crowded around the candidate as she attempts to make her way back to the fence. “Boss.” she says, pulling her shirt from a wooly’s mouth. “Boss! Git.” Her hand waves the little ewe away and as if on key, four little hooves trot out in front like nothing happened. That is, until that wiiide open gate snags the wooly’s attention. Without missing a beat, Boss kicks up her heels and runs for the opening, prompting the other two woolies to follow because, hey! Boss is running. When Boss runs, they run, too! IT’S A GAME. “Wha?” Blink. “Mister T’ral!” Rocio barks, breaking into a run to try and grab the stout woolies before they escape. “The gate! SHUT THE GATE!” Perhaps she wasn’t clear enough the first time. Boss et al are aaaalmost there! Almost… there…

‘Shut it?’ T’ral blinks at Rocio, staring. He dismantled it. “Uh.” He leaves off patting himself free of pasture pucks and hustles to the gate, “Oh no you don’t, Sister.” He heaves the gate up and is trying to seat the hinge posts on their collars. The first one slips and the gate thuds down. The damn gate is still attached by the metal hasp. Dammit. T’ral strains to lift the gate again. The hasp is twisted and isn’t letting the gate have the play it needs to reseat. But T’ral doesn’t know this. He’s just rattling the damn thing. While Boss and her woolie entourage bear down. His voice is high, strained, desperate when he shouts, “This isn’t working!” It’s directed at Rocio. Or Anyone. EVERYONE. What am I doing?!

“What did you do!?” Rocio hollers to T’ral as he fumbles with the dismantled gate. “It just swings open!” Dear Faranth… The three little woolies are still barreling toward T’ral and the opening out into the other pasture when Rocio skids to a halt and absolutely bellows at them. “BOSS!” And as if on cue, the muddy brown woolie bleats and stops to look back at the candidate stalking toward her. Uh oh. The other two woolies stop nearby and begin to graze as Boss skitters out of Rocio’s way when she beelines to the bluerider and the gate off its hinges. Very calmly, chest rising and falling from the exertion of running, Rocio puts her hands on her hips as she approaches The Scene — her expression rather incredulous and a little annoyed. “Uh.” A hand gestures to the whatever the heck he did to the gate. “Mister T’ral.” An index finger points to the looped rope that kept the gate… closed. So the Herders didn’t replace the latches. “All ya had to do was lift the rope from the top peg on the gate and,” The same hand sweeps out to the side of her. “Swing it open.” Arms fold across her chest now as she just stares at the rather pitiful looking display of latches and metal. After a moment of silent contemplation, Rocio lifts her shoulders into a shrug and scrubs at the back of her neck with a few fingertips. Then, under her breath, “So that’s why we got paired up.”

"I got the gate open!" T'ral growls shoving the gate rather unnecessarily hard against the brackets. GrRRrrr… He turns to gauge the time he has before the thundering herd barre… Where is the thundering? He unclenches and blinks, looking over his shoulder. The gate thuds to the ground, leaned up against the opening and mostly barricading it at least. "That?" T'ral gestures at Boss and her buddies. "That's why I had to close the gate? Three ovines?!" Boss. T'ral totally doesn't understand your role as bellwether of Southern's ovines. Rocio's taken up her favorite perch atop the wall to point out… "What? It's-" He blinks, looking at the loop of rope, "…There's a lock. A hasp." He rattles the gate. There is a lock. It's locked around the tongue, but not through the hasp. "It was stuck." Totally. He squints at the lock. At Boss. At Rocio. "I got the gate open." Emphatic. He squints again at Rocio, What was that, Candidate? He harumphs, "Help me get the pins back in." T'ral crouches to gather up the hinge pins.

Rocio pivots to look back at Boss et al before blinking at T’ral shoving the gate up against the brackets. Easy now. It’s then that she turns away rather quickly so he doesn’t see her rolling her eyes after his inquiry. “Yessir.” is then breathed as a half sigh. A thumb is jerked toward the larger flock of woolies grazing out further in the field and she clears her throat, lingering a little so that she doesn’t seem too affronted at his incredulity. “You ever chased woolies around an open field before? Guh. Forget I asked.” Now she returns her attention to the bluerider and walks toward the gate to help reassemble the hinges. When T’ral crouches down to gather up the pins, she waves her hand at his efforts. “How ‘bout you hold the gate in place and let—” Nevermind. Alas, the ex-huntress doesn’t finish her thought. Pursing her lips, Rocio grabs hold of the gate against her own request and lifts it up in place.

“I thought the whole herd was barreling down, the way you were hollering.” He still doesn’t get it. “Don’t you have canines for that?” ‘You,’ you know, Southern’s beast tenders. T’ral opens his mouth to answer and snaps it shut at Rocio’s dismissal, looking affronted himself. That consternation grows when she tells him to hold the gate then waves him off — dismissal again — and holds it herself. He straightens and leans into the gate, lifting it slightly to position it so that, Ah. One pin down. “Stronger than you look,” an aside as he shifts attention to the second pin. It’s tougher, the joint slightly out of true. The third goes in easy. The bluerider turns a look on Rocio, then dusts hands on his leathers, dark eyes skipping out over the woolies. Boss standing nearby, cropping grass and watching them as she chews. “Y’alright?”

“Yessir, the Herders have canines.” Rocio says, tightening her grip around the gate as she holds steady. “But, I ain’t a herder. I rely on myself to do the work, especially if somethin’s my fault.” She says nothing more about the woolies as the bluerider doesn’t seem to be making the connection, so she hefts the gate up a little more instead. The pins are shimmied into place and she blinks over at T’ral when he makes an assumption about her strength. “For a girl, huh.” she says, deadpan. Once the last pin is in place, the gate is finally let go and secured shut before the sleeve of her shirt is used to wipe her cheek. “That was… fun.” Quick and smooth as a feline, the candidate leaps atop the stone fence and gestures toward the Weyr. “I gotta be gettin’ back for my class.” She squints down at T’ral knowingly. “In the library. And I best not be late for this one. Else… ya know.” Hands are shoved into her trous pockets as she starts walking the fence in the direction she needs to go.

“That’s right.” Things fall into place. “You’re a hunter. What…” He glances at Boss, “…interest do you have in the herds?” Her fault? The Weyr’s food procurement — hunted and bred — is of interest, especially given the recent attacks. That question may go wanting, given the turn the conversation takes. T’ral nods, matter of fact, “Yeah.” Strength is a matter of mechanics. Men and women have different mechanics and those mechanics favor men in absolute power. Simply put: women just aren’t as strong as men. And Rocio is small and slim. Strong for all of that and definitely stronger than she looks. “‘For a girl.’” No apology there. His assessment was not an insult or an implication even if he was surprised to come to it. He tilts his head to look up at the huntress Candidate atop her perch, studying the young woman. Weighing her. Tracing through the stream of events. “Do you want a ride back to the Weyr?” Given the reserve of her tone… something had shifted… he rather expects she won’t. Esanth, on the far side of the pasture, lumbers to his feet and streeeetches, yawning, rows of sharp teeth and curling tongue and strong jaws spread wide before snicker-snacking shut. He’s had a bit of a nap it seems.

“Prior to candidacy, Mister T’ral, the senior Weyrwoman personally assigned me to monitor the health of Southern’s herdbeasts.” Rocio says, halting and turning to face the bluerider now. She straightens a bit, shoulders squaring, chin lifting. “I was the one responsible for reportin’ on the health of the animals not only kept in the fields here,” Index finger points to the woolies they just corralled. “But in comparison to those in the jungle.” That same finger points off toward the wooded area in the distance. “So, yes. I had an interest in the herds. Still do.” Turning around, the candidate continues walking atop the fence, though this time she keeps her hands out of her trous pockets. “Thank ya kindly for the ride back, but the walk would do me good.” A beat passes, “Though I reckon it’s entirely up to you since you’re my escort out here.”

Ooooooh. That makes sense. T’ral nods. Hannah had gotten rather… intent on seeing to the safety of the herds in advance of Dhiammarath’s flight. His mouth drops open as a thought occurs, “Rocio.” He blinks, drawing up, mouth still fallen open in a thoughtful purse, “When our riders hunted into the jungles instead of feeding here… do you know whose territory we traipsed in to?” He scrubs a hand over his mouth, fingers pressed there as his brow furrows. Had their hunting into lands beyond the Weyr stirred worries among the junglefolk? He looks at the gate, at the woolies, at Rocio, off towards the Weyr and nods. Yeah. He rather was her escort, wasn’t he? Distracted now, his brow furrows as he studies the middle distance. “Yeah.” He shakes off whirling thoughts. “Um. Let’s get back.” He hops the low wall and paces alongside it switching at tall weeds grown up where the woolie’s can’t crop. “Tell me, how far into the jungles have you gone?”

“Yup.” Rocio says, reaching into her back pocket to retrieve a small bag of wherry jerky. “Southern’s native folk.” Probably something the rider already knows. A piece is taken and gnawed upon as she offers the bluerider some of her stash. She continues to walk on the fence with T’ral striding on the ground alongside her and, from a distance, the pair look like average beastcrafters to anyone watching. And perhaps people are watching them. The thick foliage of the jungle offers plenty of opportunity to remain hidden while observing from a safe and cautious locale. They would never know. So, it’s with some element of relief that Rocio occupies her mind with stories of her jungle excursions when T’ral reveals curiosity.

There’s a rumble there. Thoughtful. “Yes, but whose?” They are not monolithic the jungle folk. He looks up and into a wad of jerky offered down to him from the stony highway of the pasture. He takes the hank of meat and murmurs his thanks before tearing off a chunk with sharp white teeth, chewing thoughtfully. They might be being watched indeed. They might have been visited already… Up ahead, on Rocio’s Highway, sits a bundle. Hidden from earlier view by a dip in the rock wall as it falls and rises with swells of the earth. The bluerider’s eyes skip from package to huntress and back, chewing all the while. “You leave your lunch out here?”

The territory is so familiar to Rocio that even the slightest tampering in landscape has her making a mental note of the change. She’s also sensitive to movement and always looking with her head up and eyes scanning one direction into another. It’s proper form as a hunter to know the area along with the animals and people in it. “No, sir.” is her simple response to the bluerider’s second inquiry. The bag of wherry jerky is then tucked into her trous pocket as she looks out at the small bundle and quickly scans the surrounding area — did she miss someone? Perhaps they passed through when both she and T’ral were herding woolies or fixing the gate. Rocio squints blue eyes as she continues to chew on a piece of jerky. With a quick, smooth motion, she hops down from the stone fence to draw closer to the object in question. “Mister T’ral, you got a knife?”

They both missed whoever left this. All three if napping Esanth is counted. The dragon is pacing along the stone fence some distance away, he won’t enter the pasture unless summoned, for the mental health of Southern’s livestock. The bluerider nods to Rocio’s query and unsheathes a belt knife sitting opposite his machete (which he’s totally had this whole time). He flips the blade into his grip and offers the handle to Rocio while his eyes scan the greens choked edge of the nearby jungle, hairs rising on the back of his neck. “Esanth doesn’t sense anyone nearby but us. And the woolies.” But they hide very well, don’t they, the junglefolk?

Rocio accepts the knife and leans over to pick up the small bundle off the ground. In her left hand, she squeezes the cloth and already has an idea of the contents, though she works at opening the mysterious parcel. The knife cuts through a thin string that closely resembles bailing twine before she flips the blade closed and hands it back to T’ral. Fingers slowly pull back the cloth to reveal a cluster of flat, mustard yellow flower heads. “Tansy.” she then says knowingly. The cloth is pulled back a little more and held out for the bluerider to see. “Wow, this… this ain’t easy to find.” Looking up now, the candidate scans the area again before returning her attention to the yellow flower buds. “You recognize this?” Eyes lift to T’ral, though she doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Can be used for a tonic. Or insect repellant.”

That’s recognition in the bluerider’s eyes for sure. And a pinched and narrowed examination as he leans in to peer at the pungent yellow buttons. The belt knife is sheathed absently, “I do. I’ve gathered plenty of it.” It’s not easy to find. “The plants just growing repel insects.” He laughs, “You know, we really could just plant it everywhere,” he winces, “Except, it’s tricky. The tonic’s anthelmintic, but the better it is at killing parasites, the harder it is on the body.” He runs a finger over the dense flower tops, “There’s a compound in it that’s also found in wormwood which can induce hallucinations and convulsions in sufficient quantities.” He scratches at his jaw, “Varying doses can be used to regulate or, ah, induce a woman’s cycles.” He looks out to the jungle’s edge again and back. The intricately woven cloth around the bundle of herbs, on closer examination, is a pouch. Its long strap meant to be worn crossways over the chest. A medicine bag. “I only know of two places this grows this time of year. Neither is easy to get to. Why do you-” he stops, thinking and shakes his head, “Why do you think it’s here?” Did someone leave it? But it was packaged up. This much… they’d be coming back for it.

As T’ral explains specific purposes of the herb, Rocio tries not to look annoyed. She is listening to his explanations and is nodding along, though. There’s a vast range to her expressions as she nods as if saying, ‘Yeah, I knew that’ and ‘Oh, that’s something new’ to ‘What!?’ when he mentions how the herb can regulate a woman’s cycle. There’s no masking her pearlclutching response when she practically shoves the small pouch into the bluerider’s grasp and shakes her hands like she just touched something gross. “Uh. Yeah.” Smooth, girl. “That’s, um. Interesting.” Even though she grew up in a predominantly testosterone-filled house with four older brothers, it doesn’t make talking about cycles any easier. Especially with a strange man. What’s with her and strange men these days? Rocio shakes her head and clears her throat a little while pointing at the herbs. “Ya don’t just lose somethin’ that valuable, Mister T’ral. I mean, that there’s a medicine pouch. See how it’s lined? It’s made special.” A glance is tossed over her shoulder and toward the jungle off in the distance. “I know animal behavior. I… could use a little polishin’ with people behavior, but it seems t’ me that someone left this here. On purpose.”

Perhaps that should be especially because she grew up in a predominantly testosterone-filled house… It’s something the female Candidates are likely to be pretty familiar with. NOT THAT SHE SHOULD BE NEEDING THEM. T’ral straightens and blinks at the bag thrust into his hands, then at Rocio. “It’s very versatile.” A beat, “Tansy.” Thumbs smooth over the cloth, dark eyes studying it, the care in its craftsmanship evident. “Okay,” he agrees. The two stare off at the edges of the jungle, green mansions stretching away nearly infinite, full of secret places, secret peoples and dangerous mysteries. “But why?” That question is still unanswered. And it will remain so for now… because Harper lessons! Oh no!

“If we knew why, Mister T’ral, we’d have answers to a lot of grim questions.” Rocio says, lifting her eyes from the pouch to look up at the bluerider. A slow breath is drawn in and Esanth’s movement in her peripheral vision snags her attention. “And judgin’ by the angle of the sun, I’mma be late for my class if we don’t leave now, sir.” There’s a slight squint to her eyes when an ever-so-faint smirk curves the very corners of her lips. “But, I reckon you could smooth things over for me if the Harpers wanna know why.” Stepping around T’ral, the ex-huntress keeps an eye on the shadowed foliage beyond Esanth as she makes her way toward the stardust blue.

“Grim. Yes.” He blinks down at the flowers. Tansy is a strange gift indeed. Two-edged. Rare and valuable, but tricky to use. The flowers are secured into the bag, long strap folded ‘round. The bluerider squints up at the sun and nods. “They’ll know why. If you miss anything important,” Faranth knows the first several minutes of class are nearly worthless as a wide cross-section of students come to ‘order,’ “I’ll make sure your duty roster is clear for a make up session.” Uh oh. No trading chores if that happens. There’s a twist of a grin, quickly banished, that flickers over T’ral’s face. “Come on. Day like this, the skylight’s ‘ll be open. I can drop you right in.” Brows bounce at Rocio and T’ral trots off at a good clip towards Esanth.

The Math Lesson

Despite their best efforts, Esanth, T’ral and Rocio arrive late. The Harper teaching the math lesson is an engaging fellow, bright and expressive, but … really a stickler for punctuality. Rocio is barred admission to the lesson. Which, to her, may be a blessing. T’ral however, arranges to teach a makeup session by way of apology to the Harper. This happens, some days later… Sorry, Rocio. You didn’t quite get off the hook…

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It is early afternoon of the twenty fifth day of the fourth month of the fourth turn of the 12th pass.

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.

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(( This is a 'headcanon scene.' What's that, you ask? It's a scene that's mostly dialogue and direction. javiens and I spin these off in chat and planning docs and they usually start something like, 'Hey, j, what would X think about Y.' We toss some dialogue at each other and generally if there's something there, the scene takes off and voila! Headcanon scene! We use these for Catryn and T'ral quite a bit, but just haven't posted any yet. They're incredibly fun and phone friendly, which is a huge plus for picking away at a scene through the day. Anyway, thought we'd share The Math Lesson. ))

T'ral has assembled Candidates for a lesson on algebra. That they're at the Kitten is a bit of a novelty and there's a bit of a muller over that. T'ral calls the class to order.

T: Sevreni has given Dione the task of inventing 5 new drinks. She has given her vodka, rum and gin, plus wine (and others). Vodka is 45% alcohol. Gin and rum are 35%. Juice, tonic, etc are available. Mix 4 drinks with two different alcohols that are 10% and one at 25%. I will drink your successful attempts.
R: Uh. Ya lost me back at vodka, sir.
T: AH. But here’s the lesson. (takes water, takes dye, drops dye into the water, lots; fresh cup of water, just a few drops.) All right. We’ve got a strong solution (dark water), and a weak solution (pale water). (dark solution waggled) This is vodka. (weak solution waggled) This is tonic or juice. Let’s mix a screwdriver. (he mixes pure water with strong solution and gets something between)

(there’s a cool way to write out the relationship — which he does on the mirror over the bar)

weak ……………… between ……………… strong
0% (OJ) …… (25%) (screwdriver) …… 45% (vodka)

difference between weak and screwdriver is 25
difference between strong and screwdriver is 20

If we have 8 ounces of OJ

OJ * 25 = Vodka * 20

T: If we have 8 ounces of OJ, how many ounces of vodka do we need?
R: (raises hand) Aaaand you said you was gonna drink the successful attempts?
T: (turns from scribbling on the mirror) Right-o.
R: So… Are you lookin’ to get mighty drunk this afternoon? Or are you expectin’ us to fail?
T: (laughs) I’m counting on you wanting to get me mighty drunk. (pats belly) My liver is pure as the driven snow. (ahem) Today.
(Somewhere in the lib, C is rolling her eyes)
T: So. (scribbles) OJ 8 * 25 = Vodka x * 20
T: What’s 8 * 25?
R: (avoids answering) And, beggin’ your pardon sir, how is this stuff relevant to Threadfall? I mean, I ain’t gonna have time to calculate what percentage of the silver death I gotta avoid before actually doin’ it.
T: No, but you’ll wanna get hammered after sometimes, hmm
R: My daddy would kill me, sir.
T: Yes, and rightly so. Hmm. A daddy and Thread approved reason. Bear with me on this. Let’s do this problem. I’ve an answer in mind, but it needs some set up. (head inclined, asking R’s indulgence
T: Oh. And the ‘answer’ to your posed question is 100% of Thread. Avoid 100% of Thread when at all possible. (turns back to mirror, grease pen poised) 8 * 25
R: (doesn’t answer, maybe he was asking the group)
T: (calls on those avoiding answering first, not his first rodeo) Rocio.
R: (wilts) Uh. What am I supposed t’ be findin’ out? Vodka somethin’ ‘r other?
T: (shakes head, points at 8 * 25)
R: You just need the answer to 8 * 25?
T: (endless font of patience; ahem, in this context) (nods)
R: (fiddles with a napkin, tears it a little) (stares at it) I don’t think I wanna answer that.
T: Don’t want to? (tilts head, looks concerned, looks at napkin bits)
R: Nope. (tears napkin more) I don’t. (keeps focus on napkin; hand waves at the mirror) Ain’t none of this gonna do me a bit o’ good.
T: (looks up at class along the bar) Back in five minutes.
T: Problem solving is a good thing to be able to do. (he shrugs, waves at the mirror) That’s just a way to look at what you already do in your head. I promise you, you do this sort of thing every day.
R: I don’t recall doin’ much math when I was guttin’ deer. (pause) Sir. And why are you teachin’ this class?
T: Doing it and being aware of it are different things. You don’t think about how much force you will apply to a blade before it pierces the hide, but… it’s a number. Pounds per square inch. And leverage. Balance. You don’t really need to know it, but you can. (he fiddles with the torn up bits) I think that’s pretty neat. (NERD ALERT)
T: Oh. (sheepish) Well, I sorta miss teaching sometimes. It’s a (he swallows) a nice change from what’s…(redirect) I like seeing the look when folks figure things out, too. Feels good. (more fiddling)
R: (leans back when T is closer) (her expression is grim and borderline frustrated) I get at least one lecture a day on somethin’ and I don’t want today’s t’ be about math. So, can we… just. Get back to mixin’ drinks. (stated, not asked)
T: It’s not about math. Not really. It’s about a way of thinking. That there are relationships… algebra is about relationships.
R: (glances at other candidates) (are they listening to this conversation?) (tears more of the napkin, stares at it) It is about math, sir. If I could answer the problem, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here listenin’ to you tryin’ to convince me that ‘algebra is about relationships’.
T: What don’t you like about it? (Yeah, sorry, not ‘getting back to drinks,’ five minutes is five minutes)
R: (frustrated now; looks up) Why are you singlin’ me out? (pause again) Sir.
T: (looks around) You’re the only one that looks like if she could chew firestone I’d be a pile of ash. So. Looking out for myself.
R: Ya didn’t have to pick me to answer the question.
T: No. Do you know the answer? Or how to get it?
R: (shrugs; stares at napkin) Does it matter?
T: Yeah. (he nods, face sincere)
R: I don’t think it does. (flicks what’s rest of the napkin away from her on the counter) Five minutes is almost up.
T: Rocio. (he steps back a bit, giving her space; voice quiet) I know you work hard. (he ducks into her eyeline) And I know you’re smart, too. (a beat) You don’t have to like everything, but I will ask that you do your best
R: All do respect, sir, I ain’t motivated t’ do my best right now. (rests forearms on counter; looks down at fingernails; starts picking)
T: (students are gathering again, the time is nearly up) Answer me one question and answer it truthfully. No evasion. Do you know the answer? (he points to 8 * 25)
R: (looks over at other candidates; looks down at hands) (draws in a slow breath; shakes her head) No, sir.
T: (no judgment in dark eyes; more an ‘aha;’ he leans back in, speaking quickly, quietly) Addition. How’s your addition? (T’ral is going to have words with whoever put Rocio in a class well above her skill level)
R: Um. (lips purse; embarrassed now) I can do small stuff. Add… subtract. (eyes still on hands) Multiply, ya know. Anythin’ bigger I can’t picture in my head.
T: (encouraged) Add it then. (takes advantage of her downward glance and separates a napkin bit, pushes it towards her) This is 25. (separates another bit) And this. How much are they together? (also takes advantage of downcast eyes to gauge how much the class is paying them mind… none, no one is particularly eager to get back to work, however much booze it means T’ral will ingest)
R: (looks at piece of napkin; shakes her head again) I can’t do that in my head. I can’t… see numbers. (shifts a little) I can memorize the ups and downs of a field and the details of a deer path with no problem, but… numbers just don’t happen.
T: (nods, still encouraged and encouraging) Can you count by 5s?
R: (nods)
T: All right. How many 5s in 25? (pushes a bunch of napin pieces over)
R: Um, fou— five. (says apologetically) I meant five.
T: (cordons off five pieces, counting it off) 5, 10, 15, 20, 25. Right. (confirmation and transition) How many 5s in 50? (he nudges a pool of napkin bits Rocio-ward, more than she needs) Count it out.
R: (takes some pieces; slides them in front of her one by one) Ten.
T: (grins when Rocio uses the pieces) Good. All right. Keep going and stop at 75.
R: (finishes; looks at all the pieces of napkin on the counter) (deadpan) Wow. I can count by fives. Ain’t life grand. (looks at T) And ain’t you s’pose t’ be teachin’ them, too? (thumb jerked toward the chatty candidates at the bar) (mumbled) And gettin’ drunk.
T: (eyes students) (T can do deadpan too) They look excited to get back to it. (raises wry brow) One more time. To 100. (there aren't enough pieces; he knows it)
R: I dunno. They might wanna see you get carried outta here. (snickers to herself) (smirks; stops; gapes) 100!? There ain’t no point to it! Other than makin’ a huge mess with these torn up napkins.
T: (grins) They might. I'm counting on it. (winces at self) (stitch of worry, kept inside, she's bowing up again) On your fingers, count it out. (at the first sign of rebellion) Don't stall.
R: Mister T’ral. This is highly irregular. (stares at the small bits of napkin for a moment; narrows eyes) (grumbles; relents; though still annoyed) I ain’t doin’ it again after this.
T: Stalling. (eyes)
R: Am not. (sliiides piece of napkin over slooowly)
T: (folds arms on bartop, smiles, the soul of patience) (it's his class, he can spend the time as he sees fit, even keep folks late if he needs to, or schedule additional classes — whaaaaaaat?? — but nobody wants that, even T'ral) (but really, he just looks from the paper to Rocio's eyes and back to the paper) (waiting)
R: (slowly slides pieces over) (looks up at T; looks down at task) (slides another piece over) (looks up at T again) Would ya quit starin’ at me like that? You’re makin’ me nervous.
T: (tears up some more napkin bits because R's fixin to run out) (he asked for her to count it out on fingers, but she's fixated on napkin, so he's going with it) (napkin bits placed in easy reach)
R: (pieces of napkin, counting on fingers, people laughing over there somewhere) (suddenly doesn’t want to continue) Okay. I’m done. This is about the dumbest thing I’ve had to sit through. (looks over at the other candidates) (frustrated) I’m the only one actually doin’ stuff. Not only is this class unproductive, but it’s unfair. (gets up from barstool)
T: (carefully hides his own frustration and disappointment at not getting through) We’ll finish this later. (it’s a promise, sorry, Rocio) (resumes class, calls on someone else) 200, that’s correct.
R: (looks back at the other candidates, eyes narrowed) (pulls barstool further down from the nearest candidate and lingers near it) (bristles) (watches the class continue) (after a while, she sits back down; listens) (still irritated as she tries to follow along)
T: (she might have followed along better if she’d spent half the energy actually trying than stalling) Okay. So if we’ve got 200 on this side. And 20x on this side — where x is ounces of vodka, remember, (T’ral, blinks, realization dawning… oh he miscalculated just how alcoholoic he meant for this screwdriver to be, oh dear) How many times does 20 go into 200?
R: (looks at pieces of napkin) (slides a few over) (groups them into fives)
T: (notes R's napkin fiddling) Anyone? (dark eyes scan the Candidates arrayed along the bar)
R: T…en. (hesitated there) (so didn’t raise her hand, but actually figured it out with pieces of napkin and some memory)
T: (blink) (victory!) (grin flashed) (clears throat, looks at Rocio; glances at re-arranged napkin bits) Louder.
R: (a little louder) Ten? (still unsure with herself) (has never, ever spoken up in a math class before) (blinks) (looks at other candidates looking at her)
T: (nods) Ten. (scribbles) OJ 8 * 25 200 = Vodka * 20 20x (clarifies) 200 = 20x
T: So. In order to isolate our x, ounces of vodka (ulp, ⅔ of a pint of vodka…) (he scribbles) we need to get rid of extra information or ‘simplify’ this equation. 20 goes into 200 ten times, (he marks out the 200, replaces with 10) thank you Rocio. And how many times does 20 go into 20? (a hand shoots up, ‘Once’) Mmmhmm. We don’t have to write that out. 1 times any number is itself. (murmured as he scribbles) 200 10 = 20 x or (scribbles) x = 10. (he pauses looking at the mirror, anyone with a good angle might see rue wash over his face for a moment; he turns back to the class). So. How many ounces of vodka do I need to make a screwdriver that is 25% alcohol given 8 ounces of OJ? (ulp, again; that’s gonna be a stout screwdriver)
R: (stares at simplified equation stuff) Uh. But we already found ‘x’. Right?
T: (laughs) Yes. (cleared throat, still smiling) Now I’m stalling. (starts lining up shot glasses and getting out vodka and OJ)
R: (continues staring) (blinks) (eyes shot glasses) Hold your runners, Mister T’ral. (blinks again; confused) (looks down the row of candidates then back to T) Did we… answer the question?
T: You did. And correctly. (he points at the original question) If we have 8 ounces of 0% alcohol OJ, we will need 10 ounces of 45% vodka to make a 25% alcohol screwdriver. Because x is ounces of vodka. (eyes glasses) Hooboy. (purses lips and puffs out a breath that stirs the hair over his brow)
R: (looks suspicious) So I answered the question?
T: (nods) Yes. (grins, points at the paper groups) Right there. (foregoes shot glasses, pours 10 ounces of vodka into a pint glass; egad)
R: (bites her lower lip to help prevent a huuuge grin) (failing) Remember what you said, Mister T’ral… (rests elbow on counter top, rests chin on the palm on her hand; watches) (might cough a little to suppress laughter)
T: Oh, I do. (wilts, gets a pitcher, dumps vodka in, dumps orange juice in; stirs) Glad the other four drinks’ll be 10%. All right, you lot. Break into four groups to devise those other drinks. (he glances up at a beaming Rocio, grins) That’s the look, by the way. (glances down again, smiling to himself at Rocio’s obvious pleasure; still stirring)
R: (looks over at the group wanting her to join them; looks back at T) (slooowly slides off barstool; eyes kept on that mixed drink of his) And you still sure this is a good idea? (lingers)
T: Terrible. (grins) (ducks out of sight to fish a cold glass from the chiller; straightens; pours up a pint of screwdriver) There’s time enough. (siiip; nose wrinkle) Well, my equation’s not threatening anyone’s job, that’s for sure. (ducks under the counter and pops up; circulating between the groups and assisting where needed)
R: Tomorrow a restday for ya, sir? Because it looks like you might be in for a world o’ hurt. (stands at the bar) (‘organizes’ the napkin bits; almost like she’s trying to memorize the visual)
T: (leans over a scribbled formula and taps a spot, talking quietly and pointing at the mirror, then back to their scribblings; he grins, straightens) Remember, I’m only drinking the ones that are correct.
R: What if they’re all right? Ain’t that the point of learnin’ this stuff? (still hasn’t joined her group yet)
T: I’m gonna get soused. (he nods, sagely) See. Math is fun. (delivered joking; siiiiip; eyes may track over to the arranged napkin bits) Just wait for the next lesson. Fulcrums! (is she excited yet?) Serval’s gonna help with that one if Arianne approves. (he tosses a head at one of the two-person groups) G’wan. You’re off the hook. (but he’s definitely telling off whoever signed her up for this course without assessing her fundamentals)
R: (arranges small pieces of napkin) (looks over at her group further down the bar) Right. (lingers) (purses lips; nods after her ‘dismissal’) (says nothing else; pushes in the barstool; walks over to stand near her group members)
R: (left on the counter are the pieces of napkin arranged so that they spell the word 'Thanks')