Who

Elle, Threvobek

What

Elle comes into Threvobek's little world and glimpses some of the crazy.

When

It is the seventieth day of Summer and 120 degrees. It is hot. Hot, hot, hot. Rukbat bakes the desert. Temperatures soar.

Where

Stables

OOC Date

 

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Stables

The powerful odor of hot runner lies heavy in the air here, and even the relative open of the stable design - roomy stalls, lofty arches, this is incongruously one of the best designed buildings in the entire Weyr, legacy of a long-ago Weyrleader of Herder origins - cannot altogether dispel the stink of Animal. The Stables serve for the Weyr's population of runners, and house a small menagerie of other creatures. Avians, caprines and porcines all have their homes here, and all add to the earthy feel of the place.


On many Igen calendar days it's too hot— dangerous— to be outside. Work is completed either indoors or during the night under artificial light. The animals have been tender to, the avians, caprines, few milking bovines. Threvobek saved his favorites for last: the solid white Lord Holder's steers and Boreas, the sublime runnerbeast with the Azkhan brand on his flank. There's a skeleton crew here, and perched by the avians he's crowding a sliver of window for its softer, more luminating properties as he sketches on a slate. The irrigation system for the major beast pen is acting up again.

While midmorning's song hearkens another day well underway for most of Igen's populace, it also serves as dirge for the passing of a different type of day. In walks a slip of a girl and a runner recently familiar to the stables of Igen: lovely, with the exquisite lines of a desertbred. Elle seems competent enough in unbridling the runner, setting it in halter to a set of cross-ties not far from Threvobek's location. She glances absently in his general direction, but it turns out her eyes seek out the avians, not him. Poor Threvobek, discarded as scenery.

The fine particles suspended in the shaft of sunlight swarm around the stablehand as he crouches intently over the haphazard schematics. He can serve as a tomb angel or gargoyle to Elle's designation of scenery, bearing no such preferences. Not properly schooled in engineering or earthworks, he relies on his own observations, the stablemaster's experience (and criticism) and a splash of 'what if this goes here…' The piece of chalk notched between a couple fingers shimmies as he reaches some mental hitch. This lapse lifts his head and mitigates Elle and her mount into view. "One of those was tearing last I knew," indicting the tethers. "maybe it's been changed since then." He takes her for a visitor, a transient to the Weyr soon to be gone in a day or so.

As luck would have it, there is a soul exceptionally blessed in the dynamics of physics and the calculus of engineering within the walls of Igen's stables - though she looks more like the daughter of a wealthy oldtimer than anything else, with her leggings and her overlong tunic belted at the waist (yet being of fine fabric indeed). "Oh, Celeste won't bother at them," Elle's reply flutes out. "She's an exceptionally calm example of her breed." Which runs for ire and ambitious anxiety rather than cool presence of head, all things considered. Elle starts loosening the girth of her light endurance saddle, her hands moving in a practiced mindlessness. "They are rigged breakaway at the wall anyhow, by the look of the anchor."

The birds milling beside him fan the particles with their spread of feathers, currents of the stuff flowing around Threvobek as their only obstacle. He sees them only as pale specks coating the foreground in glitter. His own shape is rigged in linen with a corona of gold at his outline. Take him out of the light and he really isn't so golden. "They're old." The anchors, but living in a dry climate means nothing thankfully rusts into ruin. "She from Katz Field?" Shaping a wild guess.

Birds are uniquely foreign to Elle, and the fluttering of yon wings gives her pause mid-saddle-removal, eyes the color of charred chestnuts seeking out the originators of the sound. "Do you often keep many avians here?" she questions the stablehand, reaching around to tug the girth upside-down on the seat of the saddle to prevent it from slapping against her mare's back when the neat package of her trappings are removed. "Mmm? Oh, Celeste? No, not Katz. Not far from here, actually. She's nomad-bred." A fine young runner, calm in the crossties, flawlessly turned-out even marred by saddle sweat and the dust of a long evening ride.

Threvobek circles the cistern on the slate to serve as a mental bookmark for something to come back to. No time for hang ups. A few more swipes come out of his hand, general lines not needing accurate angles. As the flock is mentioned he turns to half regard them through dangling hair. "Twenty-two total, four of them small waterfowl." They lost the only drake late last turn so their numbers won't increase without introducing a new one. Rev squints at Celeste's lines, wondering if she was one of the few he'd captured after cotholds were razed. Doesn't appear so. "I'm Rev." It's out of place for him to present his name first, but the silence was lacking something.

Elle racks her gear on the stall front directly across from the ties she chose, pausing only to wipe down the bit. Then it is an industrious currying of the layers of sweat, apparently enjoyed by the soft grunting snorts of Celestial, the bay's head drooping in the ties. This does not preclude Elle from glancing over the glossy mare's croup to better examine the crowd - flock? - of avians about Threvobek. "Elle," she reports, "Elle of the starcraft. Well-met, Rev." As if driven by courtesy, the slim young woman crooks her chin, a single nod: "Working on anything fun?"

A male bird arcs his head and crows, the distinct sound flushing the stables. Threvobek screws up his face from the shortcoming to put what's in his head in drawn form. No matter, it can rest for now. "Something necessary," which doesn't answer Elle's question. To him the stablework has elements of fun, elements of hardship, and all of it has to be done regardless of preference. His face shows off a smirk and he stands from the stool to reveal some average enough height. There's still developing to do. Hands run to the base of his spine and push then his arms shake like that rooster about to crow. Instead there's some sound of satisfaction for the simple act of standing. "I've never met a starcrafter." Earnest eyes scout this one better though still from an acceptable distance, also remarking the ease she dismantles and grooms the desertbred.

There is not much of a startled for the raucous cry reverberating, though both Elle and her mare side-eyes where the avians congress. "Sometimes things that are necessary can also be fun," Elle replies, her voice distracted with her attention settled as it is. She's maneuvering about the bay, picking hooves, when Threvobek comments as he does. It rates a straightening to her meagre height, the better to examine his own. "There aren't that many of us," Elle admits. "It is a strenuous craft in ways most find utterly boring."

Two herder apprentices trot by with shovels, carefully spacing around Elle and her runner. Threvobek eyes them down with mock seriousness, debating their deeds as one can who's Older and Wiser. "Sometimes, I'll give you that Stargazer." Like gathering the caprines while almost flying over the rocks as fast as them. Or drinking, a necessary function, at the Cantina. "I'm one of those people," admitted with a good grin. "But I don't quite know all the specifics of what you do." He knows there are many mathematical formulas involved and frankly he'd rather wrestle something with horns.

A hand smooths across curved rump as Elle tracks close to switch sides, the better to pick the strange rocks that may have migrated into the close-packed clods of dirt arranged around delicate frogs. This duty is paused at his somewhat-question. "We use math and the tracking of the stars to predict Thread, mostly, these days. We also predict weather patterns, work on ships as navigators, and know all the stories of the skies." This last is embellished with a devilish little smile, her lips curving with a certain fondness.

Threvobek isn't sure how to judge Elle so he overtakes a broom to attack the floor with, something done earlier this morning, but it's more apropos than arbitrary button pushing. "I have a feeling you'll be coddled by the Weyrleaders for that very ability. Or smothered," altering that outcome. "Either way your services are well-suited. Igen takes its Falls very seriously." So Elle's either in for the ride of her life or poised to tear her hair out. Hairlessness in women is, however, a trendy Igen fashion lately. The scratch of the broom over smooth stone is almost soothing to the stablehand, something familiar and decent.

"It is why I was sent," Elle reflects. "We shall see. I have done my initial investigations, but I am waiting upon an appointment with the weyrleader and his weyrwoman." She marks herself as a nowtimer perhaps, by that turn of phrase, but it's there in her demeanor itself for those who care to look. "We shall see," she repeats herself, finishing out her war against stones in hooves and giving Celeste a treat for her patience. "So what do people do around here for fun, Rev?"

Distracted by something in a vacant stall, there are several of those, Threvobek treads on the clean sand bedding and disappears. Hiding— nope picking up something from the ground. "Everyone likes others who're useful." Sounds like a no brainer, but he's giving advice, behold! Threvobek, guiding his hair over his ears, puts whatever it was on the ground into his pocket. "Well," the question making him par down his reply to suit a woman. There are things and places he as male is at home at. "Start with the bazaar, there's something for everyone whether you like shopping or eating or having exotic things done to your face." He hasn't quite figured out what goes on in that shop. "Every tenth and twentieth day of the month, there's music and dancing at the Cantina and the trader caravans offer at least that much almost daily." They're a merry lot. One gets the impression his versions of fun are vetoed from the list.

"Not always, but I suppose you are correct the majority of the time," Elle unclips her mare from the crossties. She acquires one of those empty stalls - the one that Celeste was in before her night ride - and unhalters the mare into the loose box. "Don't eat yourself silly," as she checks the sheaf of hay; only thereafter is her attention caught by Rev's listing of opportunities. "And what you do for entertainment?" Different. Humor infiltrates, licking amusement - distracted by talk of having things done to your FACE. How does that sound like entertainment at all?

Ladies love facials! Maybe Zeyta could go with Elle sometime to madame Deshani's boutique at the end of the bazaar circuit. Personally he hasn't been to the end in a Turn or better, all his haunts are spaced before. The breath exiting his lungs is held behind a closed mouth, cheeks inflating before the air's let out. It's something horselike. Throat gets cleared, this subject needn't be articulated in front of the fairer sex. "I'm often at the Pit or lesser arenas, the Cantina, the Inn, sometimes the Hold." Drinking, gambling, and when affordable, there's always the busom of the bazaar: Rosie's. "Don't think twice if she isn't in the same stall tomorrow, sometimes we shuffle 'em around." Stableboys love a good chinese fire drill.

It is certainly a custom that Elle will have to be accustomed to - though the ladies of her home may certainly have cosmetic augments, her youth has been spent in the pursuit of her craft, not physical beauty. "You look like a draybeast when you do that," Elle comments distractedly, with a nod for the stablehand's yawn-exhale-distortion-of-jaw. "The Pit?" comes guileless question, a furrowed brow declaiming the journeywoman's ignorance of the topic.

"Everyone STOP!" A voice booms from the rear. "MY GLASS EYE ROLLED ON THE FLOOR." That would be Gorn, the One-Eyed. Surly, funny, full-time boor…Threvobek seems conditioned to do nothing despite the oddity, shaking his head just slightly. "Tunnel snake fights," provided without a beat, "no women allowed." So sorry. "I've been called worse," smiling in bold. The broom is tipped horizontally as he takes steps closer to Elle, referring to something guarded in his pocket. Not that. Something spherical, glassy. With a pupil painted on it. When he looks up his smile has doubled in sincerity.

At the boom of voice Elle absolutely freezes, head pivoting about in the direction that the noise came from. When Rev doesn't jolt she seems to calm a bit, shifting in curiosity at his responses. "Well, that sounds hideous anyhow." Tunnel snakes. She shudders, just her shoulders, a flicker of girlishness rising from her deadset confidence. "Well in that case I'll just call you an ass next time," she lightly comments, a teasing nature to her swirling soprano. To his hidden treausre, she covers her mouth with the fingers of her left hand, a smile hidden except for her eyes. "I'm sure he'll be looking for that," she murmurs low. "Scaring all the lads and the high-strung."

Threvobek spins his head to the side to wipe his rough chin on a shoulder. His beard is coming in patchy but it doesn't look so poorly when it's short. "Why do you think I first avoided mentioning all my pastimes?" The teasing only stops after, "still been called worse." Gorn's artificial eye is replaced back in the socket of a pocket and Rev hangs the broom on the wall. "He is, but it's expected. It's the only way we know how to one-up him." With his casual sunniness it doesn't appear this is his first eye-stealing rodeo. "There's stock I gotta see to, miss. Don't fret over your runner, we're a good lot." Except if you have a glass eye, then you're victimized.

There's an impudent beam directed upwards to Rev's extolation of past sobriquets and current avocations. Elle shakes her head wryly at the boyish tomfoolery with Gorn's eye but doesn't comment further upon it. "Indeed, I'd be amiss in not hunting a bed soon." Night-work makes this morning Elle's late evening, as evidenced by the dark circles slowly coming out beneath her eyes. "Thank you, Rev. I feel better on her well-being knowing there are such colorful caretakers." There is a confident line to her smirk, a curve of knowingness, and with a flick of fingers the starcrafter is heading for the exit - and likely bed beyond.

Wait until evening and Gorn will have his eye back and Threvobek a lump on his head. It'll be worth the welt. "Good-night miss." He forces hair back from his forehead to frame the starcrafter cleanly for a moment then the strands fall back into place and he's beginning to gather an afternoon's worth of incredible edible eggs. Gorn continues to rage against the stableboys. "Come here you little wreeeeetch!" Run Trayvis, run!

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