It's been a regular sort of day in Southern Weyr, which means that it's been generally busy for most. There are always a million things to tend to in a day's time, after all. But now, well after the evening meal, when the Living Caverns are mostly empty and the sounds of dishes being cleared and cleaned echoes through the chamber, there is little work to be done. As evidenced by H'ris, stretched out in a chair by the Nighthearth, his bare feet crossed lazily at the ankles. Near him, on the hearth itself, sits a plate of food and a mug of cooling klah, The big greenrider has a book in one hand, and the leg of some small roasted creature in the other, waving the latter idly by his ear as he reads. To his credit, his lips don't actually move as he reads, but they do twitch occasionally. Once in a while, the leg is remembered and gnawed on distractedly. Ah, sloth. It is quite the indulgence.

M'noq has been occupying himself with Lynx-related things and way too much paperwork, which has somehow edged out actually stopping to eat dinner. So it's a bit later that he stops by the nighthearth for something to eat and a glass of cold tea. He makes way in and looks over at the pot of bubbling soup a little warily, before helping himself to a bowl and a piece of bread. He pauses just shy of tripping over the greenrider's feet. "Hey, H'ris. Is this the best time to go around with bare feet? Hasn't everyone been talking about a ton of crawlies everywhere?"

H'ris looks up as M'noq appears, and he slides his eyes along the younger man's frame before he offers a tilted smile. "I spend most o' my time in th' jungle with 'em," he rumbles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he salutes with the leg. "I've like as stepped on more'n my fair share. I ain't scared to step on a few more." He bends a knee, though, to crank his foot around to inspect the sole. "The kids love 'em, though. I reckon Riski's got four or five hidden away somewheres." He drops his foot, and offers a wider grin as he makes room for the brownrider. "Am you overrun with 'em, living out in th' ships like you does?"

M'noq chuckles a little, finding a seat to eat his meal. He waves off the salute, since they're eating and all. "Stepping on them is one thing. Them taking a chunk out of a foot is something else," M'noq says. "Yeah, plenty of them out there. They come in the windows and everything. Fortunately your wingleader has a few herbal treatments we've been using just to keep them out of the living space. Ah… I don't think I could take kids actually bringing the things inside on purpose!"

H'ris makes a noise in his throat at the idea of dangerous crawlies, and closes his book. "I ain't ne'er heard o' no crawler ever takin' no bite o' no one," he admits, his eyebrows creeping up. "But then, I ain't seen every crawler, neither." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, and leans over the arm of his chair to exchange his leg of meat for something else not immediately decided upon. Given the way he stirs around with a thick finger before coming up with a couple of well-cooked sausages. "Rielle's fucking smart," he says with a note of pride in his voice (she is part of his family, such as it is, after all). "She'll see you right, sure enow." He wrinkles his nose, thinking. "She were in your weyrlin' class, weren't she?"

M'noq gives a nod at that. "Clutchmates. She always showed a lot of promise then too, and I admit I'm glad to be working with her in charge of Serval." Not all the wingleaders in Southern are so easy to work with. "You're close with her, aren't you?" He has some kind of inkling of a relationship between the two besides just being in the same wing. He's a little skeptical on H'ris's claim that crawlies don't bite, though. "I'm sure I've been bitten by something when I was out in the jungle. I get back to my weyr and I'm sure something has been snacking on me."

"She's good at what she does," H'ris says, jerking his chin towards his chest before taking a huge bite of sausage and talking around it as he chews and licks at his fingers. "She's the mother o' our daughter," he confirms for the wingleader, not clarifying that Zari is actually Z'bor's daughter. Maybe M'noq knows that, though. H'ris doesn't seem overly fussed with particulars. He's more interested in polishing off that sausage. "VTOLs," he declares at M'noq's admission. "They bite an' sting like anything, particular if'n you's near one o' their nests. You probably got a good bite from one o' them." The big man leans forward, suddenly, eyeing M'noq closely. "Where'd it get ya?"

M'noq isn't so good at keeping track of other people's kids, even though he doesn't mind them. He does catch that "our" bit, though. "Oh, I do remember the girl was from a flight where Obhaeroth caught." He remembers that, at least. "That's great you're all a family, though. K'vvan's kids seem to have a similar kind of extended family." He'll just sort of drop that in there. "Yeah, could have been VTOLs, though I usually spot them. Jungle's too hot to go in all covered up, but when I go in with just a light shirt, I end up with bites practically everywhere. And something got my bare feet on the beach once." Basically, M'noq has bug bites, all the time.

"I reckon most weyrbred kids have families like that," H'ris rumbles. "You ought'n to see my family's tree. You'd ne'er make no sense of it, if'n you studied it for a Turn or more." He grins, and finishes off the second sausage in much less time, sucking his fingers clean. "You like as taste good to 'em," he says of bugs and biting. "There's some as cain't get shed of 'em, and some as ne'er see naught of 'em." He grins, and reaches into his tunic to scratch his chest. "You got to eat more onion an' stinkroot. The VTOLs an' flyin' bugs cain't stand it." He wrinkles his nose. "'Course, neither can no one else." He shrugs, and settles back, looking M'noq thoughtfully. "K'vvan, huh?"

M'noq gives a wry grin. "Nah, I'm familiar. My sister and I are from Reaches. Different dads." And that's about all he'll say about that. Then, about the bugs: "Onions, huh? I don't think I could stand to eat enough onions to make any kind of difference. I'd rather dip myself in one of Rielle's potions." It's an amusing idea, though. At H'ris's apparently appraising look, M'noq looks a little awkward. "Right. You probably know him, by reputation, at least? I don't make a habit of apologizing for him to people he has tried to punch, though."

"I know him," H'ris confirms with a grunt. "He ain't ne'er struck me as the chummy type. Leastwise not on no regular basis." He grunts a laugh, and closes one eye in the wingleader's direction. "He ain't ne'er tried to punch me," he asserts, puffing out his chest for massive effect. "'Course, I prefer t' chase prey what am a bit less violent in their attitude." He wrinkles his nose, thinking, eventually abandoning whatever thought he was working on and lacing his fingers over his stomach. "Them potions stink as bad as onions," he says suddenly. "An' they burn th' eyes."

M'noq gives a noncommittal hum as H'ris discusses K'vvan's unique nature. "Yeah, I don't guess he's too 'chummy'. Can't say I really prioritized that as a reason to be with someone either, though." Amused, he shakes his head. "I'm glad. Though he doesn't usually take into consideration the size of an opponent before taking them on, either." Which is why he ends up in trouble fairly frequently. "The potions are still better than onions. Besides, our weyr reeks of them, and after a while, being around it basically kills your sense of smell. Better than everyone you walk by thinking, 'Whoa! Onions!'"

"Most people don't," H'ris says of K'vvan's lack of discernment. "I reckon it's gotten my ass into more trouble'n I care to admit to." He runs a finger along a wicked-looking scar that runs the length of his forearm, his gaze thoughtful. He snorts at M'noq's defense of the potions, and shakes his head. "I'd rather smell like onions than some o' them potions," he confesses. "They make my eyes an' nose water somethin' fierce, an' they take forever to scrub off'n th' kids." He shudders. "I don't reckon I could ever get used to that infirmary stink about 'em." H'ris is NOT a good patient. For anything.

M'noq chuckles at that and shakes his head. "The last one I got from Rielle smelled something closer to flowers. Maybe she's trying out different blends." So, M'noq goes around smelling like flowers instead of an infirmary. Seems like a decent enough trade. "Besides, onions just smell like sweat and old shoes. I think I'll take the herbs." The jury is still out whether his wingmates would prefer him stinking of herbs or onions, though.

"Onions work better," H'ris says sagely, nodding firmly as he pushes to his feet. "I reckon herbs an' flowers am just goin' to draw them things to you quicker." He shrugs. "Mud's good, too, if'n your in the jungle." He bends to retrieve his book and plate, using them to gesture to the other man as he continues. "The grey mud you find by th' river, not the mud from th' brackish swamps. Works like a top," He grins, and offers…some sort of salute, with his hands full. "It was good talkin' to you, but I better get up to th' Weyr an' see about scrubbin' some backsides. It were good talkin' with you, though." He grins, and offers a wink. "Give my best to K'vvan." And with that, he's off, his big, bare feet slapping noisily on the stone floor. Not exactly a ninja, is he?

Having finished off his dinner, M'noq sets his bowl aside, giving the man a wave in return for the salute. "Thanks for the chat. Mud, huh?" He might actually try that. And won't K'vvan love that if he comes back covered in dried mud after every day in the jungle? "Have a good evening, and enjoy your backside-scrubbing." He figures it must be H'ris's kids, but who really knows? He'll just have another glass of tea and enjoy the quiet before heading back to his weyr.