Ginger, Tommin Ibrahim


Tommin thinks Ginger has his pants after an overnight shift. What she really has is a new knot. (and her own pants)


It is 6:42 AM where you are.
It is before dawn of the tenth day of the sixth month of the twelfth turn of the 12th pass.


Craft Complex

OOC Date 12 Nov 2017 07:00


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Craft Complex

Expansive and airy, this space, now adorned and decorated with the pride of well over a hundred crafters. A vaulted cavern encompasses two levels, fit with clever skylights from innovative smithcrafters that illuminate tapestries displayed from the bannister of the second-floor: Healer purple, Harper blue, the yellow of the Farmcraft — all the colors and all the crafts are upon display, proudly. The lower level is given to tables and chairs and a hearth stocked with klah; it is brightly-illuminated and a place to study and congregate socially both. The upper level is given to residential rooms, lending the whole atmosphere a pleasant, if somewhat supervised, aura.

It's taken a while to get all those tremor-induced leaks fixed, but finally, finally, the Craft Complex is dry and drip-free. About time too! And that means that the leak-victims can return to their usual quarters. Ginger wasn't a victim of the leak, but she's here bright and early, making her way through the Craft Complex carrying clothing and other belongings in a teetering and slightly damp pile in front of her. There's enough of it that she can just about see over the top, but only just. She's wearing a rather new-looking Smithcraft knot on her shoulder.

It seems a little like Tommin grew overnight (and he kinda did) but now the skinny lad was that much closer to getting leaked on when he stood up. So thank goodness for Smiths. Arm now in a general sling with more motion, the healer boy is coming out of the Healer tunnel, looking a bit bagged after a night shift, running one hand through his hair to mess it up further. A pile of moving laundry moving past him is eyed once, then twice: "Wha… Hey!" He reaches with his free hand and misses grazing Ginger's elbow: "Where y'takin' my pants?" His words are slurring together a bit and he stumbles a little after her: "M'pants!"

Ginger swings round, eyebrows converging into a frown. "Hey, those are MY trousers!" It takes her a moment to recognise the healer over the top of her possessions, but when she does, she steps back (in case he goes for her underwear next) and surveys his state. Sling? Stumbling like a drunk? She asks with some concern, "Tommin? Whatever's happened to you? If you weren't a healer, I'd say you look like you need to see one!"

"Nooo," he sounds pitiful now, pointing at a shirt folded in a way that could look like pants… maybe… "My pants," Tommin repeats but there's no conviction in his tone, having heard Ginger quite well. Tired eyes fix on Ginger behind the pile of clothes and that recognition of somone behind the pile of laundry seems to wake him up a little: "Oh. Hey, Ginger." He blushes a little, "Sorry. Um. Just got off shift." He'll stop trying to steal her clothing now, looking around furtively but it sounds like someone's noticed from the snicker Healer-wards. Then he eyes the young woman again with what's trying to be a critical eye: "There's something different about you." And it's not the laundry.

Ginger doesn't actually have a free hand to point with, but she twitches her knot-adorned shoulder by way of a clue. "Yeah. I'm supposed to be a responsible adult now. Or so /everyone/ keeps telling me. Dreadful, isn't it? Does it show already?" The healer gets another appraising look. "You've been working all night? Poor you, that sounds tough. But this stuff really is all mine; I'm finally able to move into the dorms, so I'm bringing all my stuff over." If this is literally all Ginger's stuff, her wardrobe is rather limited: there are two pairs of grey trousers, as identical as makes no difference to the ones she's wearing, some shirts and sleeveless tunics, and on the bottom a couple of sweaters and a leather jacket. An amorphous tangle near the top is probably socks and undies.

Tommin grins down at Ginger and her new knot: "Nah, Apprentice is the best time! You're learning to do stuff, but you don't have to make any big decisions and someone's there to tell you if you're doing it wrong." About the dorms, Tomm nods, "It's pretty sweet, sleeping with the apprentices. At least one'll wake up half way through mumbling about something they studied, and then you get a free review lesson." The pile of clothing gets another look and he casually guesses, "You got any more loads? It's nice bein' close to the weavers too, cuz their apprentices'll help patch up any holes if they like ya." Tommin's earnest face hides nothing, means nothing more than some teens are super nice.

"I can patch my own holes!" Ginger's protest is almost reflex: woe betide anyone who suggests she might need help, even if it means admitting possession of a despised skill! She raises a thoroughly-patched (in both senses) knee to prove her point. "Ma got sick of doing it so she taught me how. But I'm so looking forward to not sharing a room with my sisters, even if there's going to be more people in the dorms. And the others seem all right so far." She smiles. "And the learning stuff is great."

Tommin holds up both hands to fend off Ginger's verbal reflex, grinning all the while, "Okay, okay, you'll fix your own holes." Pretty well in his opinion, if his impressed expression at her knee indicates anything. "Yeah, the best is having some of your own stuff but the worst is snorers." So dismissive, it's as if Tommin doesn't do it himself. "So…" and before the conversation can inch closer to closing, Tommin blinks slowly and wonders, "Why Smith? I mean," and now Tommin's desperate to backpedal from any offense, "Like, not that you won't do great in it! Just… compared to anything else?" He's really trying.

Ginger chuckles. "My sister snores. Like, not really snores, but she makes this high-pitched whistle?" She demonstrates. "And you can hear Tondo right through the wall: he's like a two-handed saw." Fortunately, she chooses not to demonstrate that! "I'm just hoping nobody's that bad!" She gives Tommin's question a moment of serious consideration. "I like making things - always have. And using tools - I worked with the handymen for a few months. Smiths get to do lots of that, but they also design things, work out how to make new things from scratch. There are smiths who specialise in that, and know all the mathematics to make sure things work and are safe - that's what I'd like to be. If I don't Impress, of course." She's not totally lost that earlier dream, it seems.

Tommin wrinkles his nose about Ginger's imitation of her sister's snore but tips his head to examine her curiously: "It's a good thing to do," he agrees with her, "An' now you've got that experience to go with." The talk of Impressing surprises Tommin, "You'd rather Impress than Smith?" Like it's so black-and-white. And then he pauses to consider Ginger for a long moment and nods, "Smithing'd be helpful for that, I guess." How? Tommin isn't too sure, as he looks over that pile of laundry again, eyeing what looks like ladies' underwear with some worry. Like it's attack underwear.

Ginger's underwear is no risk to bystanders, honest. As long as they keep their hands off it! She shifts her arms protectively round the pile. "Well, of course. I mean, if I'd Impressed, I wouldn't be doing this. But there's no way to be sure you're going to Impress, so it's better to aim for something you can choose for yourself, I reckon. Doesn't mean I won't Stand again, if they let me."

The mention of Smithing vs. Impression makes the wandering Ibrahim exceedingly curious and causes him to wander over to the two conversationalists, mildly curious. "Each has its appeal you know." He gives Tommin one of those amused little side-eye glances of his, watching his expression as he gives the ladies' underwear a wary stare.Attack underwear? Oh, dear, that could be trouble — for Tommin, anyway. Ibrahim wouldn't mind having ladies' underwear thrown at him as a 'weapon'.

Tommin looks vaguely uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot for a moment: "But… It's so different. Not like I meet a lot of dragonriders," he starts, "but people get hurt on the sands, like, disembowled?" The horror stories they must scare Healer Apprentices with. "How do you not run away?" Tommin ends lamely, then looking over at Ibrahim's interruption like it's a lifeline, except that it's not: "Staying inside or getting sliced up by a dragonet?" It's said quietly though, because no good comes of dissing baby dragons.

Ginger seems concerned to defend the reputation of dragons. "It's not like the whole clutch goes on the rampage, you know. People who get gored usually got in the way, somehow. Not always, but usually. Like, someone comes between a hatchling and the person it wants. That's why you're told to keep out of their way unless they're actually talking in your head. Besides, if you don't want to take the risk of a Hatching, why would you want to fight Thread?"

"They don't know any better when first hatched, I'm told. And they don't have teeth, you know. Not just out of the shell." Or so he's been told, anyway; Ibrahim has had little to do with dragons in all the time he's been here; he's only familiar with the new goldling, and that because of his deepening interest in the Weyr's newest Weyrwoman. Here's hoping that interest isn't too obvious to those who might be concerned as to his intentions. He finds himself something to lean up against, casual and amused at Tommin. "Come on, now, you sound like my family: 'Dragons will eat you.' Seems to me most of the injuries we hear about are just infant clumsiness or something."

Clearly in the minority, Tommin shrugs a little and ducks his head, seeming smaller than the two others: "I just… I heard things, and Ma didn't want me to come here and told me when she saw a hatching…" Ma is a liar but no one knows that. "But you can, like, not get hurt on the Sands?" Interest is now piqued and Tom shrugs one shoulder, grinning a little at Ibrahim: "I bet dragonets don't stuff clackers up their noses, though."

"Of course you can!" Ginger's almost laughing. "Most people don't get hurt, because they don't do anything stupid. I mean, they can do you damage with their claws, as well as biting - they've got to be able to chew meat from day one, remember. And you do occasionally see one who just seems to go for someone, but really, it doesn't happen to many each time. And you hear of them doing all sorts of stupid stuff when they're little, but it's not vicious stuff, more like kids getting into trouble 'cos they don't know their limitations. Pawla says - well, never mind." Ginger's friend is one of the current weyrling class. "Never heard of one doing that with clackers, though."

Ibrahim chuckles softly as Tommin seems to shrink. "Aw, man, don't be that way. Everybody hears the stories. Unless you live in the Weyr, it's all you know, you know?" He certainly knows; having lived out in the boonies all his life, all he'd had to go on was rumor and calumny. No wildling ever really knows anything about Weyr life until they get here. Hesmooths his hair back from his face, an absent gesture worn into habit, even when the stuff's caught up in a runner tail as it is now. "Can't imagine how that'd even work, but I'm sure one of 'em will try it eventually." Like Ginger said, they're children. With extra sets of limbs with which to help them get into mischief.

Really not helping there, Ginger. Tommin gives her a wide-eyed look and swallows, shaking his head, "I'll stay in healing, I think. Patch up the ones who don't get out of the way in time." That sickly little grin includes Ibrahim: "Well, if human kids can manage it, I bet dragon kids would figure something out." No one wants to be that Weyrling who has to take the clackers away because Nameth keeps wondering what they taste like. Tommin sags a little and groans: "I'm sorry but I should go get some sleep." An explanation to Ibrahim: "I was up on night shift last night and I'm pretty wiped."

"I suppose they do have bigger… orifices to push things into," Ginger muses. "But their hands aren't so handy for pushing. Probably just as well. And if they can chew firestone, one crunch would make sawdust of a pair of clackers." She hefts her pile of clothing again, so that she's almost resting her chin on it, for the better security of the items on top. With another chuckle, she adds, "Can you imagine a dragon-sized pair of clackers? Or a dragon playing with them?"

Ibrahim squints at Tommin consideringly. "Don't even think that around a hatchling, or you're gonna be the one pulling clackers out of thier noses." He smirks, then, at Ginger. She's probably right about them making sawdust out of clackers. Powerful beasts, those dragonets. "Considering their size now, there's no way you could make 'em big enough or strong enough." The dragonets, let alone the full-grown ones. "They're growing so fast."

Something Tommin didn't think about; he tips his head to one side and considers it: "But would dragons really wanna chew wood? What if they get splinters?" Then, a horrified look, "What if the dragon got a bit of firestone stuck between his teeth?" Dragon dentistry, the latest Pernese innovation. Ibrahim gets a certain nod: "I… saw a few of them in the Dragonhealing Yard but there're no clackers there." Thank Faranth, evidently. He grins a little absently.

"I suppose her rider would have to take it out," is Ginger's solution. "Or the dragonhealers, if the rider can't get it. Ever fancied dragonhealing, Tommin?" The question sounds quite innocent. "Can't really think why they'd want to chew wood, though. Unless they've got itchy gums, or something." Dragons with teething troubles?
Ibrahim points to Ginger. "Seems like riders do a lot of their own healing on their dragons." Who better, right? After all, the rider and the beast are one and the same in many ways. "I dunno, maybe they'd like to do it if they're young?" He eyes Ginger consideringly. "Don't they grow teeth like every other animal — including humans — on Pern?"

Tommin ponders that too: "Does a dragon mind someone else putting their hands in his mouth?" As for dragonhealing, he shrugs: "I dunno - I help out when I can, but…" and here Tommin's a little shy, "I told Weyrhealer Varden I'd like to go into mindhealing. There's a lot to do there. An' I think the dragonhealers are supposed to have their own dragons, so they can talk with the hurt dragon." So much to learn, this one. Suddenly bright eyes turn to Ginger again, "Maybe you could make a toothbrush for dragons!"

"I think they only get one set?" Ginger doesn't sound entirely sure of that, though. "Could be wrong." No dragon tooth fairy, then! "And, yeah, they learn how to treat minor things themselves - Da used to put numbweed on Rusath's scores." She grins at Tommin. "Imagine the size of it! I don't know if they really need it, though. Maybe chewing firestone has the same effect? Still, the queens…" Oh, dear. She's thinking.

"Huh. You'd think they'd get more than one, considering the rest of 'em gets bigger." But whatever, Ibrahim has no real opportunity to go sticking his fingers in the mouths of dragons, thank Faranth. He also doesn't want to think about the size of dragon toothbrushes. "Eh — good luck with that. I'd better be on my way." He's eyeing up the Smith shop with avid curiosity now; perhaps there's something in there he can't wait to get his hands on.

Tommin is starting to weave on his feet, though he's desperately looking interested in what Ginger is saying. Ibrahim's departure gets a nod of farewell and then to the young woman, Tommin repeats, "Er, if you'll excuse me." Wobble. "I'll letcha get your pants," and other things, "to your new cot. I'm gonna go get some sleep. And, ahh, congrats, Smith!" Tommin grins widely at Ginger and then starts to stumble sleepily towards the apprentice dorms, muttering something about sleep and how delicious it is.

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