Z'bor, Akeylah, Vaeslyn,


A few people try to eat, warm up with klah, and visit while Southern Weyr suffers winter rains


-- On Pern --
It is 7:09 PM where you are.
It is evening of the twenty-second day of the sixth month of the thirteenth turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the twenty-second day of Summer and 98 degrees. It is a clear night.
In Southern:
It is the twenty-second day of Winter and 50 degrees. The winter rain drums the weyr pleasantly throughout the night.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the twenty-second day of Winter and 5 degrees. It's cold and dark out.


Southern Weyr Living Caverns

OOC Date 16 Mar 2018 06:00


z-bor_default.jpg akeylah_default.jpg vaeslyn_default.jpg

"Careful before ya choke lad."


Southern Weyr, Living Caverns

Grand and spacious, the cavern curves high aloft in naturally-vaulted ceiling that soothes any sense of claustrophoba. Rich woods line the cavern floor, varnished and stained a rich mahogany, while round tables scatter about candlelit and intimate. The largest table lies southerly next the sideboard, long trestles that seem oriented to providing for the weyr's youngest. The rich blue of Azov can be seen from a distance in good weather, when the heavy stone doors covering the entrance are allowed to stand open.

It is a time of turmoil in Southern Weyr… or maybe dead bodies, invading refugees, perfect-storms and mystery illnesses are normal? Either way, at least the living caverns seems to be safe enough this evening. Both food and people seem rather plentiful, though some of the former are eyeballing the latter with skepticism thanks to those rumors that abound. Vaeslyn, for one, seems not to have concerns over contamination and food preparation, the herder apprentice tearing through his meal with healthy gusto. At least it appears that his mama taught him some manners.

Z'bor is thoroughly sick of the rain this winter, what with all the chaos of late, the last thing he wants to deal with is being soggy and cold…..in riding leather. It really is the worst, and having just got off shift, well, this Serval Wingsecond is cranky. So, stalking into the Living Cavern, the first thing he makes a beeline for is the steaming klah pots on the side bar. He gets as big a mug of Klah as he can manage and scoots to a seat to enjoy it, landing right across from an apprentice inhaling his food. "Careful before ya choke lad." He comments with a slight chuckle. Oh to be young and growing.

Rain, rain: get the feck out, already. Akeylah would sulk, only it would just ruin his wrinkle-free face, and one can't have that. He runs his fingers through his hair, peeling the wet stuff off his forehead as his eyes sweep the caverns; where's that damn klah! Ah! There; a large mug is claimed with a nearly aggressive vigor before he folds himself into a seat near the other two, watching Vaselyn with a mild sort of amusement: young men are cute when they inhale their meals.

Could be worse. Could be sleet or snow, right? Vaeslyn seems to be dry enough, but a peek beneath the table would reveal a rather sorry state; mud and muck nearly to his knees. Top half at least is clean, dry, and definitely concentrated on that plate of food set before him. A forkful has just entered his mouth when Z'bor claims his chair, so there are no words for the dragonrider just yet. There is, however, a pointed look and subtle shake of his head. Chew-chew-swallow. "Haven't yet," comes flatly. A second later and he seems to think better of it and tacks on a polite, "Sir," before another bite vanishes. He chews rapidly, gaze shifting toward the movement at the corner of his eye, drawing his attention briefly to Akeylah.

Z'bor laughs. "There's always a first time…." And if Z'bor had heard that meta thought of Akeylah's, he'd be bound to agree, and if it were sleet, snow or hail, Z'bor would be right the eff out. He's a tropicle boy, a man of the isles, and well, he and the cold do not get along.

Z'bor laughs. "There's always a first time…." And if Z'bor had heard that meta thought of Akeylah's, he'd be bound to agree, and if it were sleet, snow or hail, Z'bor would be right the eff out. He's a tropicle boy, a man of the isles, and well, he and the cold do not get along. Akeylah's arrival is greeted with a not from the greenriding wingsecond, who has a near reverent respect for the wildlings here. "Evening." He extends. (Fix)

Vaeslyn might appear to be giving the idea of choking some thought, if that brief halt to chewing and subtle tilt of his head is any indication. And then a shrug and back to eating. Swallowing. Commenting. "I'll take my chances," but it's less argumentative and more just… hungry teen is hungry! The studious might observe that his speed does decrease a wee bit, now that he's been called-out on his habits. Stab-stab goes the fork into the food, collecting a little bit of everything before he's lifting it once more. Poised just shy of his lips, he cocks an eyebrow at an unspoken thought, drops his gaze to his fork, shrugs and takes his bite.

Akeylah raises both eyebrows, all innocent surprise: "…yet, he says." Z'bor is given a wide grin, and the beginning of another sentence: "Do you want to bet — " But such a thing is not to be; he gets called away to do some annoying chore or other. " — well. Another time, perhaps." And poof: Akeylah is gone.

Z'bor shakes his head and will say no more on the subject, promise! He can remember that hunger, still gets it now and then when he changes his routine. Akeylah's exit is noticed and he waves the man off before indulgently sipping at his klah, a satisfied sigh slapping past his lips. That's better. The greenroder watches the apprentice once more. "What craft are you apprenticed to lad?" (fox)

The thing about stuffing your face full of food, is that it makes answering questions rather difficult without either a, flashing the world a mouthful of half-masticated meal, or b, making them wait during what might be an awkward pause while thorough chewing and swallowing takes place. It is probably for the best that Vaeslyn goes for the second option, chewing thoroughly enough to not risk any of that choking so recently discussed, and swallowing soon after. His cup grabbed, he takes a long swallow of the contents before speaking. "Herder," he answers somewhat breathlessly, as if he's just come up for air after a deep dive. "Runner's my specialty."

Z'bor seems very unworried and apathetic to the amount of time it takes Vaeslyn to chew and reply, he's got time. Or at least, he's making time. The longer it is before he has to go back out into that weather, the better. He nods when Vaeslyn speaks of his craft, grinning slightly when the lad sounds a bit out of breath for a spot. "Mm. Noble profession that, if not a rather loud and odorous one. Runners aren't so bad." In truth, Z'bor rather likes runners, despite never really having ridden one in truth. A time or two here and there, but not enough to count. "It's been a long stretch since I was a'runner back." Ozriath can count as a rather big runner replacement though, right? Of course she can.

Breathing is another of those things that becomes challenging when attempting to eat your entire meal in one go. Right up there with talking. And now that Vaeslyn is doing both (talking, and breathing), eating must slow down. Thank Faranth. He's halfway through that plate, so perhaps the edge is off his hunger, his fork moving with a more measured pace to collect it's next mouthful. "Runner's aren't that noisy," he notes offhand. "Or that smelly. Just dust an' hay. The rest of 'em?" meaning the other creatures in the craft he's chosen, "Yeah. Noisy. Smelly," and not particularly appealing, judging by the subtle grimace. "Canine's aren't so bad, though. Neither're felines." Apparently, when he's not trying to eat his food at the speed of light, he can manage to form full sentences. "Right now, s'not real pleasant to ride, though," noted with a glance towards the great outdoors in question. "Can't imagine it's much better onna dragon, though?"

Z'bor chuckles in agreement with the lad, though the word feline definitely gives him a visible shiver of distaste, gooseflesh rising on his skin. He knows the lad speaks to the domestic kind, but Z'bor has quite the aversion to anything even remotely feline at this point. "Watch them felines boy, they're sneaky bastards, whether it be the domestic kind…or not." Z'bor leans forward and pushes up the line of his hair to make four roped and still slightly pink scars that start on his forehead and move into the line of his hair. As to the whether making for unpleasant rides, Z'bor couldn't agree more. "Aye you're quite right about that. It's colder up in the skies as is, add rain and wind, and you're freezing up there."

Vaeslyn certainly catches that aversive response to the mention of felines, chewing paused (because he totally took another bite once his words were finished) as he considers the greenrider. Swallow. Then words. "They keep the stables free of rodents," which may be all he cares about. "The big ones," the not-domesticated ones, "I'm not so fond of." He leans forward with clear curiosity to look upon the marks revealed. "How'd you get out of that?" he wonders, voice dropped to a somewhat hushed quality. The sound of fork-to-plate fills in the gap as Vaeslyn gathers up the remainder of his meal into a small pile in the center. A grunt of acknowledgement for the misery of flying in this weather. "Cold and wind. And then Between?" A shiver for that, an involuntary response for the thought of the freezing-cold void found between places. "No, thank you."

Z'bor sighs. "Barely." He says of escaping the feline, "I don't remember all the details, it was a rush, and the bloodloss from the scalp wound didn't help. It's not my only set, and not my only tangle with a feline either." And he can't agree more on the rest, nodding as Vaeslyn speaks. "Bloody miserable out there is what it is." Another shiver, though this one is different. Oh wait! Klah! He sips at the hot drink, letting the warmth fill him. "You specializing in breeding? Training? What?"

Deep consideration is given for the details that are revealed, what little of them there are. Vaeslyn frowns, and another of those involuntary shivers travels down his spine. It's another moment before he deigns to pick up his fork and take another bite of his meal, but when he does so, the ensuing chewing is much slower. Thoughtful. Perhaps to stretch out the time he is expected to respond. Though clearly there is respect for the obvious survival of the attacks, he asks no more questions about it. Klah. He has none, but he does have a cup of something to sip at, which he does once he's swallowed that mouthful of food. "Uh…" and a shake of his head, "not sure yet. I like training. Probably will go that route. But bloodlines're fascinating, too. Just getting' the opportunity to start my own colt… well, she's actually a filly but," shrug. Same thing, right? "So maybe I'll do both?" Ambitious lad. "Were you a crafter, before?" Before Impression.

Z'bor shakes his head. "Not at all, I'm the son of a sea merchant, I grew up on boats, and when I was landside, I was hunting and learning business. That is, until I was snatched up for search and Ozriath claimed me." Those are fond memories, and it shows in the light of Z'bor's face. "The rest speaks for itself."

An 'ah' sort of expression crosses Vaeslyn's face for the history, though he seems not to have much opinion on sea merchants or ships. Or certainly no comments to offer. Though, he is once again devoting himself to his meal. A pause and a glance up for the memory of Impression, gaze fixed on the greenrider for a half-second longer than polite before he drops it back to his plate and scoops up the last mouthful. He's already standing even before he's swallowed, though he does manage to finish that mouthful and offer a, "gotta go. Due back at the stables," in explanation and, after an awkward pause, a somewhat believable, "Nice to meet you. Enjoy—" but he will just stop right there, because who the heck is going to enjoy the day with that weather? "Er. Good luck."

Z'bor nods. "Off with ya then, It was nice to meet you." Z'bor sips once more and eyes the sidetable. "Aye, I doubt I'll have much of that, but thanks for the sentement anyhow. Stay as dry as you can lad." Z'bor stands. "I should eat something myself." Z'bor checks off a half joking salute to the apprentice and meanders over to the food where he will spend the next several minutes carefully compiling his meal.

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