T'ral, Oz'keyn


Fresh meat for Esanth. Fresh meat for Lynx. Southern wins!


It is afternoon of the tenth day of the fifth month of the seventh turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date 12 Mar 2016 08:00


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"Southern is an uncommonly good place to get lost."


Feeding Pastures

Up the side of the mountain, stone fences mark the lines of the different parts of the feeding pastures. Bovines, woolies, ovines, caprines, herdbeasts; they are all collected here, dotting the hillside in lazy repose to stand stark against the brilliance of the green pastures. Rich, rich grass grows here, fed by the humidity and tropical climate. The sounds here are a blend of bleating, baying, and the thundering of many steps as the different herds move about. Occasionally, the whiff of something foul is carried downwind from the collection of animals that serves as the weyr's food supply.

It is the fortieth day of Autumn and 90 degrees. It is sunny and bright. In the distance clouds gather on the horizon.

It is Autumn at Southern weyr. A beautiful stretch of days, maybe sevens, where the gray has not yet locked the jungle weyr in its dreary grip and summer's heat is a memory. The flora and fauna are ablaze with life. Southern teems with life. And death. Today one serves the other. A blue dragon stoops and there's a bawl barely given breath before a meaty crack ends it abruptly. Wings flutter and fold, the dragon taking its kill and giving a wing-assisted bound to eat it at a remove where he can observe as well as feast. Upon the stacked stone wall of the pen enclosure stands a man. He is perched on one foot, reading. Reading and methodically raising and lowering himself on that one leg, the other held crooked to balance this one-legged effort.

A man and a girl approach, a conversation held between them. It might be a father and daughter, given the similar stocky look to the girl, her blond hair pulled up in a messy knot braid. She's not yet a teenager, but fighting hard to be mature, her face pinched as she goes on about something in a manner of great seriousness. She wears a work smock of drab color and boots a little too big for her, almost as if they'd belonged to him once. She looks on with interest as the blue takes his kill, but her attention returns to the man, who seems to get around to answering her question. She doesn't seem to anticipate his permission given so easy, and she seems at a loss, as if she were prepared to argue her case. He gives a 'go on' sort of gesture of his hand, and she leaves him to his business after a sturdy side hug. He calls out, "..but only until dark," before returning to what he seeks. Oz'keyn makes a line for T'ral along the wall.

T'ral leaves off reading at the call upon the cool autumn air. Relatively cool. His head turns, smart, towards the movement and the voice lifted and the girl moving off — until dark. Caught mid-lift, motion shifts and with a trace of a lean T'ral along the wall becomes T'ral upon the ground, momentum trotted out in a step, drawn up to meet the man making a line for him. It's the purpose in the older man's movements that give T'ral his focus, dark eyes taking him in at a go, an inquisitive cant to dark head, "Afternoon," he greets, easing back marginally to open shoulders to the side, subtle welcome into space he's claimed.

Striding up, the other man nods his greeting, just a sharp upward notch. His eyes fall once to confirm the knot, and he barks, "T'ral, then," in that deep voice. For the space of a step it might sound brusque, but he's touching off a crisp salute. "Oz'keyn, green Hirikoth's. Been assigned to your wing, sir."

At the presentation of that crisp salute, T'ral draws up and delivers one of his own. "Oz'keyn and Hirikoth." Dark brows lift and he looks around, as if the dragon might be in evidence somewhere. "Welcome to Southern." He reaches out to clasp hands with the greenrider, "And Lynx." The blueriding wingleader's voice is a rich tenor, over and undertones bright and dark at once. Cultivated without snobbery. His handclasp is firm, eye contact direct. He nods towards the weyr. "When did you arrive?" His eyes track down the path the young girl took and back to the greenrider.

Oz'keyn is possessed of a firm grip, but he doesn't make it a contest. His eyes slip away from the contact, tracking upward, as if expecting that the green should join them. There are always a few greens lofting about the weyr, but none of them seem to belong to new arrival. "Thank you, just arrived inside the seven," he replies, his fresh sunburn offering itself as support for his claim. "All set with essentials and ready to start."

"Good!" T'ral barks, teeth bright in the dark bracket of his beard, wolfish. "Esanth up there." By way of introduction, he lifts the hand holding hides, fingers arrayed to bend the pages steady for pointing. The dragon rumbles an eerily toned acknowledgement, minor clashing chords. Arm lowering, the bluerider returns his attention to Oz'keyn. "I'm looking forward to having another green on the roster. We're right in the middle of some new formations that make good use of small dragons." And, rapidfire, he continues, "Tell me something that's not in your personnel file." T'ral is not one for small talk, Oz'keyn will learn.

The greenrider raises his arm to say hello to the dragon, nodding once, but T'ral has his attention. Lately from Reaches, there is a gruff formality to the man, and the command seems to catch him off guard. As if it were a test. "Could be a number of things, sir," he rumbles, "what do you want to know?"

T'ral wears formality not as something stiff, but as a genteel mannerliness. With a hint of mischief. It may be that in his golden years, should he survive to see them, he will become… eccentric. For now, it's a very intent curiosity that fixes upon Oz'keyn. He nods at the response, "Something important for me to know." That isn't in a file.

Oz'keyn rasps his beard with his palm, as if thinking it over, words and man. Narrowed eyes evaluate this request, and then, a clear 'what the hell' look upon his face, he won't back off from a rare invitation to be forthright. "Up front, then. Don't like surprises, and I don't like flights. You won't lose any of my working time and I'll make it meet square. But if she's going to fly and I know, I take her, and we leave for a few days. That's firm, sir."

Oh. No surprises. T'ral bares his teeth in a bit of a wince, "You'll find a lot surprising about Southern Weyr." He nods sagely, "Coming from High Reaches." He tips his head considering, "Though I suspect that's not what you meant and," he nods, underscoring his next, "I also suspect you won't find all the surprises here bad ones." Except those that end with body counts. You know. Apart from that. He nods, grave, at Oz'keyn's frank response, "You'll have it." The time away. He gestures out at the expanse of impossibly green landscape that falls away and stretches forever until haze and humidity render it gray, "Southern is an uncommonly good place to get lost." Just ask the marauders who have eluded weyr justice thusfar. "Just be sure to let me or the wingseconds know so we can adjust the rosters." He digests this revelation. The outlay phrased not as a request. He nods coming to some conclusion. "What's something you want to know about Southern. Or Lynx. Or me."

The greenrider seems satisfied with this acceptance, even relieved in some small measure. Perhaps like his daughter, earlier, he seemed prepared to argue the point. "Right, then. Be sure to tell where we go." Prompted to ask a question of his own, Oz'keyn takes a moment to turn it over. "What do they think of you and Esanth flying lead" he jerks a thumb to the blue in the pasture, " and do you care?"

"'They?'" T'ral tucks his chin, looking at Oz'keyn from under his brows, "Leadership? Because Esanth's a blue?" Amusement flickers across expressive face, pursed lips a squashed grin, "I thought it was temporary." At first, "But the Weyrleader made hismelf very clear. And," he casts eyes to the skies, pondering, "I suppose I don't care? I haven't given it much thought." He tips his head to the side, "My wingseconds are greenriders." He tongues the back of his teeth, "Women."

That revelation seems to please the new arrival, a slight grimace of a smile. "Good," he says. "S'why I've picked Southern." A pause. "I'm not long on words, not without a pint, but it's good to be here. Tell me what you need, 'n I'm your man." He cants a look skyward and a smirk pulls his mouth. No new green. "Won't be meeting Hirikoth today, but there's time for that. She'll be the little one in pale colors, got a scarred face."

There's a recurrence of wolfish grin at the man's admission, "Lynx is probably not like any wing you've ever flown in." It's hard to say if that's pride or warning. Maybe both? He blinks consulting an inner calendar. Thread in four days. "Make sure to see Rocio or Myziri soonest. They'll square you away on how we use our greenriders. My table at mess is always open." What are Oz'keyn's manners like? "Otherwise, our ledge." Sorry, Catryn. Esanth rumbles, the starscape of the blue's mind wheeling more quickly in search of this new star in Southern's Constellation. "There'll be time," T'ral agrees. "I'll meet her at the infirmary. Have you scheduled her exam?" T'ral's knot includes the purple ribbon of a dragonhealer. Lots of hats, these Southern riders. He waves that off, and maybe she's already had it. T'ral has had a three whole days without infirmary shifts. It's… unsettling. "Go get that pint. First round's on Lynx. Second round's on me." T'ral should really know better than to let people drink on his tab. He draws up in preparation of a salute, "After that you're on your own." His hand flashes a smart salute for the newest Lynxrider. "Welcome to Southern, Oz'keyn and Hirikoth." he looks aloft at the winging dragons, none of them Oz'keyn's lifemate, "We're glad to have you."

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