Bailey, Llewellyn


Bailey's trying to see a herder about a problem with a cat and Llewellyn happens to be the closest one around.


It is sunset of the first day of the third month of the twelfth turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr - Herder Complex

OOC Date 10 Oct 2017 05:00



"That doesn't look sanitary,"


Herder Complex

Oh, the scents of hay and runnersweat and leather: no matter how many expensive, fat wax candles are burnt in this long hall, the pervasive Eau de Herder will remain predominant. Spaces are haphazardly stacked, one after the other: there, brightly-lit for study and mending tack; there, a miniature library to rival the Harper's in animal husbandry; there, the medicinal tang of redwort and numbweed, the beasthealer's stockery; and there, no different from the rest, the smell of sweetrolls and klah, furniture torn and worn and chosen for comfort.

There is a ball of fluff in Bailey's arms, and she is standing in the middle of the Herder complex looking a complicated mix of determined, bemused, and exasperated. Is she waiting for someone? Damned sure she's waiting for someone. Surprisingly, there's NOBODY to be found, even in this off-shift hour that typically has much of the Herders of the hall lounging around enjoying the tidbits by the hearth and unwinding from the day.

Maybe Bailey was just a tad early for the off-shift hour to start, because faint neighing can be heard as the door to the stables proper opens and then thuds close. Llewellyn currently has his hands full of saddle and tack and… is that soap? Anyways, the man very much looks like he belongs in the herder complex even if his knot is obscured at the moment. It's probably the hat. The hat just screams 'herder'. But the hat also makes it so he doesn't quiet spot Bailey lurking over there with her furball.

Oh, she hasn't scared them all off? Excellent. Bailey pivots on a heel and espies this hat-wearing cowboy entering with tack and soap and moves with purpose towards him. "Excuse me," she says in a way that absolutely doesn't ask excuse. "Are there any beasthealers on duty currently?" The mild tone of voice is probably dangerous.

Not all of them. Nobody gave poor Llewellyn the memo apparently. "Howdy," The man tips his head in greeting. He'd probably take of the hat, but well, hands are full. And it's about that point where he actually recognizes who is standing right there and tacks on hastily a "uh… ma'am." Manners. He has them. Probably. "They are, but I think most of 'em got called over towards the porcines. There was an incident." Piggies can be vicious. "Do ya need one?" Dumb question of the day. Cause clearly senior Weyrwomen just wander around checking to make sure crafters are on duty without actually needing them.

"Yes," Bailey says with a great deal of emphasis in her voice. She appraises Llewellyn for a moment, a studious grey regard indeed, before saying, "You might be able to help." Except he's got a saddle in his hands; her attention rotates down to it. She'd take it 'scept she's got this floofy-fluffy floofersteroon that turns out to be a sweet-faced feline.

Luckily, this is the herder complex and there are quite a few saddle stands lingering around the room. Probably enough for a small class which will eventually be using them. Llewellyn only has one saddle though, so he'll ignore the surplus and just claim the closest one to set his saddle down on. "I can try." There's a hint of doubt in the voice as he eyes the tiny poof. Sweet faced it might be, but it's so LITTLE. And not a cow. "What seems to be the problem?" Hands are free now, but he's not going to just reach over for the kitty cat just yet. Bailey seems to have the whole holding it under control for the moment.

"I think it's pregnant." There's a brief scowl. "It's not even mine." FUCKING THANKS HANNAH. "But it keeps coming into my weyr and making sounds like it's in pain." Here Llew! HAVE A CAT. 'Cause Bailey's handing over the beast directly to the Herder as soon as possible. The cat limply lies in her hands, a paper's weight and all dead. Big eyes stare up at Llew, dark-tipped ears slowly rotating back to flatten slightly against the floofy curvature of striped face.

Welp, now Llewellyn has a cat in his possession as he cautiously eyes the thing over. "Is it always like this?" He raises his hands (and the cat in them) ever so slightly as if to demonstrate the whole ragdolliness of said creature. "And did you try feeding it?" He's just going to apparently ignore the whole 'it's not even Bailey's cat' thing. She apparently cares enough about it to bring it to someone.

"No, it's normally making more noise." The cat, once transfered, continues to stare up at Llewellyn. Those ears flatten back just SLIGHTLY more. This means the apocalypse is nigh, for anyone following along in the peanut gallery. "Feed it?" Bailey's look is blank. "Feed it what?" Feed it to Khalyssrielth? That might be a thing.

"More noise?" Llewellyn raises an eyebrow and then looks back down at the cat. Well, it's hard to examine and hold at the same time, so he's just going to sit right down on the floor and place the kitty in his lap and completely ignore how many shitty boots have walked over these floors. He's probably stepped in worst today. He seems to be very intently petting the cat's belly at the moment. Or just feeling for something. Kittens, maybe. "Fish?" Cause it's not like southern has a shortage of fish. And Khalyssrielth could probably accidentally inhale Ms. Fluffyface here.

There ain't no kittens here. Llewellyn, if he looks closely, will find out EXACTLY why there's no kittens here. The floofster waits until a hand is fully engaged in belly-petting before ATTACKING, all back legs stiff and clawing, and a full on biting. NO TOUCHIE! "I don't think she likes you very much," Bailey observes from a safe distance.

Llewellyn just barely manages to not fling the cat away when suddenly his hand is being attacked! Instead he more just drops the cat onto his lap and forcefully reclaims his hand from the biting. Oh, there are some angry red scratched there. And a bit of blood. Why wasn't Llew wearing his gloves? Probably because he was checking to see if there might be kittens and so needed to feel and not protect himself from being attacked! "The feeling's mutual, but I don't think she's a she." He might not be an expert on felines, but balls are balls. Even if they're small and furry.

"Uh." Bailey stares at the cat. "What?" It doesn't compute. "Do you need something for that?" Llew would be within his rights to not follow immediately, but Bailey gestures at his hands. And not about fixing the horny ass yowler that comes into her weyr at night looking to get laid. Does Pern even fix cats?

Llewellyn is just going to grab the cat that was in his lap by the scruff of the neck. No sympathy for you now, mister. Although at least he is supporting the cat's butt with his other hand, so not all the weight on the neck. "Do you want it back?" Or does he just release it to roam among the stables until it gets into a turf war with a bigger and meaner cat? And Pern may fix cows and goats and other livestock (and Llew's done that often enough), but probably not cats. Unless Khaly eating him counts as 'fixing'. And really, the herder's more concerned with trying to get rid of the animal now than he is about worrying about that scratch on his hand. Or series of scratches.

Bailey look (surprisingly) furtive for a moment, like thinking this question over is monumentally large. "Can you keep a secret?" is her response, slowly drawn out. Llew. This is your chance, buddy. Your big chance to have one over on the senior.

Meanwhile, Llewellyn's just sitting there holding the damn cat that is now totally making those big, pitiful eyes at Bailey while the herder's hand bleeds a bit more. "Who am I going to tell? A herdbeast?" For real, Llew doesn't spend much time around people. So what exactly he would do with having one over on the senior, who knows. But he can keep a secret.

"It's Hannah's cat. You know Hannah. The short one." She gestures yae-high — no really, she IS short — and frowns down at the cat. "But she's got like three. Do you think she'll miss one?" One randomly going missing? Can't y'all just see how this is going to end? Hannah out and about calling for her cat. MISTER FLUFFERSNOOKUMS, WHERE ARE YOU?!

"Hannah." Llewellyn's voice does make it clear that he knows the one that Bailey's talking about. You know, Southern's other weyrwoman. The one with the REALLY fucking big dragon. He gives another look to the cat like 'you've got some friends in some high places' type look but uh… he still doesn't want to keep possession of this dang cat and Bailey doesn't look like she's about to take it back. "I hear…" Somewhat reluctantly, somewhat conspiratorially, "That cats are really good at finding their way back home. Like one travelled from Fort to Tillek once." Or something. Homeward Bound, Pern Edition.

Bailey sighs. "So what you're saying is that even if I give you this fucking hellion, she… he's going to follow me home?" Since evidently it likes Bailey's weyr more than Hannah's, these days. There's a pause before the woman muses, "I guess it wouldn't be the first time…"
Llewellyn shrugs. "Unless you find somewhere it's gonna like better. Maybe set it up somewhere with a nice harem of lady cats?" Or maybe Llew's thinking about bovines. You can't herd cats, Llew. They sense where you don't want them to be and go directly there.

"Are there such things as… harems of lady cats?" Bailey doesn't think this is a thing, scruffy Herder man. Her face shows exactly how much she doesn't think this is a thing.

Llewellyn shrugs yet again. "Don't know, but there sure are a lot of 'em hanging around barns. But normally the big boy felines fight with the other guys…" So he's just assume all the ones living relatively peacefully are groups of lady cats.

"Hmmm." Bailey looks down at the cat and then sighs. "Fine, give him here." She seems pretty fearless in how she extends her hands for the scratchy-bity floofernoodle. Hannah's getting her cat back, or so it looks.

Oh, so Bailey's actually going to accept the cat back? Llewellyn will gladly hand over Mr. I Have A Thirst For Human Blood. As far as Llew is concerned, that cat is all Bailey's. Or Hannah's. It's the weyrwomen's cat in some strange joint custody thing maybe. "Or maybe you could convince some firelizards to chase the cat away from your weyr?" And convincing should be easy with Khaly to help do the convincing, right? Or else she might end up replacing annoying cat with hordes of annoying firelizards. Anyways, the herder isn't really paying too much attention to his own suggestion as he's just now realized how much his hand was bleeding and is poking at the scratches. poke-poke-poke

"That doesn't look sanitary," Bailey says with a very disagreeing tone. "You need to clean those." And not with your cow-shit-and-sweat covered hand, Llew. The cat, perverse little asshole he is, starts purring straightaway once he's back in one of his wimmin's arms, cuddling up and butting his head against her shoulder.

"It's not," Llewellyn is going to agree as he starts to get up, poking done. "And I'm gonna." But first he had to establish the extent of the wound or something. And yeah, it does probably need more than just a little soap and water. Those claws got deep. Probably from where the herder jerked his hand back. "If he seems like he's sick again, I hear Maikah is good with fluffy things." Sheep, cats, close enough, right?

"Maikah?" Bailey blankly looks at the cow herder. "Are you talking about the sheep guy?" He's been here long enough to be on her radar. And/or his voice is enough to get him noticed. Either or.

"He's also got puppies…" Llewellyn at least has some justification for the reasoning of possibly sending the asshole cat to the other herder besides just to be an asshole himself. But yeah, he definitely means the sheep guy. But anyways, look, he's standing up now. One step closer, literally, to getting that hand taken care of.

"Puppies?" Bailey looks vaguely interested, but not really. "Oh. You mean dogs. He has dogs." Right? No puppies. Puppies are cute, dogs are … dogs are dogs. They lay all over you, drool and generally cause a fuss. "Well," briefly. "Thanks anyway." With that dubious parting statement the weyrwoman turns and exits, cat firmly in hand.

Llewellyn nods his head. "Puppies. Or, he'll have him soon. His bitch should be whelping any day now if she hasn't." And he should probably keep better tabs on that whole puppy situation considering they have an arrangement of sorts for two of the puppies. He'll give a nod of farewell towards the weyrwoman and then, he's heading off to see the healers. Infections are no fun.

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