Now that the storm has passed, it has left a cool dampness in the air. The sun is starting to rise in the sky, warming the aftermath of the previous night's storm, but it's still not anywhere near the usual heat there would be in summer. Fergus has rolled his shirt sleeves up all the way despite the slight chill, exposing his thick arm muscles and … well .. ample arm hair that probably makes the chill a moot point. His red-gold hair is braided and falls to his mid back and he has a full, rather bushy beard as well. And he's currently busy wielding a giant woodsman's axe, slamming the blade of it into a rather large felled tree at the very edge of the jungle. There are other bits of branches and woody debris around him - obviously not all the trees came through unscathed after the storm and Fergus, being a Woodsmith, is certainly not going to let this free already-felled wood go to waste.

Why, oh sweet Faranth WHY, is there is tiny harper anywhere near the woods? That there, is an excellent question! Questionable or not, there he is, having pulled on a thin leather shell over a warm coat to keep the drizzle. You see, Daxmer is not possessed of amble body hair and much muscle mass to speak of, so this was the only opinion available to him in order to keep out the chill of early morning. It was probably the CHOP CHOP CHOP that draws him away from whatever it was he was doing out there to star with, and now he was hovering, lingering, not at all creepily watching the woodsman at work at a comfortable and polite distance.

Fergus pauses in his chopping to set his axe aside, turning his head slightly to wipe his forehead against his upper arm. Chopping is tough work, yo. Grabbing hold of one of the jagged branches sprouting from the trunk of the fallen tree, he sets one booted foot against the trunk for leverage and then /pulls/. With a cracking, ripping noise, Fergus tears a giant branch from the tree and holds it aloft triumphantly like some giant leafy club. And it's at that point he manages to catch sight of Daxmer creepily staring at him. Fergus certainly doesn't look too perturbed - in fact, he stares silently back at Daxmer for several seconds, the giant bit of wood still clutched in his hand. Perhaps he's trying to out-creep the creeper. "You need something?" he finally grunts, one eyebrow rising.

That did indeed look like hard work, but fascinating, if the way the harper's gaze followed the movement of axe to wood had anything to say about it. This may even be emphasized as Fergus grabs hold on a branch and pulls it free with just strength and a well placed boot for leverage, as Daxmer's brows launch upwards in unison and an expression of awe washes over his face. He might have clapped just then as that large leafy hunk of wood is held high in triumph, you know if that wasn't wholly inappropriate and weird, but don't think for a second the thought hadn't crossed his mind. What the harper had not counted on, was that he would be spied. Spotted. Found. Dax freezes in place, amber eyes rounding out wide, leaving the two remarkably diminutive young men to just stare at one another. One drumbeat. Two. "No! Sorry!" Now, one would think that this would be an excellent time to make a break for it, but maybe Daxmer isn't the smart sort. Off kilter, unsure of what he should do, he totally ducks behind a tree. Ostrich style.

Fergus stands there silently for several more heartbeats, that giant club of leaf-covered wood just beind held there aloft without much evidence that the weight is bothering him. Fergus' giant arm muscles are probably enough to explain that away. The Woodsmith just watches Daxmer's little duck and hide routine, his lips twitching ever so slightly from behind the bushy red-gold mass of his beard. Is that a smile? A frown? A scowl? It's hard to tell, really, with all that hair, though it's something. Fergus gives a grunt of amusement and lowers the branch with a load of rustling and crackling. "I wasn't going to club you over the head, boy," he barks out in a basso rumble in the direction of Daxmer's ostrich-hiding place. Yeah - he can see you! Crouching, he collects his axe from the ground again and, with a mighty swing, starts to chop-chop-chop again. He's probably going the route of trying to calm a startled animal - try to pretend that maybe he doesn't see him anymore. Maybe the boy will come out again.

They say that storms bring in all sorts of oddities and there is no exception here — only not in the form of curious flotsam or anything mysterious. Just a strange crossing of paths in the jungle wilds of Southern! Only a few reasons would see an Igen rider drift so far and whether Divale's presence here is Parhelion related or personal, it's difficult to say. She has always kept to herself and her secrets are her own. Dressed to suit the weather and her Wingsecond knot plainly visible, she moves about the jungle as though familiar with it. Could it be that that is why she can gain the advantage to sneak up on Fergus and Daxmer? Perhaps. One moment it's just them and then she materializes and seemingly from nowhere. "Well that's a disappointment. I was hoping for some entertainment!" Driest of tones for her shadowed humour, while Divale smirks towards Fergus and cants her head just enough to side-eye where Daxmer has ducked behind that tree. Just how much did she witness? And if she witnessed much, how long as she been observing?

Daxmer can't see Fergus and Fergus can't see Daxmer, so in essence the harper no longer exists, right? It's possible that he was hoping that his presence there might be written off as trick of the light. A ghostly apparition? A figment of imagination? Perhaps a stale bit of cheese before bed? Surely something along that vein could explain it, and not that Dax had been caught off guard, defaulted to panic mode, and skittered off behind the thick trunk of that tree over yonder. Not that Fergus was at all fooled, and sadly he couldn't see that the woodcrafter had been amused by the oddity of his hiding; rough barky wall and bushy beard providing offering plenty of obfuscation. One does have to wonder though, what WAS the difference between a regular grunt and an amused one? Slowly, carefully, as Fergus returns to his chop-chop-chopping, Daxmer eases himself just so out of hiding and one eye peeks past the outer most border of the tree so that the man was back within his sight, very nearly ducking back away again at the promise that he was in fact not going to be clubbed over the head like a baby seal. That's a relief! "I'm sorry!" he calls back, soft, but carries somehow. Damn harpers. He might have said more, might have explained himself, might have given Fergus a perfectly valid and acceptable reason for his being there and watching him work, but alas the arrival of Divale seems to put a pin in that. He slinks back a bit when she arrives, disappearing again entirely when he's pointedly side-eyed. Well, now, he was kinda stuck, wasn't he?

Fergus pauses in his chopping to bend down, thick fingers sweeping across some of the exposed wood. He grunts again, this time wit appreciation at whatever he sees there - perhaps the texture is nice or the grain is favorable. Either way, it's apparent he's liking what he's seeing in the wood. He straightens up to prepare to start chopping again, though pauses mid-swing as another voice enters the clearing. A woman's. Axe still gripped in both hands, he turns to blink solemnly at Divale's sudden arrival. Her comment does elicit a brief grunt of amusement - not a full laugh, mind, but enough of one for Fergus, "Too much blood. Would be too difficult to clean." And that is his explaination for not clubbing Daxmer in the head, even though it's a passable joke. Fergus' eyes drift to Divale's knot and then move to glance around the area - perhaps he's looking for her dragon or what other method might have brought her here. They aren't too far into the Jungle, anyhow - more near the edge. "Rider," he grunts in a succinct greeting, "What brings you from Igen?" Now that he's not chopping anymore, Fergus happens to glance nonchalantly towards where Daxmer is hiding. Yes, he totally knows you're there. There's even a slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes that betrays a sudden grin behind that bushy beard. At the Harper's calling of 'sorry', he calls back, "No need to be sorry for existing, boy!" And that's as much words as Fergus is going to use - he's a man of few words and even more grunts. He does, however, lower his axe so it doesn't appear like he's going to chop Daxmer up instead of club him this time.

Oh, how sweetly Fergus speaks Divale's language! It brings about a fleeting, hinted, smile that is more wolfish than wry and while she doesn't laugh either, her voice carries amusement with it in its lowered tones. "How very true. Nasty business, cleaning up blood! You'd have the issue of a witness, too." Meaning her, of course. Not that she'd be the easiest (or wisest) of targets, woman or not. Lukoith is no doubt somewhere, but not skulking near to their current position. "Journeyman." she'll reply just as bluntly, before the matter of her business here has her smirking. "Many things." Crypticness is her game, a fond one she enjoys playing on 'new' folk she comes across. "Don't mean to intrude on your… work?" Or is he doing this to pass time? His call out to Daxmer has her focus shifting again to that very tree and where the young apprentice is now trying to hide. "You've committed no crime." she adds dryly; be that to existing or to stumbling across Fergus and staring.

Too much…WHAT? Daxmer wasn't so far off that he wouldn't have been able to hear that, not that Fergus had tried to keep it a secret, and maybe for just a second there he considers how much value he should put on that statement. He didn't know the bearded man, so who was to say that he wasn't in some small degree serious about bludgeoning him over the head with the huge branch he'd just yanked off a tree? With his bare hands no less. Suffice to say, Dax wasn't taking any chances just yet, deciding on remaining (mostly) out of sight…and eavesdrops. While he may have only reconfirmed his existence by apologizing again, it seemed polite and the right thing to do. He had intruded upon the man, watched him without announcing himself, and ultimately intruded upon a hard days work. Even the reassurance that he didn't need to apologetic, just made him want to be apologetic for being apologetic (yes, it was a vicious cycle), but this time he stifles the desire to say as such by pursing his lips and begin forming a discreet escape plan. "I…Um…I'll just go…" he calls back after Divale's assurance that he was not in any trouble. You never know what passes for crime in different regions, so that was certainly another cause for relief. Who even knows what goes on inside of a fifteen turn old's head, markedly this one's. There is silence though, as if Daxmer were waiting for permission that he was allowed to move, before there is actual movement. One very careful and steady step after the other, a peek past the tree, and then a very slow creep out into the open. Yes, hello! Big beautiful smile from the pretty harper boy, and a very awkward and apologetic wave sort of thing…curling of the fingers only of one hand at them both…before he starts to inch away.

Fergus idly scratches at the side of his beard at the question of 'work' before rolling the massive expanse of his shoulders in a shrug. "Work," he grunts in an affirmation before deigning to elaborate a bit, "Wood'll rot unless it's collected." Fergus, ever the practical one, certainly wouldn't want to see such nice wood go to waste when the storm was so kind to do the difficult work of felling the trees. He digs at his belt for a moment, pulling out a cleaning cloth that he uses to wipe down the handle of his axe to free it of moisture. "As long as your business does not get blood on my hands," is his basso retort to her own cryptic response, the corners of his eyes crinkling just enough to indicate the amusement. Otherwise it might be difficult to tell, as Fergus' voice is deceptively flat and without much emotion. Daxmer's words and meek retreat have him blinking once and turning to face the boy, "Leaving? You didn't even introduce yourself." He twitches his axe in a sort of 'come here' gesture. Though, sadly for Fergus, that doesn't look anything but menacing despite the fact he's trying to look friendly. "I'm Journeyman Fergus of the Smithcraft. Originally from Lemos." He notes this as a blanket sort of greeting, intending it to carry to both Divale and Daxmer. There - now Daxmer may have to stay to at least exchange pleasantries.

"And I would think the recent storms have made good for that," Divale knows nothing of woodworking but she does understand the way of trees and weather — and how fast plant-life can rot under certain conditions. She chuckles dry and low for the nature of her business and then feigns an obvious mockery of being offended. "Now why would you think that I, as representative to Igen, would cause such strife and trouble on Southern's soil?" she muses, hand pressed to her chest before it falls back to her side. "Gesturing with your axe is not a way to instil comfort." It's not her scolding him, but there is that shadowed amusement again as she patiently waits on the introduction. There's a strange flicker to her gaze at the mention of Lemos but it's so fast in passing that her hold on her neutral expression does not overly waver. She'll let Daxmer speak up first, before tipping in. "Divale, Parhelion Wingsecond of Igen Weyr and rider of brown Lukoith—" The very brown who will wait until they've got through their introductions before making one of his own. Only it's not his bulk that hits the ground — it's the corpse of a runner beast. Dropped not from so high as to end in catastrophic results but high enough that it'll make noise. Hopefully Dax wasn't inching away too far? Lukoith follows, landing heavily despite being on the lower end of a brown's size. Even settled, he looms, postured like some great were-beast and canid of old and with a low snarled-rumble, he'll drag that runner beast back under his claws and just stare at the trio. What? It's a snack.

This was not part of the plan Fergus! True, that all that inching meant that Daxmer had not progressed very far, little more than six or so from the opening clear of the tree he'd been hid behind. That whole eavesdropping thing, is still a thing, but its really only to gauge when was a good time to get while the getting was good. Honest. The best time to try leaving was of course when the woodcrafter and brownrider were otherwise engaged in their own conversation because this was the most likely time that they would have at least in part have forgotten about him. The mistake here, was that he found it rude to just cut and run, perhaps the manners instilled in him from birth not something that he could just casually toss aside whenever it suited him. Sliding his eyes from one stranger to the next there is a second there that it might appear that he was going to forgo everything and just high tail it out of dodge, but again, manners. A twitch, an uneven breath in, and the harper exhales slowly in what just might be a self-calming technique. Which might be necessary considering all that not so assuring axe waving, amber eyes darting to the tool that could so very easily be made a weapon with just a shift in intent. Brows twitch, attention focused on the curve of that blade at least to start with, before slowly sliding it off and back to th woodcrafter, "Daxmer, I'm a…Harper Apprentice…I'm um…new…to Southern…since um…yesterday…" He did not seem so sure about that, but there was no mistaking that knot there on his shoulder. Southern, Harper, Apprentice. As for being new? It was a big weyr, so it would be difficult to confirm without records, and after the storm yesterday people probably had better things to be doing with their time. Teeth are applied to the flesh of his bottom lip, worrying it for whatever reason, looking between Fergus and Divale and back again. A very gentle nod is given to both and he seems about ready to start up again with trying to leave, "Well, um…nice…to meet you and um…" Maybe it's the change in air pressure that sets off all the alarm bells, giving Daxmer barely enough time to scoot himself away before that herdbeast corpse lands far too close for his comfort to where he had once been standing. Dragons, not something to be scared of, this was ingrained in him as deeply as the necessity of being polite, but dead things falling from the sky definitely earn a sharp sound of surprise and he's suddenly got reason to be fleeing towards his potential murder. Up and around and behind the Divale, who was decidedly unarmed and taller to boot. Okay, really. Since arriving in Southern, Dax had to deal with an impending storm, then weird looks from some random guy, then nearly getting smooshed by a boat, then manhandled by that same random guy, then carried off to a place made of wood filled with runners, then suddenly he's being kissed by that random guy, and now burly guys with tree limbs and axes and talks of bludgeoning and mess and CORPSES FROM THE FUCKING SKY! Yep, the harper clings to and shoves his face right into the back of that poor brownrider's leathers. Maybe another transfer might be in order.

Fergus merely shrugs again, his muscular shoulder rolling into the motion, "Axe is almost part of my arm at this point." Likely it's second nature for him to gesture with the thing, though hopefully he doesn't do it always. Gesturing willy-nilly with a sharp object probably is an easy way to lose an eye or a limb or some fingers. Fergus seems completely whole, though - every hairy inch of him is intact with no obvious missing fingers or anything else. "And I know nothing of Igen," he grunts again, shoulders rolling into motion again. How is he to know what sort of things Igen riders get up to? "Could be animal blood, after all." Because people do hunt out here and such, especially for felines. His voice remains calm, deep and even - not a hint of emotion betraying into his basso rumble. Fergus was just about to slide his cleaning cloth back into his belt pouch when that runnerbeast makes its bloody arrival. The meaty splat of it hitting the ground is enough of a surprise to make Fergus twitch a little, though by the time Lukoith arrives he is merely blinking in utter surprise, though his beard covers most of his expression besides his widening eyes. "I thought you said no blood," he grunts, his tone even as he arches a brow at Divale. "Your dragon? Hope not your runnerbeast." His voice is still calm, the brief surprise of a runnerbeast and dragon appearing suddenly having passed quickly. He probably would have been ab it more phased had any of the runnerbeast gore landed on him, but it seems far enough away. There's more of that crinkle at the corners of his eyes again at Daxmer's sudden appearance - likely a grin hiding behind his massive beard. He tilts his axe slightly to indicate the clinging barnacle Divale has now acquired, "Not leaving, then?" There may be a touch of amusement in that voice, but not a whole lot. He's really just a hairy teddy bear. Honest. Don't let the axe fool you.

"It better not have been anyone's runnerbeast!" Divale exclaims coldly but not so much at Fergus as to Lukoith himself. A dark glare is thrown at the brown as well, who doesn't seem the least bit phased by it. In fact, he merely shakes out his head and neck while making a throaty chuffing noise and… promptly gets to devouring his prize. Messily! All while creepily keeping one whirling eye fixated on them. Because who doesn't enjoy being stared down by a dragon rendering flesh? Divale sighs in exasperation, only to go completely stiff in posture when Daxmer uses her as his personal shield and hiding point. "I'll only ask once," she states in blunt, icy tones. "To let go of me." No touchy touchy! Poor Dax doesn't know, it's not his fault! She doesn't like to be physically touched and far less by men. It'd be a different scenario if Dax were a woman, however! Alas, it's not to be and while she's not at the point of forcibly removing him — it's a close thing. Lukoith rumbles low and guttural, teeth flashing as lips curl in a small snarl (or maybe he's trying to smirk? it's terrifying, really). Divale's eyes unfocus, but when that conversation ends, her gaze turns sharply to Fergus. "He wants to know if you'd make a trade, Fergus? He wants the tree you're working on." Don't ask — her voice says as much.

Fergus lowers his axe slightly at Divale's question, eyebrows arching in a breif show of surprise. He's silent for several heartbeats as he takes in first the tree he had been chopping and then Lukoith, as though trying to figure out /what/ exactly a dragon might do with a tree. He totally looks like he wants to ask. And he almost does judging by the opening and shutting of his mouth. But, alas, he decides to push aside the question of what a dragon would want with a tree and instead asks another question, "Trade - what would he want to trade for?" His voice is low and hesitant, still deep and almost expressionless. His gaze flicks briefly to the runnerbeast carcass underneath the dragon and he adds in a grunt, "I don't eat runnerbeast." Because … seriously, he'd probably just give the tree to the dragon rather than trade for /that/. He leans to one side, trying to get a look at the clinging form of Daxmer. "I'm sure the runnerbeast is beyond the point of hurting you," he adds to the Harper, perhaps trying to calm the boy down enough so he can release Divale. Because they really don't need blood of the human variety added to this scene.

It twas not a fair and just world filled with rainbows and lollipops and butterflies riding kittens, of this Daxmer was quite aware. It had been one hell of a first day and here he was barely into the second and already it was shaping up to be another doozy. It's true that there was no way to have known that between the two, woman and axeman, that the woman would have been the wrong place to go. He might not be able to finagle another transfer so soon after his last, but perhaps regular visits to a mindhealer wouldn't be a bad substitute. You know, once the twitching and fetal rocking subsided. That doesn't happen though, as the second that Divale stiffens there is a release and cool air instead of warm body, Daxmer scooting back and away with about a thousand "I am SO sorry!" being thrown at all that iciness bluntness. Then, a narrowed look toward Fergus rather than a wide eyed one, "It. Fell. From. The. SKY!" The boy even jabbedly points that direction, with EMPHASIS, his back flattened against yet another tree. Apparently, none of them were to go unmolested with this harper around.

"It's fine," Divale answers bluntly to Daxmer and though he's let her go, there's still visible tension in the rider's posture. Some of that may be directed towards her dragon's behaviour, however. "Might want to be cautious over who you startle like that next time." Sound advice! Though she'll smirk towards the Apprentice too, so maybe she's teasing him? Who knows! Lukoith is making short work of his 'snack', so there's no fear that the trade involves what no longer exists. "The tree for your axe — or rather what is attached to it." Delayed though her explanation may be, a now freed Divale will be the one to inch further away from both men and a little closer to the hulking form of the brown. "Meaning you, Fergus. A tree… for this." Subtle movement of her hand and then, to be clearly seen, a white knot dangling from it. Seems Lukoith's not the only one poaching today.

Fergus levels a fixed stare at Daxmer, his expression calm and level, "It didn't land on you, though." And, to Fergus, that should make everything about this situation alright. The corpse didn't land on you - why freak out? Then his attention shifts back to Divale once word starts to seep through about the trade. As soon as she says 'axe', Fergus reflexively clutches said weapon to his chest possessively. My axe! But it only takes a few more seconds for him to realize that she doesn't mean the axe and actually means /him/. His posture still remains rather stiff and unsure, clearly not understanding where the heck this is going. It's only when the white knot is unfurled from Divale's hand that the implications of this conversation become clear. He's silent for a good long while, just staring at that white knot. "Candidate? Me?" is all he manages to grunt out after a moment, as though he has to be doubly sure this is what is being asked of him. He's been at the Weyr here long enough to see the dragonriders and understand the importance of their work. He's also not getting any younger and this may very well be his only chance to try. "I can bring my axe, yes?" he asks after another few moments of silence, his deep voice hesitant. There's an implied 'yes' there in his voice as he reaches out to take the knot that's offered to him, slightly more stunned than when the runnerbeast landed nearby.

Still narrowed amber eyes dart towards Divale and while Daxmer doesn't say it, the words are silently there to behold. NOTHING about this was FINE! Everyone had their breaking point and it appears as if having a half masticated runner carcass nearly dropped on your head was the harper's. The brownrider's warning that follows heralds a complex set of emotions to pass over his face, only made worse by Fergus' calm and level reminder that Lukoith's 'snack' had not fallen on him. As if nearly having been crushed was nothing to be upset over. There is some gaping, sputtering, and some half formed attempts to reply that never quite solidify and its probably for the best considering his face was turning red and he looked as if he was about to pop. With candidate knots appearing and soon accepted, there was the softest of growls to be heard in the background, the verbal confirmation of enough being enough. Pushing himself up and off that tree, Daxmer tosses politeness and manners right out the window by muttering the sort of language under his breath that had no business coming out of anyone other than an old grizzled sailor. He doesn't say goodbye, he doesn;t look back, he leaves them to it as he lightly stomps himself off back towards the weyr.

Daxmer won't know it, but that sudden exit and the cursing? Just redeemed himself in Divale's eyes — because she will catch his departure with a hidden grin. The boy does have a spine! And a mouth to him. Likely before he's out of range, however, she will speak up as though conversing out loud with Lukoith. "No, dropping even half a carcass on someone will kill them. I'm certain of it." Uh. Maybe Dax best stay under cover. No apology is issued from the brownrider for the abruptness of it and once Fergus claims the knot, Lukoith makes his move. He'll cares not for personal space and will probably get uncomfortably close overhead as he closes the distance with snake-like movement of his head to snap up that felled tree — which is not eaten or damaged in any manner. Just held smugly between clamped jaws. "If your axe is part of your belongings, then yes. It can." Whether it can come in the barracks? Well… she'll let Fergus argue with the Headwoman or her assistant Magdaline over the issue. It'll be too late then! Oh and there's no trees in Igen. Mwahahaha~ "If you need time to gather your stuff and inform the correct people, we can wait for you outside of the Weyr entrance." Since the Weyr is likely clogged right now as is due to the storms. "I've got a few… matters to resolve and then we will return to Igen."

Fergus folds the knot into his fist, squeezing it tightly in his large hand. Daxmer's exit is watched, as well, and there's an amused grunt at the creative bits of cursing coming out of the boy's mouth. Who knew such a small boy would know that kind of language? Though any trace of amusement leaves his face as he turns to the more serious matter of his acceptance of candidacy. In a place with no trees, no less. A fact that has probably sunk in /after/ accepting the knot and only when he watched, with great fascination, Lukoith grabbing up the entire tree in his jaws like some overgrown canine. "I certainly wasn't expecting that," he rumbles, indicating Lukoith and his tree, a touch of amusement coloring the deep basso of his voice. His shoulders seem to loosen a bit when he learns he can bring his axe with him and, with practiced motions, he slips the well-used weapon into the loops of the harness at his back. "I do have a few things to collect. And I'll need to tell the Master Smithcrafter," he notes after a few moments for thought, "It will only take me a candlemark or so. I can meet you at the Weyr Entrance then." Be prepared, likely, for Fergus bringing along a bag full of some smaller pieces of wood that he had been working on. He heaves a long sigh, marvelling inwardly at the turn this day has taken, and then starts to pick his way back towards the Weyr.

"You haven't met Raktraeth, then." Oh, but he will! Fergus and Doji's brown can lament and sigh woefully over the desert's lack of proper trees. There is STILL no reasoning behind why Lukoith wanted that half-dead, storm felled tree. Divale glances skywards, as she does some internal calculations and then nods. "A candlemark should be fine. We'll meet you at the Entrance!" Congratulations will wait until later too and Fergus will get a head start on returning to the Weyr. Divale's path goes in a different direction for the time being, but she'll be where it was promised when the time comes. Lukoith will be there too, tree and all. They'll see Fergus successfully uprooted (ha!) from Southern and brought to Igen, where he'll be surrendered over to the correct folk to be assimil—- err, joined with the rest of the Candidates. As for that tree? Lukoith does have a purpose for it: he's going to throw it onto Raktraeth's ledge and those who know the brown know it's an insult of insults to present a DEAD tree to him. It's revenge, okay? Something about goats and names…