Threvobek, Veresch


Threvobek redecorates after a tragedy, Veresch cautions on splinters


Stables, Igen Weyr

OOC Date



The powerful odor of hot runner lies heavy in the air here, and even the relative open of the stable design - roomy stalls, lofty arches, this is incongruously one of the best designed buildings in the entire Weyr, legacy of a long-ago Weyrleader of Herder origins - cannot altogether dispel the stink of Animal. The Stables serve for the Weyr's population of runners, and house a small menagerie of other creatures. Avians, caprines and porcines all have their homes here, and all add to the earthy feel of the place.

Thor isn't the only one to hammer vengeance. Aside from a boy chucking remnants of an apple at a large sow and dashing, the stables are thinly occupied. Said sounds come from another male, older, bending and warping aged wooden bars with a small mallet until they break. Every other bar is left intact on the feeder as the stableworker works a diligently forceful path to each and every rack. Threvobek has no expression but singular focus on this decision of demolision. To the side is a dark shape, a young caprine dead on the ground. The sounds, about a second apart, blend with yielding splinters.

It is admittedly not the kind of scene that veresch expected in the stables. Hammering out vengeance sounds more … smithy, somehow. That's why, as she leads in a runner, her eyebrows arch slowly and she watches for a couple of moments. Her thoughts are comically easy to read on her face today, bruised as it is; 'who is this guy' and 'why is he doing that' contends for top spot, with 'hello, is this a good time' shining through every now and then. Her greeting, when it comes, is tentative, especially when she sees the dead caprine. "Um. Hi. This is clearly a bad time, so if you can just show me where the saddlesoap and brushes are, I can get out of your way."

Threvobek tastes the salt on his upper lip but the remaining sheen of sweat is left intact. It's a further waste of energy to bother with something that just keeps producing. All wooden debris is tossed more or less into a pile for later disposal, preferably before Ulmaren is aware of the wanton waste of material, but if not Rev is prepared to stand (and maybe hang) for the decision. The almost mechanical process of his actions ceases as a reasonable demand is made. "Most people know that answer before they have the runner." Threvobek turns his body to the side as he addresses the girl, mood matter-of-fact. Then inevitably relents. "Check over on the west wall near a stack of empty pails."

"I don't have a runner normally," Veresch points out patiently, though there's a wrinkle of a frown. "This one belongs to the stables here; I don't normally use one… ah. Thank you." Again her eyes dart, both to the destruction, the debris and, let's face it, the dead caprine, before she gets in a nod and scoots off towards the west wall. Puttering around there nets her a few supplies, and the runner a bit of lukewarm water to drink, before she scoots into what seems to be a cleaning area and sets to work on getting the runner brushed down first, then put back into its stable. There's a short pause; then, almost diffidently, "Why is there a dead caprine in here?"

Booted feet kick strangling fragments closer to the central pile of small decades old planks. Threvobek's actions are equally wooden, ankles stiffly part of the process. One hand sets the mallet down head first near the stall door for easy retrieval later, the other frees more shirt fabric over his belt to gain some coolness. Brunt of the work done, he stands looking at the caprine, one hand resting high on his hip in reluctant study. "Got her head stuck in the feed rack and no one noticed 'til now. Dragon food now." For all his dedication to retaliation, Rev is composed on the outside. "Funny when they've stood for a couple generations and it hadn't happened before." Wooden racks, in otherwords, are not inherently vicious. A final sigh for the loss of a young animal, Rev scoops it up. "'scuse me a minute." He is gone accurately about that much time, caprine laid out for the next dragon to want an easy appetizer. "He's laid back huh," making indications on the runner. "Did that scab on his neck fall off?" No damaging the rentals!

"No, it's still there," Veresch replies absentmindedly; there's certainly not any new scratches or the like, as she's a responsible enough rider. Hard not to be, with a Herder as a father. Finishing the last leg (and surreptitiously wrinkling her nose at the runnery scent of her hands), she turns to the young man, appraising now. "I'm Veresch," she introduces after a moment. Another glance down to her hands, and a shrug as she holds one out to him — he should be used to it by now, right? "Assistant, messenger, bit of both. I normally do my own running, so you'll have to tell me if I do this cleaning wrong."

Threvobek openly critiques, okay, gawks, at how Veresch is grooming the runnerbeast because he'll have to fix it if it's poorly done and tonight is dragonpoker night. The stableworker returns to the first of the trio of separate feeders to check for sharp pieces. As his hand runs along the inside slats, "I told him not to mess with that heifer because she has horns and he doesn't, but do they listen?" He shakes his head once, eyes canted down until Veresch states her name then they skip over to match hers. En route to shake the girl's hand, steps are sure with a shadow of a swagger. "Any relation to Veschan here in the stables? I know he has a daughter. Rev," responding in kind with his hand, colored in dirt/manure, callused, and very warm. A strong grip is perhaps predictable.

"I feel like I've heard people give that advice about humans too," Veresch mutters, shaking his hand firmly. There's a little wriggle of her fingers afterwards, because good grip there, buddy, "I mean. I could have done with that advice so many times, even though I wouldn't have listened to it either." Her father's name elicits a large smile, a patently daddy's little girl smile, and she nods eagerly. "Rev, hey. He's my father. And hey… don't do that with your bare hands, okay? Do you want to pick up a splinter or something? Then you're going to have to sit still whilst someone pokes at your hand to get it out." Or have it fester, and no dragonpoker for a while.

"Aye," Rev slowly walks back to the pen, turning to the left in profile, "there's more than one point to be made at the tip of a horn." Stall door smoothly shuts prominently without a squeak— these hinges are TLC'd with blood, sweat, and the tears of first-year harpers. "He speaks well of you." All once that he's heard her referenced but they were said with -affection- enough to get the point across. "I especially like his porcine racing stories when he was an apprentice." A bit of levity for the moment preceding a bout of continued seriousness. "You miss the point, if I get injured so could one of them. And let's face it, it's only wood." Rev chews slivers out on a daily occurrence, or gouges them out if unsuccessful with his teeth. The second feeder, this one the lowest station, is next inspected.

Getting the saddlesoap and a new pail of warm water, Veresch sets to scrubbing the one she used, taking care with the fiddly bits that require smaller fingers or some serious elbow grease. "I don't know," she mutters, face-down, as she works at the leather. "I don't care as much about them as I do a guy getting his hand impaled. They always look at me funny. Then again, I suppose that's another kind of point." She has barely gotten the hang of caring about pets recently; larger herdbeasts are entirely beyond her scope. "He never wants to tell me many of his stories. M'mother's really strict about some of them, but I'm guessin' she's jealous because there are other girls in them sometimes." A nose-wrinkle. "He's the best man I know. Good with, um, this kind of thing."

The mallet is brought back into the picture without, alas, the CGI of blue lightning. Threvobek is doing some beneficial banging in his half-stoop, head sideways and chin length hair compliant with gravity. After final scrutiny he's satisfied and doublechecking his work. "Herdbeasts are among the easiest things to understand, easier than a canine or a firelizard." Of which he has neither but Veresch can't call him out until she knows him better. "Or did you mean guys with their hands impaled look at you funny?" Hazel eyes search the messenger-slash-assistant from under his brows. "You should ask him about it sometime," not just pig racing tales, but any a dad would accumulate.

"You're looking at me funny now," she bothers to point out, wiping the saddle with a cloth that still seems clean. It gestures towards him. "Right there, the beneath-the-brow thingie. I've tried that look, I really have, but I don't think I have the man-brows to pull it off. It's very… reproving, almost. My da does exactly the same when I try and persuade some extra marks out of him." Her lips twitch. "It never works anyway." At long last, with the saddle clean and packed away, the impedimenta cleared and the cloth tucked into her pocket, she wanders over. "Be seeing you, Rev. Good luck with not getting your hand impaled. Next time, let's try the chat without the mallet handy."

Turning to briefly rub a cheek against his shoulder, Threvobek after has a small smile on his face, heavier on one side than the other. "You really do need good eyebrows for emphasis." Eyes roll up and the skin on his brow creases. The young man leans against the current feeder with one hand as a brace, said mallet handle idly tapping his chest. "I haven't decided if I won't need it yet." Because, totally, Veresch gives off this aggressive maneater vibe. As a rule, the comment is tailor made for irony. "Thanks, see you around." It's a smaller Weyr.

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