Z'bor, Renalde, Ayanara, T'ral, Ty'ai, Alyei


Rotating cast in the Living Caverns during the lunch hour.


It is noon of the nineteenth day of the ninth month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


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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 the nineteenth day of Spring and 70 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.

Z'bor saunters into the Living Caverns, a smile on his beet red face. His first successful run since the accident and he's feeling pretty good about it. He feels Ozriath's mind slip from his as she falls asleep in the bowl, soaking up th warm spring sun. Z'bor however, makes a beeline for the klah and food. He's exercized and now it's time to refuel. He gets what he needs and slips into a table near the door.

The headman totally eats. Just usually in an island of solitude and QUIET. Thankfully for Z'bor though, the headman is not at all eating right now which means he can converse. "Z'bor. How are you healing?" The question might come out of no-where for the greenrider as the headman strides purposefully out of the nighthearth and stands right next to him.

Ayanara makes her way in. A long shift in the infirmiry has her looking bedraggled and tired. The only thing she has a mind to retrieve is a mug of klah. She sits herself down near Z'bor, pulling records from her carry bag. She sits to pour over them, patient notes being far more important at this point than her sleep. A sip of klah is taken before the mug is completely forgotten. Renalde's voice ticks her attention though and she raises her tired eyes to look at the man. Seeing him striding up to Z'bor, she waves, though no words come out of her mouth just yet. Brain function has to be there for that.

Z'bor looks up from his repast and swallows before giving the headman a brief smile. He motions the man to sit. "Headman Renalde, hello. I'm doing well thanks." He grabs a kerchief from his sleeves and wipes at his mouth, not wanting to have bad table manners. He takes a drink of his klah. "Please, have a seat and join me."

Renalde makes no move to sit despite the invitation from the greenrider. No, his attention has already shifted away from the man to the woman sitting next to him. His eye blue eyes watch those papers take presidence over the klah and he shakes his head minutely. He'll reach out and move that cup of Klah right on top of the papers. "My dear, I would rather you not fall asleep on the tables. The drudges would have to clean around you or attempt to awaken you and perhaps muss those documents."

Ayanara stares at the mug now squarely in the middle of one of her patient's notes. She takes the mug in hand, both moving it off the documents and away from Renalde's reach. Wouldn't do to have a war over where the mug goes now. "I assure you I won't be falling asleep on your tables headman. But I need to memorize these charts and notes far more than I need klah." Icy eyes meet Renalde's own. She hasn't forgotten their rather… terse introduction.

Z'bor leans to see who Renalde is addressing. Ah, the healer girl from the infirmiry. "Afternoon Healer Ayanara." He says in greeting, though he seems to be on the sideline for this part. That's ok with him, he goes back to his plate. He can eat while they chat, no worries. He takes a drink of his klah and is back at the food. Just let him know when he needs to speak, ok guys? :)

"Nonsense." Renalde doesn't reach out and take her notes, but he does go for that mug of Klah to put it back front and center. "I am sure your masters would agree with me that you memorizing the information on a brain half asleep is less important than you memorizing your information when you are fully awake, with klah and food in your stomach." Renalde is in a make-your-life-better mood. "When is the last time you went outside to enjoy our beautiful weather? Both of you?" Now Z'bor is getting looked at too.

Ayanara opens her mouth to protest and nthing comes out. Damn! Can't beat logic like that. She manages to keep hold of her klah mug, and takes a sip. Not because Renalde wants her to, mind you. "Well played Headman." Aya says smoothly and leans back in her chair. She has nothing to say of the outdoors comment. Nope. She pleads the fif- wait, wrong universe. She taps her fingers on the side of her cup and waits. She's been told of Renalde's lectures.

Z'bor looks up from his food and proceeds to power chew, using his klah to wash it down. He wipes at his mouth and clears his throat. He hadn't been wolfing down his food. Nope. "I was just outside, running with Ozriath. I've been outside today!" He gives a goofy grin to healer and headman, trying to lighten the mood.

"Good man," Renalde nods at Z'bor's annoucement at having gone outside. "Healer." And that TONE of voice is back. The disapproving one. "Even I do not require my workers to push past their limitations. When they are tired, they are required to sleep. When they are hungry, they are to eat. There is no one here who would look down upon you if you took rest every once in a while."

The outer Living Cavern doors can be heard to open and shut and T'ral bolts into the room hop, hop, hopping on one foot to take a hard, skidding right turn and then, spotting PEOPLE HE KNOWS, he freezes arms pinwheeling as he straightens. Ahem. "Gusty out there." He cocks his head, listening and then makes his way to the buffet. Nothing to see here.

Ayanara looks up at Renalde with exasperation. "I said well played." She repeats, sipping once more at her Klah. She hadn't been arguing. Honest. She picks a piece of lint off her front and flicks it away. Another sip of coffee. "I still need to get through these…" She waves at the documents in front of her. "If I get some food, can I do my work please?" She's a little snarky, but hey, she's tired.

Z'bor grins at Renalde. T'ral's entrance is noted by the greenrider, but he's back to wolfing his food, since, y'know, Renalde is talking to Ayanara again. As soon as he can, he waves T'ral over. C'mon, have lunch with a buddy.

"My dear. I rarely play games, and if I was, I assure that you would know." Satisfied with the knowledge that the woman isn't about to fall asleep on his tables (because seriously, it sucks having to clean around comatose people) he moves his gaze around the room to have it settle upon T'ral. "Yes. T'ral. Do come have a seat." Renalde wants to SPEAK with you.

Ayanara sighs and drags herself out of her chair and heads for the side board. The faster she eats, the faster she can get back to her work. She makes a reasonable plate, grabs a refill n the klah, and heads back to her seat. She promptly ignores Renalde when she passes him and sits, getting herself comfortable before she begins to slowly eat. Though, she reads the hides and scrolls as she does.

With a few surreptitious glances at the Cavern's entrance, T'ral makes selections along the buffet. A light repast; work in the infirmary is plenty squeamish-making and he's unwittingly continued his habit of light lunches on days when he's got infirmary duty. He heads straight for the cluster of folks he knows. Still nothing to see here. His face splits in a grin for the greenrider, but Renalde, as ranking person is greeted first, "Headman, Sir. Zero." T'ral can parse a knot and probably knows Ayanara by sight from adjacent duties. "Ma'am." He folds himself into a seat, eyes looking to Z'bor, "How's Ozriath?"

Z'bor smirks and looks up at T'ral. "Goose." He returns. "Oz is great, she's getting stronger and stronger by the day. We took a run this morning and neither of us got too winded." He grins. Renalde? Needing to talk to T'ral? This couldn't be good. Z'bor makes sure there's room for his wingmate and then takes a drink. "How are you?"

Uptick in eyebrow raised at the flippancy for which T'ral does the greeting. Really, he shouldn't expect any more. So he doesn't comment on it. Instead he leans his head down and whispers into T'ral's ear momentarily, his gaze not moving from Z'bor. Maybe they're talking about him?

Renalde mutters "T'ral. When will the nonsense with those books end in the Archives? The archivist has been pulling his hair out and would like to eviscerate the culprits. " to T'ral.

Renalde mutters, "… … … the … … … books … in the … … archivist … … pulling his … … … … like to eviscerate the culprits." to T'ral.

Ayanara goes about her work, though she greets both Z'bor and T'ral with a cool "Hello Rider" each. She goes back to her klah, food and records. No time to waste now!

The bluerider nods, spreading a napkin on his lap, flatware just so. He smiles around a mouthful at the good report on Ozriath. Some things were graven into the bones, possibly even genetic, for T'ral: table manners are one of those things. He's chewing carefully and swallows, about to answer Z'bor when Renalde whispers in his ear. T'ral chokes. Partly from surprise at his father being of a sudden RIGHT VERY THERE and partly from the message. He coughs, fumbling for his beverage and takes a few sips. Still spluttering. He wipes his mouth and beard carefully with his napking and turns inquisitive eyes up at Renalde, "Pardon?" Maybe I heard that wrong? Stalling for time.

Renalde pulls another handkerchief from his pocket (I'm sure he keeps one on him at ALL TIMES) and passes it over to his son. "The healers tell me that it is your memory not your hearing which is currently not operating at peak levels T'ral." The disapproval which snakes through Renalde's voice is more than clear. His eyes flick to Z'bor, and he doesn't get more specific. "It was an interesting prank, but one which I do believe needs to see the sunset." Eyebrows upraised.

Z'bor's interests are definitely roused, but he knows better than to eavesdrop. So he goes about finishing the last of his lunch. He even goes so far as to get up and grab dessert and another refill on his klah. He hears some upon returning, but keeps to himself. None of his business. Really. He sips at his klah and dips into the wonderfully creamy dessert the cooks had prepared.

T'ral has a napkin, thanks. He waves off the proferred kerchief. He glances at Z'bor with a little apologetic shrug and then sighs, folding his napking and standing. "The jig is up, then?" The former-future-Archivist inclines his head to Renalde, a bow to a worthy opponent, gracious in being found out. "It will be set to rights by tomorrow morning. What -or who- tipped you off, Sir?" He holds up a finger, forestalling that answer to make a clarfication, "A clarification. Prank trivializes what we accomplished here. A prank is putting chili oil in the apothecary's soapsand vats or ink pellets in the new showerhead. " NOT THAT EITHER OF THESE THINGS HAVE HAPPENED. "This was a VERY successful educational experiment that," he ticks off items on his fingers, "One, didn't waste resources, two, repaired over a dozen books in need of rebinding and three, enlivened interest in the Archives amongst apprentices and the weyr as a whole." Surely someone would see the value of this.

That hankerchief is tucked back into a pocket. The tilt of Renalde's eyebrow right now can only be desccribed as sardonic. "T'ral. You ought to know better then that. Those individuals who have chosen to obey your instructions will be dealt with by their own craft masters. You did not assume you could really continue this without it coming to my knowledge?" Renalde shakes his head and turns to the greenrider and healer sitting off to one side. "My appologies for excluding you. I am sure T'ral will enlighten you if he so chooses. As it stands, I must get back to my duties. Rider, Healer." With a nod of his head Renalde will turn and sweep right back out as abruptly has he had entered.

Z'bor gives his friend an understanding look. He listens in now, heedless of his efforts to not do so before. This is getting interesting. He continues with his dessert and once he's scraped the bottom clean, he works on his klah. When Renalde takes his leave, Z'bor returns his attention to T'ral with a grin.

T'ral draws up under that elegant and sardonically tilted brow with no small amount of sardonic-ness… sardonicity… sardonicality… with features arranged in repressed mirth. Was Renalde amused? Or just smug because his little network of informants won out? Could it be… a glimpse of humor? No. "Ought and do, Sir." Know better. "The apprentices knew the risks. If there are undue recriminations, I will happily go to the mat for any one of them with the Archivist or their masters." A look of protective pride, "They put in a lot of hard work over and beyond their other duties to make things better. And had fun doing it." Win-freaking-win. To the question of whether T'ral expected to get away with it, "No, Sir, it was more a matter of how much we could accomplish before we were found out." The Headman makes his exit and T'ral leans forward, tipping his head to murmur quietly for the Headman's ears only.

T'ral mutters, "I could … an accomplice. You … … … … … … … … …" to Renalde.

Z'bor does his part to let the two men talk. But when Renalde walks away, Z'bor lifts a brow at T'ral, his interests piqued. "So what was all of that about?" He asks, full of curiousity. He sips at his klah. "Sounds like Renalde didn't appreciate a favor type thing." He chuckles.

Renalde ignores T'ral completely.

And leaves.

T'ral watches the Headman's retreat with narrowed speculative eyes before resuming his seat and adding his apologies to the Headman's. "Sorry about that," a nod includes the studious Healer, but T'ral focuses primarily on Z'bor, leaning in and lowering his voice, "I, uh, may have been behind the 'mix up,'" his brows up innocently, "In the archives." He resets the napkin in his lap and goes about tidily devouring his lunch.

Z'bor raises a brow and chuckles. "Oh really now?" He asks, wondering what sort of mischief his 'new' friend has been up to. "Do tell, anything that ruffles Renalde's feathers has to be a good story." He leans back in his chair, relaxing. "What exactly was the 'mix up'?"

T'ral's brow furrows and he looks up off towards the entrance to the inner caverns. "I wouldn't say his feathers were ruffled." But that's an uninteresting matter of debate and T'ral takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, regarding Z'bor closely with a considering look. "You been to the Archives lately? Or heard about books being mixed up?"

Z'bor shakes his head. "I'm not in or near the archives much. Reading was never my strong point." The greenrider blushes a little and looks off. "My talents always took after the physical." He grins and regards T'ral with an impish look. "Skipped out on my reading lessons a lot as a lad, I'd have much rather been out on the water than learning."

AGHAST. T'ral is aghast. "SEE. This is the problem. Reading was made dreary to you. Books, boring. Dusty. Dull." He shakes his head. "Well. There's a whole class of apprentices here who DON'T think that way. Not any more." He hasn't explained anything. "Oh. Um…" He eyes dart back and forth before leaning in again, "While I was recovering I heard some apprentices complaining about having to shelve and repair books in the Archives. It struck me that they'd be more interested in the work if it were more fun. Swapping bindings of some 'dustier' topics with more, ah, spicy ones seemed just the ticket." He shrugs, wincing, and waving a hand at his temple in explanation, "I was in a weird place." He winces further, "Am?"

Z'bor listens carefully and when T'ral is done, he lets out a booming laugh, slapping his thigh in the process. "I'm sure they had fun doing that." Comments about T'ral being in a weird place are left untouched, Z'bor doesn't care why he did it, it's funny, and he doesn't want to press that particular topic. "Imagine going to read some dusty old volume and getting a saucy novella instead." He starts laughing again, a smile spreading across his face. "Ah, T'ral, that's rich man…. rich."

A sly grin settles onto T'ral's face. Finally an appreciator. "All the outcomes were rather amusing." He sighs, a mock-wistful gusting with soulful blue eyes turned skyward, "Fun while it lasted.." He makes some more headway on his meal and nods over at Ayanara, hip deep in her meal and klah and hides, "You know her?"

"Outcomes?" Ty'ai is great at butting into conversations that he isn't necessarily invited into. The broad man settles himself down in the vicinity of T'ral and Z'bor, the focus of his light-green eyes moving from one rider to the other. He has with him a plate of food, hearty and filling. Everything looks too healthy for anyone's taste buds to enjoy. His gaze turns to focus on T'ral specifically. "Amusing?"

Z'bor chuckles some more before answering T'ral. "The healer girl? I've bumped into her in the infirmiry a few times. Why?" Z'bor raises a brow, taking a sip of his klah. At the sudden interruption, Z'bor jumps, but he doesn't protest. After a moment of silent cat with his green, he's now aware of who sits in front of him. "Just some amusing mix ups in the archives…" He provides, holding out a hand in greeting. "Z'bor, belonging to green Ozriath. Well met friend."

Ayanara is simply just pouring over medical records. Nothing to see here, unless people note the fact that she lets her hair down and it sweeps forward to cover half her face. Nope. Just innocently sitting here, reading.

T'ral is enjoying the last moments of his questionable victory when Ty'ai makes his entrance. He gives Z'bor a look, Should I know this guy? Who knows if Z'bor gets it or not, they haven't worked out their code. NOTE TO SELF: Add Code to To-Do list. Make To-Do list. Z'bor hadn't recognized him so an introduction seems safe enough. T'ral dabs his face with a napkin and stands to shake Ty'ai's hand. "T'ral, blue Esanth's." At Ty'ai's inquiry, "Seems someone thought it would be a good idea to swap around bindings on books that needed repair." He rolls his eyes, ending with a merry glint. "Have a seat," he sweeps a hand at an empty chair, "Inter-wing lunches are good for morale." He settles himself again, dark eyes darting to Ayanara. He noticed. "New?" To Ty'ai.

Ty'ai brandishes his fork at Z'bor in half-apology, half-greeting. The scarred rider being too busy cutting into his lean wherry to shake anyone's hand, it would appear. "Well-met, Z'bor. Ty'ai, brown Taodath's. You look familiar." He leans forwards a bit, uncanny eyes focusing on the other rider for a long moment. "From Ista, right?" Ty'ai sounds like he's from there, maybe even the cut of his leathers following the island weyr's fashions. Then another fork-brandishing at T'ral. Too many hands, too much food, too little time, sorry lads. "Ty'ai, Taodath's. Book bindings?" The look that crosses the man's face makes it seem that this is a road he's not very interested in going down. "What kind of books?" Then he's busy stuffing his face with a bite of dressingless salad and chunked wherry, nodding once at T'ral at the question of his newness to Southern.

A table or two away (depending on your perspective), there sits Alyei, forking her way through a meal that probably ought to feed at least two people her size. Some combination of choice and the fact that she shoves food into her mouth in huge bites gives her the luxury of sitting alone, which has the added bonus of letting her keep half an ear on the talk at the next table over. Which is about books. Which is why her eyes are glazed, though she's still attentive enough to mumble at her plate, "Does it matter?" in response to Ty'ai's question about what kinda books. She's a contributor.

Ty'ai mutters, "Books … all the fardling same … … … me. Boring, … … … not … pictures." to Alyei.

Z'bor grins. "It matters when the books you think you're picking up are a lot…..spicier than you expected." He drinks from his Klah, and turns towards his table mates. "I'm from Ista, just transfered here a little over a turn ago." He brings one knee up so he can prop his foot on his chair. An oddly comfortable postion. He returns T'ral's look with a miniscule shrug. He doesn't know him either.

Ayanara sets her papers down and pushes her empty plate away, she leans back in her chair, rubbing at her eyes. It may be time to stop going over charts. She looks blearily around the room, eyes distant but coming back to the present.

"Oh. You know. Instruction manuals. With diagrams." T'ral's smile is rakish as he stuffs his maw and chews dutifully, eyes wide and innocent. He looks at Z'bor, to Ty'ai and with a glance to the quiet ladies and back to Z'bor, "I was rather surprised at Southern's store of tomes on the, ah, reproductive arts." The bluerider leans back, tipping his chair until he can see the sandtimer on the mantel of the nighthearth. His eyebrows shoot upwards, "Guh, shift soon," and he sets to eating with vigor, waving off attempts to engage him in conversation, happy to let it flow around him as he sups.

With a bite tucked into her cheek, Alyei nods vigorously at the mutter-conversation going on between here and the brownrider, apparently they're on the same page (haha) about books. She and Z'bor obviously are not, since she gives him a bland look that sets the stage for an argument about his opening remarks. And she goes through a pantomime: picking a pretend book out by its spine, opening her palms like they're a book, skimming the imaginary words, making a confused face, closing her palms, and stowing the invisible novel back on the non-existent shelf. "See? Doesn't matter," she explains, rolling her eyes and fork-stabbing something off her plate to conclude her performance.

Ty'ai blinks once at Z'bor, his startlingly light eyes showing a lack of comprehension for the thought of spicy books. Did someone put sriracha on the covers or something? "That's it, then." Ty'ai doesn't comment on his twenty-three long years of riding tenure at Ista Weyr.. or the scandal that made him leave. He casts a doubtful look to both Z'bor and T'ral but doesn't pick up further conversation on the topic of dry, dusty tomes. He just nods once in accord with the Herder girl's comments. "Just that." He agrees. "Sad to think the weyr is so slow as to be.." He eyes T'ral once. "..Titillated by a few racy words." With not enough pictures. He shoves another bite of salad into his mouth.

Z'bor looks over to Alyei, his grin broadening. "None of it matters really, it was just funny." He raises a brow at her, if only she'd been around to hear him say he'd rather be out on the water than reading. He's no lover of words either. He's a man of action. Ty'ai's comments on racy words are left untouched, he like racy things, but not enough to start an argument over it. And as the rider doesn't push him for a reason for leaving Ista, Z'bor doesn't ask him for his either. Though, Aya is given a look.

Ayanara smiles at Z'bor, but says nothing. She leans her head back against her chair and just listens to the conversations around her. SHe needs to let her study settle before trying to talk. She's a little fuzzy headed from no sleep, long shifts in the infirmiry and so much chart reading. Healers never stop.

"Don't forget the diagrams," Alyei points out after that 'a few racy words' remark, but she does it again in that 'mostly to herself' way: it'd be easier to just shut up, but she hasn't quite reached that phase of maturity yet. Give it a few more years, probably. At least she's learned enough about the polite art of conversation (applying the term a little loosely here) to figure out when it's a good time to change the subject, even if it's only to ask the question that no one else is voicing. To Ty'ai, "What'd you leave Ista for?"

"Reasons." Ty'ai's voice is dry in return to Alyei. He eats another bite of salad, chews, considers Alyei for a long moment. "Why'd you come to Southern?" A question for a question, even if he didn't answer his own. He glances at Z'bor, once.

Z'bor raises his hands, looking innocent. Hey man, it wasn't him that asked. "There are many reasons to leave Ista, or anywhere for that matter. Why would it matter?" He asks, trying to mayahps, change the subject again. He's the king of uncomfortable topics. But he does wonder if Alyei would answer. He tosses a look back t Ty'ai.

Alyei, without missing a beat, "'Cause I heard they had a great library." It's a longer answer, but it's delivered with a precise estimation of Ty'ai's own dryness; she even does the bite, chew, consider thing afterward, though her meal's a lot less salad-y and a lot more gravy-y. "When people don't answer questions, it's 'cause it matters. Why'd you leave Ista?" she throws out there in a 'for instance' tone of voice.

"Many reasons to leave Ista." Ty'ai agrees darkly with Z'bor. His laughter is robust, however, at Alyei's crisp retort. He has a great laugh: it shows the whiteness of his teeth, the darkness of his hair against caramel skin, and it is genuine. No fake laughs to be found here. He'll hop on that bandwagon. "Oh yes, Z'bor, why'd you leave Ista?" His eyes turn to the greenrider. Laughter's halflife can be found decaying in his green eyes, radioactive and potentially dangerous.

Z'bor gives a sly grin and leans forward, setting his mug on the table. "Because there were too many pretty girls and not enough pretty men." He gives a wink to the two in front of him and leans back chuckling. That may not be his real reason, but it's close enough. He takes a drink of his klah and grins, widely.

Alyei tilts her hand, fork still held between her fingers, toward Z'bor when he gives what seems to be, on its surface, a pretty honest answer. Which she thinks proves her earlier point about people (Ty'ai) only keeping secrets when they matter, though she doesn't get around to starting this case in point. Instead, after another bite, she comments wryly, "Pretty sure I just got insulted." Not that she's crying about it, but Z'bor definitely isn't getting his wink returned; she focuses on finishing her food instead.

"Were there? I never thought there could be too-many pretty girls." That's Ty'ai's commentary regarding Ista. "Good a reason as any for leaving, though." He nods at Z'bor, gives no ground on the reason that he himself left. He shakes his head. "I don't think he was giving insult." That's to Alyei. "You're just a puppy, anyhow." Then a squint to Z'bor. "Well. Both of you are puppies," he amends himself.

Z'bor chuckles. "Aye, puppy I may be, but I know what I like." He grins and looks at Ty'ai and then at Alyei. "No offence meant m'dear, I just happen to prefer one side of the fence than the other." He grins. Hey man, greenriders.

Ayanara has now fallen asleep, snoozing queitly in her chair.

Puppy? "Wow, did you guys go to a special insult school or what?" Alyei doesn't seem offended to her core or anything, but it's about as good a time as any for her to make an exit. She's eaten as much as she's likely to and, rising, taking her plate with its few leftovers, she excuses herself about the way one might expect from a girl like her: she just walks off, heading out toward the bowl.

"Nothing wrong with that." Ty'ai's voice holds zero judgment for Z'bor and his preferences. He watches Alyei go with a faintly surprised look, but a shrug is given and he shoves the last bite of his salad into his mouth and moves to stand. He offers the greenrider a jaunty little salute and heads out to return his tray and exit.

Z'bor returns his mug and makes for the bowl, since everybody else is going outside, well, he should too.

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