Who

Prymelia, T'ral, Trek

What

Prymelia and other (NPC) Candidates take breakfast in the Living Caverns. Trek and a flabbergasted T'ral drop in.

When

It is midmorning of the seventh day of the third month of the first turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date

 

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Living Cavern

Dim light from hanging glow-globes cannot fully camouflage the ravages of time and neglect on Igen's busy living caverns, though hints of its former glory peek through in the decorative cuts to the cave's natural limestone and the high quality of dusty, tatty-ended tapestries. Here and there, skybroom tables — stained dark by wood finish and a decade of grime — sit in loose groups, flanked by wicker chairs with pointy, broken rattan that pokes out to invariably find unprotected skin. The seemingly randomly placed furniture, however, at closer inspection, forms a sort of cross-shape of negative space. At the northernmost walls and nooks of the caverns, a long buffet table with tarnished lazy susans hosts an array of finger-foods and pitchers for the interested, refilled occasionally by drudges that shuffle in from the curtained entrance to the south, beyond which lies the kitchens. To the east is a large arch leading outside and, across from that, to the west, a set of rattling doors that open to reveal the tunnels and stairs of the inner caverns themselves.

It is the seventh day of Spring and 52 degrees. It is bright and sunny. The only evidence of the overnight storm is in the lingering mud puddles.


It might be considered Spring and while the rain has abated, there's still a bit of an early morning nip in the air. At a table set right back, as befits the lowliest servants…erm…candidates of the Weyr, are a few of those yanked by the scruff of the neck and handed a white knot. Two of the boys are looking exceedingly smug sure that one of the recently clutched eggs hold bronzes with their names on them. Another of the boys, a ruffian from amongst the refugees is eyeing the two young woman seated at their table with a scowl and Prymelia is doing her level best to ignore the prat. "Hey Red, I'm talkin' with ya!" A sloppy porridgey spoon is flicked the trader-turned-candidate's way, splattering a few gooey droplets onto the tip of her nose. And still, he is ignored. "Cut it out, Buttbreath." Cuts out from the hefty blonde girl seated next to Prymelia.

Bootheels ring on the Cavern floor announcing the determined arrival of a young man. They stop at the entrance as the man pauses to look around, assessing the room. A basket he's carrying is set down as he strips off the Southern style blue poncho he's wearing, strangely spangled with silvery mist. The rains had stopped, so why the outerwear? And why wet? T'ral's not looking for people and dark blue eyes skip over faces, especially faces at tables set right back. Helmet-smashed hair is poncho mussed, though the the rider -as his now visible knot and patches reveal- seems oblivious. Poncho folded, he stoops to pick up the basket and head for the long tables of food.

Trek shakes water from her boots as soon as she enters from the bowl, then leaves her jacket on one of the many hooks on the wall before she begins entering the cavern properly, entering along the same time as the hair-mussed Southern rider. She rubs her hands together quickly to try to warm up chilled fingers, but the brisk motion stops when she narrows her eyes at a gathering of candidates just as that gooey mess is splattered. Food or duty? Food or duty. The wingleader heaves a sigh and heads toward the white-knots. "Good morning, candidates!" she calls out with fake bright cheer.

Ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-. "Whatsa matter, Red? On your monthlies?" Snicker-snort-GUFFAW. Oh that does it!! "Listen here you shriveled little excuse for a male," Prymelia begins to snarl out, merely endorsing the scruffy eejit's jab only to be stopped short when a wide-eyed Morin tap-taps at her arm. "What!?" - "G'morning, rider," the blonde girl with curls as bouncy as her cheerful demeanor sings out and snaps a salute. Except that…she's forgotten she still has a spoon in that hand and splodges a lump of porridge into her hair. Immediately the poor girl wilts. "Duties, ma'am," comes the cool reply from the flame-haired candidate, her salute not quite so snappy but at least she's spoonless. The two would-be bronzer-hopefuls jump to their feet in unison salutes all round along with a dose of fawning as they offer a chair and to get Trek food.

Though not looking for people, turns of training have attuned the young man to the presence of knots. Assensing, assessing, T'ral snaps a sharp salute at the Arroyo wingleader, "Wingleader," he acknowledges, holding the salute until she's three paces away and then he's on about business. He's loading the basket, muffins, bread, fruit, pastries, meatrolls -anything easily portable- with quick, efficient motions. The bickering chatter is such a normal Cavern's thing it's barely registered. Trek's brightly called 'Candidates' gets interest. T'ral lifts his head to look, still hustling food. There was a gold egg on the sands. One of these Candidates might be a goldrider one day. One of these Candidates might be… "Prymelia." T'ral stands frozen, slack jawed.

"You'll forgive me if I'd rather not sit at a table where you're all flinging around your breakfast," Trek drawls, tone amused, though her eyes say otherwise. "'Red', hmm?" she asks the ruffian. "Did you come up with that one all on your own?" She folds her arms over back of the offered chair and studies the group one by one, porridge smears and all. "Sit down," she instructs the fawners, though at least some amusement reaches her eyes with that one. "Finish your breakfast. You have a full day ahead of you." The approach of a fellow bluerider grabs her attention as she straightens, curiously watching his walking salute before returning it with a slow but formal one of he own. Her gaze flicks from T'ral's face to the basket, then back. "Is Southern hard up for food, wingrider?" she asks mildly, before that gaze of hers hones in on the named candidate.

Currently Prymelia's not aware of anyone other than the rider with the fancier-than-others knot. And of course, plotting how best to stuff the scruffy Largo down a latrine without anyone noticing. Perhaps late one night… Hazel eyes flick up to Trek and with lips pursed about a frown; the redhead takes up a napkin and swipes the porridge from the tip of her nose. "Yeah," Largo beams rather proud of himself, "Cuz like, she's got red hair see? And she's all la-di-da wagonmaster's daughter. And they's all gots red hairs too." Stupid Largo, is stupid. Said fawners do as bidden, high-fiving each other with triumphant smirks. As as for sweet and bubbly Morin? Well, she's stealing glances at Trek, the cut of her uniform, the manner in which she holds herself. Later, when no one's looking, she'll probably indulge in a little emulation. With her attention falling back to her meal, T'ral doesn't register on the redhead's radar until the wingleader mentions Southern. Then attention jerks upward and then she goes wide-eyed. "T'ral!?" The real one. Not the poser C'aveman had dropped her off with.

Blink. Blinkety-blink. … Unwitting steps have brought T'ral closer to the table. A look of sheer, dumbstruck, well DUMB on the man's face. He's still holding a sweetroll in one hand, basket in the right. Blink. Words. And things are said and there's just a rush of blood roaring in his ears. Red hair. Yes. Adorable nose. Yes. Fiery eyes. Double yes. White knot. … … something blah, something blah blah "…wingrider?" T'ral's mouth snaps shut. "Wh…" No. Blinks. He shakes, canine like, "Ah, no, Ma'am." His eyes are locked on Prymelia, "Dragonhealer training." Blink. Stare, "I'm the most junior. It's…" another shake of his head, "It's, ah, friendly hazing." He puts the pastry in the basket, mind racing back to a time when this position was reversed. Except, she should have the basket. Dizzying, the circularity. Candidate bravado and jockeying is entirely beneath his notice. Poor Largo better watch it, though. Morin. She'll be fine, once that spine gets set. Uh… "Hello," he says. Quietly. His eyes widen and a flush reddens ears and cheeks. He swallows, straightening smartly to salute Trek again, "T'ral, blue Esanth's, Ma'am. Here for dragonhealer training." He already said that. But poorly. Corrected now.

"So I gathered," Trek tells T'ral in a quiet, mild voice. She studies that basket again, then the looks going between candidate and wingrider. "I'm sure you've already been taught the importance of focus, then, rider of blue Esanth. By Southern's dragonhealers or our own. Of which, you might want to know, I am one." There's a flat look there before she's looking over the table of candidates again. "And as candidates, one of the first things you all will be learning is what respect is, what it means, and what it looks like. And you," pointing directly at Largo's face, "might need some extra learning there, so grab something to go, and find one of the headwoman's assistants. I'll fill them in shortly." Her eyes narrow momentarily at Prymelia in a clear act of still sizing up the candidate, but she leaves the rest for now.

Prymelia isn't even going to bother trying for speech. Instead she'll just sit there with a mouthful of teeth staring at T'ral until a stifled giggle from Morin pulls her out of it. "He's really cute," the bashful blonde whispers and then remembering their esteemed rider'ly company straightens up and with a clearing of throat blushes for the impolite business of whispering. Largo, singled out for being the prat that he is, throws another glare the redhead's way and shoves his bowl away and stalks off to the buffet table stuffing pastries and a redfruit into his pockets. And as for Prymelia? Finally she tears her gaze away and sets her attention to Trek. A short nod is given to notation made of proper decorum and manners. "Yes, ma'am." Quietly spoken but only because her mind is racing a mile a minute just now and her heart is doing flick-flacks within her ribcage. Focus. She can do that. Porridge. Porridge bowl. Spoon. Porridge-porridge-porridge. Don't look at him and all will be well.

"Yes, Ma'am. Respect, discipline, focus, empathy." T'ral recites the tenets. Trek's gentle rebuke shows a good bit of that last. The bluerider is recovering a bit of his equilibrium, "Two turns in and I'm still discovering new ways they're all tested." He smiles, abashed. "Ma'am," dark eyes flicker towards Prymelia and back. He draws Trek to the side, murmuring for her ears only.

T'ral mutters, "… … … … get … … … of … … … sure … … entails here, … I … … … step … any toes." to Trek.

Trek watches Largo until he's out of sight, then fixes both Morin and Prymelia with a long look as the first few tendrils of genuine amusement filter through. She leans an elbow on the back of that empty chair and turns her attention back on T'ral as he recites. She arches a brow momentarily as he tries to draw her attention, but she obligingly leans toward him to listen to the quiet words, then slowly straightens again, amusement diminishing. "Wingrider," she answers, keeping things formal. The amusement is still there, but there's a sharper tinge just below the surface. "If you're are going to prove to be such a large distraction, I might need to request that your training be moved back to Southern. Igen's candidates' freetime is of no consequence to you. Or you," she adds, turning to Prymelia. Yeah, she caught all those unsubtle looks. Back to T'ral, she continues. "As your own candidacy wasn't all that far in the past, you should be able to sympathize well with the pressures being placed on these lovely young women over here." Hazel eyes glitter briefly as she smiles, but amusement or not, it's a hard smile. "Don't add to it." Those might be the trodden toes right there.

Studiously not looking at T'ral now, Prymelia elbows Morin for her comment and puts attention to swirling her spoon round and round in the porridge until its all gooped up along the sides. There's a brief flicker of attention when the Southern bluerider recites the tenets of candidacy and being a rider but it soon drops again. With only a few words of the muttering heard, she huffs a frustrated breath. That is until Trek addresses her directly. There's an almost guilty dart of eyes to T'ral before attention lands square on the wingleader. "That greenrider told me the rules, ma'am. No drinking, no fuc…erm, I mean, canoodling, and the brownrider said no leaving the Weyr." Whether or not that means she'll steer clear of the dapper bluerider during rare free time, is as yet, undetermined. But she's making the right noises and producing the bland smile of understanding.

As an object lesson in the forms of address and proper comportment, Trek is spot on. And, T'ral, despite everything railing to do otherwise, follows suit. Which is, rather, the whole point of the training. "Yes, Ma'am. Of course. The training is only a seminar today. To which I should return. Good morning, Ma'am. Candidates," eyes linger a beat longer on Prymelia. He salutes Trek, turns smartly on his heel and withdraws, basket of goodies in tow. Bootheels ring across the caverns and… as soon as he's out of hearing and sight, T'ral collapses against a wall, covering his mouth with a hand. How did this happen. What would this mean. From one form of inaccessibility to another… though. If she Impresses, Prymelia will have freedom. After a fashion. Unless she Impresses gold. T'ral scrubs his face with a hand and stares. And what a great impression to make with Igen wingleadership. Way to go, T'ral. Shaking his head, the bluerider continues on back to his training.

"Well. You both know the script at least, yeah?" Trek drawls quietly, her accent dipping back to the native Southern of old. She straightens and quickly brushes hands together, then wraps the fingers of one around those of the other. They're still cold. She waits until the other bluerider is out of sight, then turns back to Prymelia and Morin. "Now, if I catch any of you doing otherwise, I'm going to have to do something about it. And I don't want to be that person. So. Don't let me catch you guys being dumb asses and making it my problem. Got it?"

Prymelia is a trader to the core. As such, she's adept at playing at whatever part is necessary to successfully negotiate and close a deal. And this is no different. Guileless the expression that falls into place and sweet the smile that curves pretty lips as the redhead nods, "Yes, ma'am. Understood, ma'am." Catch me if you can? Never! Mmhmm. As for Morin, she bobble-heads furiously and blushes up a storm. "Oh I'm not allowed to talk to boys, ma'am. Mother says they only have one thing in mind and it's not to offer to dig a flowerbed. Mmhmm." Another vigorous nod of head follows that up.

Trek arches a brow at Morin, then gives Prymelia a fleeing look that silently asks, "Is this girl for real?" She covers with a slight clearing of her throat, however, and smiles at the girls. "As long as we have an understanding. Now… enjoy your breakfast, and good luck. With everything." She winks, gives them a far more casual salute than the one she'd given T'ral, then heads toward the sideboard to find some much needed klah, for warmth if nothing else.

Hazel eyes roll at the silent question, a verbal one given. "Don't mind her, she's holdbred. Probably thinks babies are found under gooseberry bushes or something." Met with a little gasp by Morin. "I do not! I know where babies come from!" Prymelia flicks the other girl a brow-lifted look, dubious. "Thank you, ma'am. And clear skies." A salute at least slightly better than the last and less porridge'y is given by both girls. "Do you think maybe we'll fly with her one day?" The wide-eyed blonde whispers. "Don't count your dragons before they hatch, Mo." Prymelia drawls and standing takes up her plate and heads to dump it in the bin with the other dirty dishes.

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