Who

Mayte, Veresch, K'ane Dhioth Rhiscorath

What

Veresch brings a mail call for the Weyrlings on the edge of a sandstorm.

When

22nd day, sixth month, 1st Turn, 12th Pass

Where

Igen Weyr North Bowl

OOC Date

 

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North Bowl

In the quieter spaces of the Northern Bowl, there is less activity; all is kept serene for young, forming draconic bonds. Beneath the sweep of skies' ever-changing colors, this round little panorama hosts the short distances between the Hatching Cavern and the weyrlings' ultimate destination: the barracks and training grounds. More packed dirt and tiny little hillocks than clean white sand, the floor is an uneven thing, a startling trap for the unwary and the clumsy. Further onward, the Ground Weyrs beckon, a haven for those who may seek medical attention.


It's early in the day when Mayte and Rhiscorath manage to make it out into the North Bowl proper. Mayte looks freshly bathed, Rhiscorath looks… like she's grown again, and the pair are walking slowly; Mayte keeps looking over her shoulder, judging the distance back to the Training Grounds. Rhiscorath pauses every so often, rearing up onto her hind legs to look around, flaring her wings to keep balance. Mayte has a running monologue going: "It's pretty nice out here right now, but," a cautious eye tracks that cloud on the horizon, "Soon we're gonna want to be inside. Before that hits."

There are other elemental forces of nature that Mayte and Rhiscorath need to worry about. This one comes in the form of a teenager, no longer quite as scrawny and short as she was, but still as quick: she's tearing a pace through the Northern Bowl even in ankle-deep sand, as if she's a mini-version of the sandstorm that's about to break over Igen. There's a moment's hitch in the stride - she's seen them - and she changes course to stop a bit short of them. "Mayte!" she carols happily. "And you too, young madam." There's a little nod for them, and a quick shuffle about in a wide messenger bag strapped crosswise to her body. "I'm glad to see the two of you out and about; I got permission to deliver some letters to the Weyrlings for the first time. I also have something here for you…"

Noise! It's a good thing Rhiscorath has her wings flared for balance because she has to flap them as a bounding teenager comes along! Alarums! Mayte looks over in surprise and grins, "Hey, Veresch." One eye on Rhiscorath as Mayte explains with a hitched thumb: "She's not used to sudden, new noises." The dragonet drops to all fours again, wings tight against her back and steps back a pace, in case the Noise! happens again. The Weyrling is much more interested now: "Letters?" Mayte's totally not against peering into the bag snoopingly, wondering at the messenger's last statement, "You got something from Benden Hold??"

Veresch flaps one hand warningly, cuddling the Holy Messenger Pouch close. "I do beg your pardon… Rhiscorath, I think?" As if the whole Weyr doesn't know the new young queen's name by now. "As it happens…" Giving a step back she scratches in the bag, frowning at the small bundle. One, then two letters are plucked out and handed over along with a small cloth-bound object. "Here," she says, pushing the handful close. "All for you." The letters are indeed from Benden, the cloth-wrapped object a small, hide-bound book — an empty one at that. "It's for you two," she explains. "I thought that there might be so many thoughts flying around that you'd want to write some of them down, pin 'em into permanency."

Rhiscorath considers the pardon and nods slowly, the librarian's scowl turning to examine the sand at her feet. Curiouser and curiouser. Mayte just grins unrepetantly as she's caught in the curiosities. Accepting the letters with a little squee (that Rhiscorath dutifully ignores, thank you), and she's quick to open the cloth object and ooohs as she finds a book inside. Pause, "From you?" Mayte asks unnecessarily, and mms, "Thanks! That's an awesome idea!" Rhis thinks so too, distracted from her sand to inspect the book too. And of course: "No, you can't taste it, Rhis. Not for eating!" A near-silent whuff from Rhis might be interpreted as: not yet.

"From me," Veresch says unnecessarily. "They had bigger ones, but…" But she's a messenger, and marks are scarce enough. She turns her regard on the young dragonet (that already reaches over her hip!) and hms thoughtfully. "she's much bigger than Dyxath. Bet it's a bugger to feed and oil and wash and stuff." It's cheerfully said, without a single thought to poor Mayte's careworn hands and weariness, and the grin that grows is a trifle unholy. "People have moved on from betting who's going to get her," she informs the ex-vintner happily. "Right now they're betting on how big she'll get. Don't suppose you can give me an inside tip? There's this length of red cloth I have my eyes on…" Insider trading. Gotta love it.

Mayte shrugs a little as she flips through the pages a little, the other two letters forgotten, "It's perfect. Small, compact… hideable…" as Rhis tries to take a nip of a page. "Seriously, Rhis, you can't eat this." Rhis will listen when she cares to. But on that subject: Mayte shrugs, "It's getting better - there's a lot of meat-cutting and stuff. The oil," this topic gets a small smirk, "The oil is a bugger just because she doesn't like it." That people are betting on Rhis makes this Weyrling shift a little uncomfortably but that's quickly hidden with a jocular, "She'll be bigger'n her clutchmates. That's what I know so far." Big, cheesy, ever-so-helpful grin to follow.

Dhioth's descent from the skies above is as beauty on the wing — unwanted, undesired, unthought, but the truth of it is incandescent in every deliberate shift of pinion and sail and muscle and hide as the massive oldtimer bronze seats himself upon the firm fundament of the soil below, not far from where Veresch and Mayte stand. K'ane, rough-shod and leathers-clad, dismounts with cavalier disregard of risk to limb or life, booted feet thumping hard as he too returns to earth. The onerous task of lifting straps from hided neck is taken with automated motion, autopilot kicking in. Whatever realm is inhabited by the mind of the bronzerider, it is not that which contains a weyrling and weyrwoman's assistant conversing.

Veresch is totally giving Mayte a chipmunk-cheek scowl now. "Thanks," she mutters, tugging the pouch's strap straight. "Don't worry. You know they bet on everything down there. D'you want the news? Can't think you get much of that here, being coo…" That's as far as she gets, really, because that's when the mindbending majesty that is Dhioth graces them with his presence in a way that makes her think she misjudged the storm's arrival. One eye squints closed as the skies black out (which would be one wing sweeping over her head to close idly); her mouth doesn't quite hang open as the entrance is achieved and Dhioth's rider practically struts off onto the sand, but it's a close thing. There's a look at Mayte and Rhiscorath, a did-you-ladies-see-that. Fascinated, she keeps watching, pondering the merit of a boot stuck out at just the right time.

Oh hey, hunky bronzerider who looks like Rhiex. Mayte gives K'ane a salute and Rhiscorath huffs at the larger dragon. Mayte flips through that book again and distracts Rhis - don't mind them as they argue quietly in the background for a while.

T'is Dhioth that first comes-to, cognizant of the feel of eyes upon his hide. Once he is burdened not by straps, well and truly free of the constriction of stitched-leather, the bronze shivers all-over, a flybit horse's hide-twitches as he snoops his nose down to where Veresch watches. K'ane turns belatedly, folding leather over unto itself to make a bundle, compact, and blue eyes light with amusement before lips follow suit. He lifts a palm in greeting, the heavy parcel of dragonstraps tossed over a shoulder with ill thought to the weight of such, and booted feet cross the ground that yet lies between himself and the pair of girls. "Veresch," called in greeting, voice mellifluous without the hoarse effects of a night of whiskey prior.

There's a moment of fascinated rabbit when Dhioth's nose swoops down - big head and all that - and the girl blinks scurrier-like to escape the effect. "Dhioth," she greets happily, warmly, and stretches up until she's almost on tip-toes to pet his muzzle with a lazy, indulgent caress. "You look in fine fettle!" The rider's voice, so serenade-sweet today, makes her blink and she turns to look up at straps-toting K'ane. "K'ane?" she greets with a little more conservation, and a palm lifts similarly to greet him, concealing the quick up-and-down of her eyes along the straps' length. "You look to be in a remarkably good mood today." There's a short pause, toting what she knows that might make the bronzer that happy. "Are you here to visit the triplets?" she asks finally, suspiciously.

Oh fine, Veresch gets to call him K'ane, but Mayte has to say, "Sir," once Rhiscorath subsides in her quest to taste words. She shifts her letters to just inside the book cover and snorts quietly at Veresch's supposition. She'll just cover her cough with this new fancy mouth-cover that closely resembles a book here… Rhiscorath is much more interested in Dhioth, craning her neck in his direction. U com 2 browse 2?

A curl of air roves downward, landsward, Veresch-ward; Dhioth deigns to allow his nose rubbed — it is just — but after the momentary consideration focused upon the weyrwoman's assistant it is the future-weyrwoman that he selects for his attention. Blue eyes roll skysward but K'ane is greeting Mayte with a salute and a murmured, "Weyrling." Dhioth's eyes may be for Mayte but K'ane's are for Rhiscorath. It is to Veresch that he idly questions, "She's growing like a weed, don't y'think?" He does not deign to treat that question about triplets with reply.

Veresch's hands drop, duck into her pockets, and whilst there's a set of arched eyebrows she turns to observe Rhiscorath again from rounded cheeks to bleached-vellum wings. "A lot," she agrees as if she knows anything about dragonet growth. "Soon she'll be past me and accelerating. You care to hazard a guess about how big she'll get?" Hope springs eternal. Her gaze slips idly from the two dragons looking at each other to Mayte, then K'ane again, and finally a patch of sand that, apparently, inspires a wicked grin.

Mayte snorts when the question of Rhiscorath's final growth comes up, but it's of amusement: "I keep waking up and finding she's grown another foot in her sleep!" If that's exaggerating, Mayte doesn't seem to rethink the statement. Instead, she's peering back at Dhioth for a moment, and says finally, "Well, her dam is pretty huge," being of Oldtime, "But Sekhaenkath is smaller - maybe she'll be around the size of an Oldtime bronze?" Rhis sneezes indignantly at the very notion, turning to nose neat lines at her feet. And to help Veresch's case, Mayte adds, "There's a length of red cloth on it, or something?" And Dhioth? Mayte eyes him back curiously.

"She'll dwarf you by th' end," K'ane concurs with the viewpoint provided by Veresch, dipping his chin against his chest sharply to consider the growing gold. "She'll be bigger'n an oldtime bronze." He gestures briefly at Dhioth, largest bronze in Igen, calloused fingers far more eloquent than the words that follow. "Bigger'n him, for sure." His eyes finally fall to Mayte, considering. Measuring.

Dhioth is the fierce fortress that withstands the winds and the rains and the thundering pound of surf valiantly struggling against stone so far below: he withstands eternal, unchanged, unchanging. « Rhiscorath, » comes the mellifluous greeting of a voice deep enough to move the earth itself, precisely stated.

The messenger's mouth twists into a thoughtful pout, hands curling idly in her pockets. She considers the little queen, then the large hulking mass that is Dhioth. That takes far longer - she's trying to measure him with her eyes - and eventually she gives an idle shrug. It's a matter for looking up in the records. "Enough marks for a length of the red cloth," she corrects mildly. "People don't bargain much for messages run, so one has to make opportunities." Her expression smooths a little at the looks being given and received — she's getting much better at classic assistant face these days.

Rhiscorath is the tall walls of her own fortress, dank and cool within where dustmotes dance in the few beams of light that pierce the windows. On a large book that lies open on a lectern, puddled in one such beam, a page flips and a word appears, the slow, fluid scritch of writing though no pen delivers the ink. « Sir. » The handwriting is neat and even, and there's even a period at the end of the word. The letters vanish, to be replaced with a silent but inquisitive symbol. « ? »

See? There ya go. Mayte gives Veresch a shrug at K'ane's conclusion, even if she'll grin a little at Veresch's correction: "Yeah, that." Her hand waves a little, "Besides, don'tcha want to bet on something with a faster return? Like, how many dragons will trip on their way out the door?" Rhiscorath's closest body part gets a caress of Mayte's free hand. "It's gonna take a Turn and a half for her to finish growing - ya sure you wanna wait that long?" Eyes move from K'ane to Dhioth and there's a little crease between Mayte's brows, before she continues to look over at Veresch: "S'it been busy since the Hatching? We're barely out right now - this is the furthest we've made it out of the Training grounds so far. Rhis wants to see everything."

The burden of heavy straps is finally evicted from shoulder, the coiled lengths dropping with a heavy thunk to the ground below. Apparently satisfied that Mayte isn't going to spontaneously combust (or worse, instantaneously transform into a clone of Corelle), K'ane drops down to the ground himself, the better to run his hands over each length of strap. Imperfections or ill-wrought stitching surely will out themselves under the sure movements of the bronzerider's hands, familiar and rote. He's comfortable indeed of being the rock in the midst of the current of conversation, letting the words wash around him with companionable silence.

Dhioth draws all of that moisture from the air, leaving a single tiny globule of water that drips, transforming to silvered mercury in the transition from air to ground. He picks her questionmark as his bullseye. « Does this morn find you well? » There seems to be genuine interest there — though perhaps not in the actual answer.

There's a little dip of Veresch's head. "It's been busy enough, you know? At least we're past the post-Hatching, post-Candidate big cleanout - I swear Prineline laughed when she could double up on that and spring cleaning, and working for Sadaiya and Tuli is more work than I thought." Her nose wrinkles. "My handwriting's getting better at least, and I didn't think there were that many details to wrangle. Sadaiya's eagerly awaiting the moment you guys are let out and graduated, I think. They're allowed to fly with the wings during Threadfall again — that was scary, some nasty scores, and that damn thing was heavy but I lasted, kind of." She wanders over, curious, to look over K'ane's shoulder, as nosy as normal. Then, idly, "I saw pink straps on a dragon once." Wordless scorn for that monstrosity. "I expect Faenwyth will want ground-up pyrite on hers, or something else sparkly." She's heard the rumours, oh yes.

Water on the book! The page is lifted and shivered and waved until the mercury traces into skittered traces across the page. Oops, that's too untidy, so on to the next page. Again, the writing appears with the soft scritch, a bit faster this time. « I am well! I am exploring. » The writing stops there, with plenty of space underneath for a response, and there's a sense of young, curious waiting for more.

Mayte watches K'ane's ministrations to his straps with fascination, huffing shortly in amusement at one point. Veresch has more to respond to, so even if Mayte doesn't take her eyes off the leather dragon-straps, she replies, "Maybe they'll get rid of whatever was making that smell in the Candidate Barracks. I could swear I smelled it coming back before the eggs hatched." Yes, Mayte's still harping on that. The thought of Threadfall makes Mayte pause and then she nods slowly, "I'd heard they were flying again." Understatement, but Rhis perks up. "Pink straps? That'd look nice on a brown," Mayte concludes thoughtfully.

The snoop of eyes will find not an entirely exciting sight: the view is just calloused hands sliding a length of strap through strong grasp at a time, and then the dance of blunt-tipped fingers over the section just tested for strength. "It's a good thing that they're back in th' air," is K'ane's absent commentary for the topic of queens once again ruling the lower flight. "Weyrling straps are functional," informed to both parties, "No dye or adornment allowed. They go through 'em too fast for all that mess." Dhioth's straps, notably, are simple: light-cured hide and heavy dark buckles, a touch of sheepskin padding.

Dhioth has little water in the air to work with, now, and thus the next page unmarred by a lark's whimsy. « Exploring is a good thing to do. You should know the weyr that you stand at risk of one day inheriting. » Approval in the clear blue skies above, the calming crash of distant surf. « But not to tire yourself. There is no justice in that. »

Veresch gives a shudder, then a snicker at the thought of pink straps on a brown — perhaps she's imagining him on all the craggy browns she knows. Given the size of a bronze, it's an amazing lot of straps to sort through, likely, so she gets a good squint in, scooting over to sink down on her haunches next to the pile. "Yeah, my mom stuffed me in there as punishment for not wearing Proper Clothes to the Hatching," she mentions up at Mayte. "It was a pong, all right. I fled before I got too deep in, but the last time I smelled it they gave it a good scrubbing." Another thoughtful look at Mayte, then back at K'ane. "How many sets did you go through then, for Dhioth? And when'll the Weyrlings be allowed to get all the way to their new weyrs?"

Inheritance. Noun. Definition: Something that's happening a long time from now (okay, this is Rhiscorath's personal dictionary, not the official one, but pages shuffle back and forth and for a moment, there's a murmur in the far off stacks that rises just to tolerable levels. « I wish to know everything. See everything. » Lofty goals, but she agrees at least with the latter. « I will not be tired. Mine says she would have to find a wagon to take me back. » Just as food is not allowed near the books, so Rhiscorath can't abide the idea of being taken in a wagon, anywhere.

"I like the idea of flying against Thread," Mayte comments, a hint of undirected rebellion in her voice, but she gives Rhiscorath a fond look, "I'll just have to do it with a flamethrower instead, though." That Rhis won't get fancy straps on her first go doesn't phase Mayte at all, though she wonders, "Are we gonna be learning about the leathers soon? Like, how to make 'em and stuff?" Mayte's all eager for this, but Veresch gets a little shudder of commiseration, "It was midnight - she thought you would sleep in your fancy dress each night just to make sure to wear the right thing?" Pfft, Mayte sayeth, though she's a bit of a hypocrite: "Though, I was sleeping in my robe the nights before the Hatching. Just in case, y'know?"

There is amusement for that, rare and genuine: the image of a weyrling dragonet carted around by burdenbeasts lowing in terror. Dhioth, however, cannot abide the unbalance of ignorance and thus jots in dove-grey script, fiercely-slanted and every letter carefully etched, 'Inheritance: a legacy, an endowment, a thing that is inherited'.

"Proper clothes, eh? What are those?" K'ane WOULDN'T know the answer to that particular little question, now, would he? The erstwhile-shirtless, but certainly clad now, bronzerider tips a glance of curiosity over to Veresch. Only then is a roughened chuckle loosened, and a fond look scythed upwards: "Too many. We got t' expand them, for a while, but eventually y'just gotta build a new set." Growing dragons are pains, evidently. It is Mayte to whom he nods, "Soon enough. Once you're familiar with firestone, it'll be leather-sorting, an' you'll make your first set yourself."

Rhiscorath knew that. She really did. Ahem. The sheet that the definition is written on is flipped without the ink vanishing, to be kept and ruminated over later. Dhioth's amusement is met with bemusement, a pointed « … » tapped out on this fresh page. Still so young, Rhis is easily distracted with new topics. « I will see many things when I am bigger. » Though perhaps not weyrlings in carts.

Veresch grins, amused. "Somehow one of my dad's shirts isn't seen as fancy enough. But she didn't really get mad until I told her that in that case, I'd sleep in cobwebs and lace and stuff, and certain things would be on display on purpose." Not that she has much to display, but getting the messenger to stop sassing is likely a lifelong task. K'ane rates a fond smack on the shoulder, and Mayte a wink, but it's as they start getting deep into weyrling things that Veresch jitters, one look cast at the storm building up on the horizon. "I've still got things to do before that hits," she mutters reluctantly. "Mayte, you'll say hello to the rest for me, right? Please? I'll swing by later to deliver the rest of the letters and things."

Fortunately for Mayte's ovaries, the last time K'ane was shirtless in front of her, she was entirely distracted. Any excitement over straps is undercut by a groan at the mention of firestone: "I'm just trying to keep Rhissy from getting 'familiar' with it." Totally air-quotes around that word too. Seems straps can't come soon enough. Veresch gets a snort at the idea of wearing spinnerwebs: "That'd be a sight." Indeedy it would, but the messenger indicates something that Mayte had been ignoring: the storm. She hisses a little when she looks up at the clouds and nods to Veresch, "I'll tell 'em all. And thanks for the book too." It gets held up in proof, and then Mayte comments to K'ane, "I should get Rhiscorath back before that," the storm, a pointed finger indicates, "hits us." Except Rhiscorath is still interested in staying out. Nope, that wasn't a yawn.

Dhioth shifts subtly, a breath of wind to see if those pages will flicker and flip over. Are all of them blank? « You will see many things, » is agreed. « Only to forget them and see them anew. »

K'ane isn't phased by the whap to his shoulder. He's good. "Be good, Veresch," the big man rumbles, slanting a gaze over at her ruefully. "Try not t' burn th' whole weyr down, aye?" His eyes lift to the storm threatening, calculating the heaviness of the clouds and the dire rumbing of far-off thunder; only then does he nod sharply to Mayte. "Aye, y'should." He, himself, is going to continue to sit his damn fool ass in the bowl and check his straps. Sanity is overrated.

The pages flicker a little, showing that at least the edges of each page are not filled in at the margins, the despicable habit that it is. « I will record them. » Along a lone shelf at the top, a volume, its spine looking similar to the edges of this one, falls over with a puff of dust. The dust filters down through sunlight that illuminates books of the same type that fills up this side of the shelves. « Mine will help. »

Mayte gives Veresch one last wave and huffs at her dragon: "I'm serious. Those sandstorms are damn unpleasant to be caught out in." It's only when K'ane agrees that Mayte tries another tack: "And you're probably hungry again too." What an accusation to make! Rhiscorath huffs and starts to slowly make her way back, stopping early on to check something out at her feet. Mayte starts after her, but pauses to turn and salute K'ane: "Uh, sir? Are you gonna sit out here and do that?" But Rhiscorath has had her fill of whatever she was inspecting and continued on towards the Barracks: "Erk. Gotta go, sir!"

Dhioth is once again the fortress, removed and distant. « Good day, Rhiscorath. Try not to learn all the things all at once. »

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