Mayte, W'rin, Erissa, Prineline, and A'lory


It's a sandy day - what a lovely day for a walk. Mayte catches up with W'rin and Erissa after their drills, and W'rin catches Prineline. Ahem.


First day, eighth month, 1st Turn, 12th Pass


Igen Weyr Central Bowl

OOC Date


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Central Bowl

Cradled, childlike, in an easterly mountainous embrace, the steppes of the central bowl nestle cozily between lake and weyr. The latticework of dusty adobe paths spider out from the southerly Weyr Road, the wagon-ruts of which curve lazily to the northeastern bazaar, the adobe sprawl of the New Weyr reflected in the lake that dominates a large portion of outdoor Igen. A small footpath, just as abused, ambles away from the shores, travelling over rock and hill to the northern dragonet complex and branching itself due west to end at the entrance of the blessedly cool inner caverns. One cracked path, faint with disuse, leads southeast to the crumbling ruins of Igen-that-was. All around, the dizzying heights of the caldera's sharp-sloped sides are pocked here and there with ledges, the weyrs' draconic occupants needing no path to guide their way.

Piercing sand and gusts of wind are the common theme of Igen's nasty summers, and it is keeping all but the bravest of natives in doors. The traffic of foreign dragons is next to nothing, with thread falling none one would risk a dragon not use to flying in the weather. Which of course leaves Igen's weyrleader with more free time, and finds him at this particular moment dismissing his riders from a rather nasty set of trio-drills. Flight mask doing little to muffle his dressing down of one group in particular, who slink off after the tirade to wash their sand color dragons. And thus stands W'rin in hero pose, one hand on hip, watching his rider's move off with, contrary to how he just yelled, a rather proud look on his face.

Erissa, being one of those Whirlie riders slinking off, pauses at an overturned crate to plop her butt down with an exagerrated sigh. With motions set at a weary drag she hauls one leg up onto the opposite knee and starts to unbuckle a boot, determined to get the worse of the sand out of it before trying to walk another step.

And who should come in on this scene but Mayte, a wrap over nose and mouth, walking along with Rhiscorath who for all her size, seems to be frolicking a little in this unseasonable sand weather. They're walking along silently, Mayte occasionally scrubbing sand from her hair until catching sight of Whirlwind, which brings them to a stop. Rhis is intent on watching the other dragons walk off, but Mayte stands with arms crossed as she eyes the Weyrleader, then Erissa, and back to W'rin. Oh yeah, and she executes a good, sharp salute to the man, even if he might not see it; "Weyrleader," she announces herself.

Danorath doesn't seem much bothered by the sand, at least outwardly. His pose is stoic, a duty-conscious demeanor keeping his stocky build on alert and wave-crested muzzle held high. Moving up close to Erissa he blocks the worse of the sand-ridden wind with his bulk, cobalt-shadowed wings tucked tightly to his side.

Prineline is bundled. Yes, it's ninety outside but the bundling is not heavy, it is light, gauzy, and protective. As sand begins to pelt at ears, eyes, and up the unwary Igenite's nose, Prineline has thoroughly swaddled herself. The Headwoman is usually not out in the summer sand storms but this one has lasted a particularly long time and she can't put all her work on hold. Prin has a basket slung under one arm, swinging with the wind and various building materials appear to be popping out from under the protective leather cover with each gritty gust. There are a couple sneezes, but in this atmospheric mess there's no real way to announce her arrival except by bumping into people. And so she does. Right into W'rin. The Weyrleader, post-bump, is eyed behind her soft yellow veil. Hmph. Way to stand RIGHT in her way, W'rin. Jerk. "Really? Couldn't stand, like, off to the side? This one's on you, W'rin." Yeah. Clearly.

Valiuth drowns out the space of the area with the sudden crashing of the ocean, there is nothing to breath only the bubbling of the last of air escaping something, or someone, nearby, until suddenly the surface is broken. The sturdy ship is massive from this angle - abrupt and close. Thank Faranth, but there is no wind, only the menancing sight of clouds threatening from above. « Not to be ashamed, Danorath. Your wings are solid and true. He would not yell, if he did not see the potential lurking in your sails. Aye. The enemy stands not a chance with the likes of you behind us. » A pause as his voice rolls like thunder, the echo dying out slowly in the distance. « Queen-child. To be able to frolick in the storm, tis good to be so strong. Aye? »

W'rin's pose is broken just in time to both snap a return salute to the gold-weyrling with the slightest of grins beneath his bearded face, and to be run into by a rather grumpy headwoman, arm reaching out to steady the headwoman about the waist. "Damnit woman, my fault? I'm running drills in this weather to keep your ass alive, and you would be here blaming me for doing it." Only after realizing the rather compromising hold he has her in, and with a cough releases the curmudgeon, "Still, Prineline, where are you headed in this storm. Can't have you dying of sand inhilation." The tone is gruff, if not concerned, "Perhaps we should have an escort for you? That blue seems willing to take the brunt of the storm. Erissa, report." He jabs a finger in front of him.

Rhiscorath is the soft silence of shelter in a storm, hallowed halls of reading where the response is in the shuffling of a thousand pages. « I like it here. The sand is warm and much nicer than the water. » One rain droplet falls, causing books to snap shut in quiet. « You are Danorath? » Suddenly a pen scritches out the name, next to a stick dragon shaded in blue. « I am Rhiscorath. » After that, the yet-small gold falls silent, letting the gentle murmurs of those around her rise.

If possible, Danorath stands a little taller at the compliment that rolls in amidst the thunder of his Weyr/Wingleader's mindscape. As for the human crouched in his shadow? She shoves her foot back into her boot, not bothering to refasten it, and jumps to attention at being called, hustling quickly over to report in front of W'rin with a snap of spine. "Yes, Sir?" she spouts around protective covering.

"Sir!" Mayte repeats, just as the Headwoman makes her way right into the Weyrleader. Under her face-wrap, lips twitch, causing a slight shift in the cloth, but Mayte's arms re-wind themselves over her chest to watch the situation as it unfolds. A curious look to the blue-rider that W'rin indicates and just in case, Mayte salutes to her too. And not to be left out, Rhissy and Mayte move closer, giving the Weyrling the chance to give a little grin to Prineline: "Good afternoon, Headwoman," she says, just loud enough to be heard over sand.

Inside it is then, the dank interior of the ship, captain's quarters with naught but a cot for living. The rest of the space every ounce of utility. Lacking in any of the feminine touch, star charts tacked to the walls, and the desk covered in the diagrams of the beasts whom lurk in the abyss; whom the boat's master hunts with insanity's angry and insasiable passion. Those can be read, and the little queen's books safe from the immediate rain and waves. If one can read in a tilting and tottering world. « Danorath. » The name reverberates, though the thundering voice is muffled by the walls which hold out the storm. (Valiuth)

Prineline looks down at the arms around her waist just as the Weyrleader notices the awkwardness of their position. Prineline might be blushing under that scarf, but between the sand and the wind-whipped cloth, you'd never know. "What? No. I'm fine. Been through a hundred of these things. I don't need an escort." She flaps a hand at Erissa in dismissal though Mayte gets a little head bob of acknowledgement. "Mayte, child, what are you doing out here?" And with that, another accusatory glance lances over to W'rin. Obviously, his fault.

Danorath thinks « Clear mental winds born of the sea vie with those sand-filled external ones. Crisp and clear they blow with a determined current across mindscapes, not allowing shadow of cloud nor storm to mar clarity of purpose. Tendrils whirl in curious offshoot toward the little gold, light and welcoming in their touch. «I am.» He confirms. «I would wish you clear skies, little one, but there seem to be few today.» »

W'rin snorts heavily, though Erissa's quick reaction to his order is given a bob of encouragement. See that's how it's down, shame there aren't more weyrlings about to witness it. "Child?" The weyrleader scoffs heavily, "Not anymore, I'm afraid, Prineline. Time for all of them to grow up quite quickly. Only a year before she'll be bearing a whole lot of responsibility for the lot of us." Speaking as if she isn't there, until suddenly he is, his attention turning to the female in question, "Still, Mayte. With one gold rider pair grounded at another weyr. I can't afford to have my weyr losing another, we just got up to three. What in Faranth's name has you out?" See it's all about the weyr. No fake papa-ly concern here. Coughliesallliescough.

Star charts. A book falls off a shelf somewhere, landing on a table, perfectly open to blank pages and slowly it fills with an imitation of those charts, but a bit imperfectly. Knowledge must be shared. But at the same time, Rhiscorath allows Danorath's curls of light through the windows of her lined halls. « Then we will wish clear skies for other days. Days when I too may fly. » There's eagerness, an underlining of the word and maybe one too many exclamation points that follow it.

Erissa tries not to fidget in place while she waits for either further instruction or dismissal, but the sore spots in her boots where sand had worn against her skin continue to sting and the general ache of over-tired muscles from lack of sleep followed by rigorous drills drags hard on the stiff-backed posture she is determined to maintain. Dark blue hues shift from Headwoman to weyrling to Weyrleader as the three converse, pale lashes feathering downward against the blowing sand.

Nope, Mayte is not looking in the least bit apologetic for being out here: "Rhissy wanted to go for a walk." Next to them, 'Rhissy' huffs. Mayte ignores that. "She likes the sand a lot, so I figured we'd take a walk around and then I'd go brush her off." There's a little sympathetic grin for Erissa after which Mayte asks, "Soooo, good drills today?" Because who knows better, the Wingleader or the riders who perform the tasks?

Knowledge is to be shared, and not is hidden from the little queen's inquiring mind, though warnings come with his reliquishing of knowledge, in the flickering candle light. « The only thing worse than a lack of knowledge, if incorrect knowledge. False security, dear little one. Copy what you find with care. One cannot rise against the enemy and fair well if the learning is wrong. » The blue's warmth causes steam to rise in the air as cold moisture mixes with heat. (Valiuth)

So much sand — everywhere it shouldn't be. And yet, A'lory continues on, until he's brought up short by the sound of a certain young graniece, possibly out and about when she shouldn't be. And so, he joins the little group, eyeing Mayte with wry amusement as she tries to dig herself out of this little hole with her usual impertinence. Meanwhile, Eisheth crouches, half-spreading his wings against the blowing sand.

Suddenly recognizing the uncomfortable position of the blue rider, W'rin waves a hand, "Easy, if she'll not accept the offer I won't force the issue." And Mayte's assurance of a short walk draws a grumpy, but relenting snort, well as long as you aren't breathing in what you shouldn't, and you'll oil her extra when you return. It is a hard balance between physical and mental health with weyrlings, and barack fever is to be accounted for in such weighing. "Aye, well enough. Care to give your report, Erissa?" A challenge issued, his already hard to read features obscured by his riding mask, the only hint of his belief in her, the wrinkles of an otherwise hidden grin at the corner of his eyes.

"You figured you'd take a…" Prineline trails off as she looks at Mayte and then the (relatively) small gold near her side. Dragons. Fucking crazy. Shaking her head, she appeals to W'rin for some for of explanation for beastial behavior. Prineline just, does not get it. Not at all. Even after her own blood impressed, the confusion lives on. As for Erissa, she can tell the girl is dead on her feet, and she scoots over to the little bluelet for a closer inspection. "What's your name, child?" she zings a look back at the Weyrleader. "Dismiss the poor girl, W'rin. Look at her, she's about to blow over." Because, Micromanaging is what Prin does best!

Curiosity and calm, entwined: the young queen is the brief focus before Eisheth's mind turns to the charts, memorizing them for some unknown purpose. « Let the little one be. She does well enough for an infant. » A peculiarly avuncular touch is reserved for the small gold before he withdraws into the whiskey-tinged desert from whence he came.

Despite her flagging condition Erissa perks when Mayte's question is turned to her by W'rin. Feeling the weight of pride and pressure she nods once sharply and answers in a firm voice. "Good as gold, miss. Tougher the weather the sharper we get." As for Prineline, blue hues shift warily to the Headwoman as she fusses. "Uh…Erissa," she supplies to the request for her name, quickly adding, "But I'm fine, ma'am, thank you." What? Blow over?? Not her! No way! Back straight! Chin up!

There is no sanity with dragonriding. Mayte looks expectantly to Erissa while Rhiscorath takes notice of Prineline. Sniffs her a little. "Rhis, stop that. S'rude." Rhiscorath? Totally not apologetic but she does stop, admittedly with a paper-dry huff. Mayte raises a little eyebrow at the Wingrider's report but grins anyway, "Like a knife, huh?" Both turn to look over at A'lory, Mayte with a little wave of greeting before she looks back at W'rin, "Oh hey, how are your twins doing?" Seems the thing to ask after, right? Even if the Weyrling gives a couple of tries on giving their names, but stops after the third opening-and-closing of her mouth. Too much sand getting in, or something.

W'rin glowers at Prineline, he'll damn well do what he pleases is what the look says but then the girl is dismissed. He did it cause he wanted to, no really, blasted womenfolk. "She's one of my rider's Prineline, she can take more than any Igen storm could deal out." See look at her straighten under the pressure. "Aye, right well, as Erissa says. Nothing like a challenge to keep us growing." As for the mental status of dragon's decisions the weyrleader can only shrug at the headwoman, "No accounting for taste, Prineline." Is all he can offer, and does so it as if it might explain why the gold might want to be smoothed over by nature's sandpaper. And then the weyrling is off on topics that do not involve dragonriding, the kind of small talk W'rin is known for being great at being bad at, "Oh well enough I suppose. Getting around pretty well now, good enough that'd they fall right off a ledge if they lived with us. Splat on the ground. So we give thanks for fosters." Because weyrleader-offspring goo in the middle of the bowl would not be good for anyone. A'lory is given the bob of a head. "Wingrider. Faring well I hope."

Fickle winds show no interest in settling down to dusty old hides, not when there's so much open sky in which to soar and keep a sharp lookout. Danorath leaves the studying to those who favor it, breezes dancing through the sails of the ship instead.

« Well enough she should know the truth. » Is the response from one bronze to the other, but the blue draws Valiuth back outside. Action is to be taken, the sails filling and the vessel takes the hunt on the storming sea.

Prineline takes a few steps away from the giant sniffs. The Headwoman is around dragons quite a bit, but she prefers a sphere of distance, namely, get your sandy snout outta my hair. She slants a glance at Mayte as she gets her beast under control, but not before Prin gives her offended shoulder a brush off. Dragon cooties. As for Erissa, Prineline also appears fairly impressed with the girl's stamina, and thus, she'll leave her be. A'lory is given an eye roll, but its sandy and windy out here, bets are he can't see it, but he may certainly sense it. "Well, I've got things to do, and…" she eyes A'lory as he starts moving towards the small knot. "I have to do them now." Like, right now. See y'all later. "Mayte, don't go wandering too far. Erissa, you've got spirit, I like that." She begins to move off, but not before, "and W'rin?" Comes the sweet voice, carried on a puff of stinging sand, "don't kill the next generation." Prineline drops the mic and heads deeper into the storm to attend to previous engagements.

Some where, someone, pours one out for the next generation.

Erissa really is about to keel over but too determined to show it, especially not after her reply to Mayte earns a note of approval from W'rin. That's right - dagger sharp Whirlies! Woo-woot! Behind covering she'll let a little smile slip for the Headwoman as well, Prineline's blunt comments amusingly direct. As it seems all are done with her the bluerider casts a glance at W'rin and catches a nod. Taking that as dismissal she quickly bows out of the group and turns to leave at a trot, ignoring the tiny flames that erupt in her boots in favor of making a graceful exit. A steamy bath, lots of lotion, and a long, looooooong nap are in her immediate future.

Just as Erissa and Prineline start moving away, the wind picks up, tossing sand even more brutally. Rhis turns her head out of it and Mayte calls to W'rin (well, she's shouting, really): "We're gonna head back in. Rhissy says this isn't fun anymore." No really, dragon? It isn't fun now? A quick salute to the Weyrleader before Mayte and Rhiscorath start the slow, sand-slogging treck back to the Weyrling barracks, leaving W'rin to follow his Wing back to less-sandy weyrs and the baths that they truly deserve.

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