Who

Z'bor, R'zel

What

Two riders pass the time in the Living Caverns while it rains like dickens outside

When

-- On Pern --
It is 9:40 AM where you are.
It is midmorning of the tenth day of the eighth month of the eleventh turn of the 12th pass.
In Igen:
It is the fortieth day of Summer and 96 degrees. It is a bright, sunny day.
In Southern:
It is the fortieth day of Winter and 43 degrees. Still dark and overcast, the winter rain has picked up and become heavier, albeit still pleasant.
In Southern Mountains:
It is the fortieth day of Winter and 5 degrees. It's really damn cold out.


Where

Southern Weyr Living Caverns

OOC Date 04 Aug 2017 06:00

 

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"I'm not a fan of the cold."


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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.


Timor: moon7.jpg
Belior: moon3.jpg


It's a wet, wet, day and the Living Cavern is attracting a steady stream of riders as they escape from wet, wet drills. There's a definite run on the klah pot, and the kitchen staff are engaged in keeping it topped up. When a plate of hot pastries appear, fruitily fragrant and fresh from the oven, they disappear with remarkable speed. R'zel's just in time to snag the last of them along with his klah. Plate and mug in hand, he finds somewhere to sit and drapes a soaked jacket over the corner of the chair back where it begins to drip steadily. There's going to be a small puddle underneath it before too long.

Z'bor too, trades the torrential downpour without for the warmth and mostly dry of the indoors. He leaves a good trail of water behind when he makes his way to the sideboard and what meager provisions remain. There's no klah left at the moment, so he settles for a mug of hot tea with a generous pour of whiskey from his flask. That will warm the bones at least. Turning, Z'bor ignores the food and looks for a place to sit and dry out. There's a perfect spot right next to R'zel and the green rider makes his way over, plopping down uncerimoniously after setting his cup down and removig his jacket. R'zel's won't be the only puddle on the floor. Something that Z'bor is sure must be the bane of any drudge's existence today. A slight salute is sent towards the unknown rider next to him before Z'bor guzzles down half his drink, despite the steam coming from the cup.

R'zel raises his mug-free hand - it's definitely more of a wave than a salute. "Hey there. I guess your wing took advantage of the lovely weather too, then." He wipes moisture from his forehead with the heel of his hand, then warms chilly fingers by wrapping them round his mug. "I've seen you around, but I don't think we've ever actually spoken. I'm R'zel. Verokanth's."
Z'bor nods curtly. "Aye, for all the damn good it did us…" He's cranky. Sorry. Z'bor hates cold weather and those who might know him well know it, those who don't, unfortunately get the short end of the stick. Beyond that, his social anxiety dictates how much he speaks and to whom. Z'bor drinks before he speaks again, letting the tea and whiskey scourge a path of warmth to his stomach. "Z'bor, Ozriath's, well met." Grumbling half to himself, half to who knows who, Z'bor shifts in his seat, facial features wincing when water squelches in his boots. That really is the worst feeling ever, wet socks in wet boots, ick. "I swear to Faranth the sky is taking a huge piss on us and laughing…at least it isn't snow…" Because then, then the green riding shy man would be nowhere in sight.

"There's that," R'zel agrees, then squirms to bring his shoulder in contact with the trickle of water that's making its way towards his neck. "Though I reckon today's weather's about the most annoying thing - a real pain to fly in and not quite bad enough to guarantee to wash out a whole Threadfall. The visibility was dreadful. Good job the dragons manage better than we do. Vero doesn't really seem to mind it at all." He raises his mug to his lips with both hands.

Z'bor rolls his eyes. "Tell me about it, Oz almost couldn't hack it, she doesn't mind the rain but she's small, there's only so much we can do in this." And it's true too, Ozriath verges n being almost too small for her very lengthy rider. "Me, I'd rather be surfing somewhere sunny, if I'm to be completely honest." In fact, he might just make a trip home to Ista soon, at least there he'll have sunshine…maybe. Ista gets these torrential storms too. At least he isn't up at the barrier hold, he'd die. Too damn cold.

"Surfing sounds fun. Having warm sea for most of the year is definitely one of the good things about this place." R'zel puts his mug down and turns to regard the water that's pooling under his jacket. He wrinkles his nose at it before continuing, "It sounds as if you're not keen on the cold, then? I grew up in places that are a lot cooler than we get here, so I'm quite glad it's not hot all year, and I don't mind a bit of snow occasionally." He chuckles. "Especially if I can leave when I've had enough of it. Will you be heading over to the Ice Festival at all? I'm hoping for some skating."

Z'bor nods. "Aye, most of the turn it's pleasant here, and I like it, but no, I'm not a huge fan of the cold." And that's the understatement of the turn. Z'bor downright loathes the cold. As to the fesival, Z'bor shakes his head. "No, not if I can help it. You all are more than welcome to go freeze your arses off, but mine is stayin' right here where I can park it at the beach or in front of a fire." most likely in fron tof the fire because he'll have his son and daughter to look after. After a moment, Z'bor actually notes the wingknot on R'zel's shoulder and grins, for the first time today probably. "So…is Ocelot mad at us Servals for stealing your field medic?" The question comes to mind after he thinks of Zariel, the daughter he shares with said field medic.

"Rielle? Good for her, I say. Though we lost one of our wingseconds to Siberian too: if we get many more transfers out, we might have to go hunting ourselves." R'zel's grinning by the last words of that: he's not serious. "Not that having a healer isn't handy when we're out doing the Search and Rescue stuff. Is Serval still flying sweeps near the volcano?"
Z'bor laughs. "I can see that, we have trouble keeping people in the higher ranks ourselves." It's been quite the turn or two for Serval, that's for sure, however, Z'bor can't help but grin at R'zel's good humor. As to still flying over the volcano, Z'bor nods. "Aye, not as frequently but we are. Certainly makes for easier feelings when we know we have a medic on hand now." Not that Z'bor hasn't been treated by Rielle before she became Serval's leader. "Where do they have your lot patrolling these days?"

"You must be glad to get someone permanent at last." R'zel says, laying down his mug and picking up his pastry. "And we're still round that area quite a bit, but not only there, of course - it's not as if the rest of the coverage area doesn't need its sweeps. We're still hoping for survivors, but really, by this stage…" He shakes his head. "But of course, we know now that there have been people in at least one other place, so we've got our eyes open for them, as well. We're looking for any signs of mining, or tracks that could be used for taking bulky goods to the sea."

Z'bor nods again. "Aye, it's nice to have a leader at the helm again, nice to have some direction rather rthan schedules posted and made by those who just barely have the time." And honesly, he'll be glad when their tour of the volcano ends, that had been a grisly and depressing sight if he'd ever seen one. "You'd think we'd have the bulk of the survivors by now?" He asks, nodding along to the rest. When his mug is empty, Z'bor makes do by pouring the last of his flask into the thing, too lazy at the moment to get a refill on tea.

"From round the place we went when it erupted?" R'zel gives small nods. "I should think so. We've not brought anyone new in for quite a while from there." He pauses to nibble at the end of his pastry. "But there's at least one mine that's somewhere quite different and wasn't affected by the eruption, and those people basically got dumped in the jungle and told to fend for themselves, give or take a few food parcels." This subject tends to get R'zel's mental wheels spinning. With a speculative frown on his face, he continues, "And I suppose it's possible that survivors tried to find those places, and maybe even did - I don't know if anyone's asked the miners that."

Z'bor hmms and looks thoughtful for a moment, brown eyes distant. "I suppose you could be right there, someone ought to ask about it. Seems like important information to have." Z'bor drinks, letting out a satisfied hiss as the whiskey makes an unadulterated fiery path to his stomach. Now there's some warmth, and maybe just a bit more liquid courage. Z'bor is definitely being more chatty than usual, but then again, he's always done better in one on one situations than in group ones. Saving thread. That is serious business and shyness is of no use there.

"I'll ask. I expect someone's thought of it, but you never know." R'zel's silent, thinking, for a moment, then snaps out of it and takes another bit of his pastry. "So, I've got free time until my afternoon sweep, for a wonder. I think I might see if I can get a bit of my woodworking project done." The pastry disappears in a couple more bites, and the klah follows. He eyes the state of his coat.

Z'bor nods. "Aye, I should go home m'self." Z'bor stands, downing the last of his drink, which had only been about a finger and a half to start with. He wonders idly if his weyrmate is home with their son yet. "It was nice meeting you R'zel, good luck staying dry today eh?" Z'bor ticks off another casual salute and gathers his things, flinching when the squelch in his boots begins again. "See you around." And with that, the green rider strides off. Squish-squelch, squish-squelch, squish-squelch.

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