Who

Chelsa, T'ral | Esanth

What

Chelsa and T'ral cross paths at the Pens — the two finally get to have a proper introduction.

When

It is evening of the tenth day of the second month of the ninth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Igen Weyr

OOC Date 08 Oct 2016 07:00

 

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"It's so much easier to sew a dress than think about sewing up living skin."


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Pens

Here thar be pens, in a variety of shapes and sizes fit for all manner of beastie. The largest pens are those housing plump herdbeast for human or draconic consumption. A few of the smaller pens are unoccupied, though there are remnants of their former occupants still evident on ground and fence. The actual pens themselves are made of wood, stick, nail and twine. It's a slap-shod sort of place, kept together by dreams and good luck to hold fast against the winds. In each pen there are troughs for feed and water, and they appear again by the stableside.

It is the fortieth day of Winter and 34 degrees. It is a clear night.


It's a chilly afternoon, and Chelsa has spent most of it mucking out the stables and pens. She smells pretty fragrant at this point, but she's still outside and there's a bit of a breeze, so she's not running off to the baths just yet. She is leaning on a section of fence, watching the herdbeasts milling around—dead cows walking. Occasionally she looks up towards the sky to see if any dragons are going to drop down for a meal. Yup, she's waiting for a show.

A blue dragon wings into view overhead, there's a hitch in the sweep of powerful wings and a grunt as he stalls and drops, missing his mark by a small margin — what would have been a clean and quick kill sends the 'beast fleeing, bleeding, bawling in fear. Other herdbeasts hustle away, lowing anxiously while the blue bellowing a cry leaps and crushes his target with a wet, gruesome sound. The bawling cuts off. Cue the entrance of a man in rider leathers, deep charcoal gray, a match for the sullen sky, his face wrapped in hood and headscarf, but features revealed, tight and tense against the cold. He raises a gloved hand to the young woman bundled against the cold as he approaches the fenceline. Igen's winter does not make for chipper greetings. Breath plumes away in white streams torn by wind.

Chelsa ducks down behind a fence post as the blue drops from the sky, though her eyes are glued to the action as she watches between the rails. She grimaces and grips the fencerail tightly the dragon makes a meal of the creature. She doesn't even realize the rider has joined her for a few moments, until she comes out from "hiding." She grins at the man. "I thought he would have made a cleaner kill. Was that by accident, or was he playing with it?" A belated salute… she is really bad at remembering to do that.

The rider folds hands behind his back a sort of parade rest as he watches the grim display. He doesn't see the humor and makes no answering grin, saying only a terse, "He's injured. Hoping he'll be fit for Thread at Lost Hold in a few days." Flat lips and a slight shake of his head bespeak T'ral's thoughts on that prospect. There's a twitch of amusement at the belated salute and the bluerider straigtens and delivers his own, crisp as the air. He squints at her, "You look familiar. Have you been through the 'yard with the other Candidates?" Dark eyes fix on Chelsa, scanning her toes to temples.

Chelsa does have her knot visible (there's probably some regulation on it), but her dirty coat and work clothes are pretty nondescript. She has on a brightly colored knit hat (very fashionable at High Reaches), and her brown hair peeks out from underneath. She steps away from the fence to get a better look at the rider. "Oh, hey. You're T'ral. I saw your teething kid the other day. Some old guy was taking him for a walk." That would be Renalde, who didn't introduce himself. She lifts her chin, like that will make her more recognizable. "Chelsa, remember? We did meet a while back." A glance over at the blue. "How did he get hurt?"

T'ral tips his head, "Calder. And that 'old guy' was my father. Renalde." He clears his throat, both amused and saddened by that descriptor. "Chelsa — yes!" He stiffens briefly, "Chelsa from High Reaches." Details are clicking into place. "Are you M'noq's Chelsa by chance?" The bluerider's eyes track out to where Esanth is mantling over his kill and faint squelching and crunching noises can be heard. And a low rumbling from time to time. "Threadfall. He took a score high on his neck. Any further up it could have taken his jaw." That would probably would have been bad. "We were lucky." He turns attention back to Chelsa, "Have you been to the dragonhealer's yard?"

Mischief is evident in her smile and half-shrug. "Minoq follows me, even here! I remember you because he told me to find you if I needed anything." Maybe that would be news to T'ral, but Chelsa seems to be a self-sufficient type. She winces as he tells her about the injury, and she looks over at the blue again, to see if she can see the spot on his neck. "That sounds awful. Is it bad that I feel so squeamish about it? Like, actually getting struck by Thread seems awful." She does seem to be okay with herdbeasts being torn apart, though. "No, I haven't been there. I imagine there's some kind of chore rotation there."

"As a good brother should." T'ral speaks as if from experience, though perhaps just observation. "Did he? Well, please do. He's got a good head on his shoulders." Dark eyes cut to Chelsa as she peers out. "It's on his left side. When he dips his wing, you'll see it." The blue does just that not too long after T'ral says it. Forelimb pinning the carcass while he rends with neck bowed. The bluerider's eyes narrow, teeth clenching. He gives his head that little shake again. "'Bad?' No. But being squeamish is a luxury should you Impress." He nods, "There is. I've not got as many shifts there as I had, but if you get assigned there, ask for me."

Chelsa smirks at T'ral's comments on her brother, though she nods. "His Ravaith is probably a good influence," she allows. She watches the blue until she sees the score, and again she winces, looking away. "It's so much easier to sew a dress than think about sewing up living skin. I wouldn't make much of a healer." She gives the man a cautious, side-long look. "All right, I'll ask for you, though I don't think I'll be very good at much there." She feels a little bad admitting this, because of all the assigned duties she might suck at, this one would actually might be important to her future.

"Likely. They do bring out our better qualities." T'ral's face grows fond looking out at stardust blue, the scars and specks on his hide a constellation of his determination. Like the stars, they will wheel again into view, in time. "Much easier. Cloth doesn't breathe. Well." He laughs, "It breathes, but," he shakes his head emphatically, "Not in the same way." It's a sympathetic nod T'ral gives Chelsa, "You'll be fine. It's easier when you've a lifemate, too. So the infirmary before and the infirmary after are very different experiences." It's offered as encouragement by the tone. Maybe that will bolster her a bit? Esanth has finished his repast and is scenting the air, blood-smeared maw lifted, nostrils flaring. He will hunt again. "He's going to be a while. Walk you back?"

Chelsa flashes a smile. "More like, cloth doesn't complain. I mean, I've jabbed a needle through my own finger a bunch of times, but I've never had to do a running stitch to keep someone's skin together. It doesn't seem like it would be easier, just the situation would be more desperate." It kind of creeps her out, just imagining it. She gives one last look towards Esanth before nodding to T'ral. She's starting to feel a chill standing out here, and heading in for something hot to drink would be good. "Sure, thanks. My brother said you were good to go to for advice. He probably always needed a ton of it!"

"M'noq?" T'ral falls into an easy gait, boots gritting in the sand and gravel of the trail. He lifts his head considering the young brownrider and the advice he'd needed. He laughs, "Not a ton. Your brother's got a good head on his shoulders." And a good heart. "His dragon is aces." The bluerider cants a smile at the candidate as they pace along. His face sobers. A moment passes. "I heard about H'nziq and Orrenieth." He swallows, "I can't imagine how hard that is." T'ral's father yet lives. It sets an ache in his heart to recall his father's last visit, the winces and wobbles that weren't there even a few Turns ago. "I know that he wasn't a… kind man, particularly, but you have my condolences." With that offering made, T'ral turns the conversation to the strange work-a-day life of a Candidate. Commiserations. Tips. "Good luck, Chelsa." It pains him to see one so young stepping up. And just a slip of a girl. "I hope you get what you want." He taps his chest and the two part ways to separate duties.

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