Trek, T'ral


T'ral tracks Trek trying to talk about (Alliteration FAIL) his behavior earlier. The exchange is unexpectedly cordial.


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


Igen Weyr

OOC Date


trek04.jpg t-ral_default.jpg



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 seventh day of Spring and 58 degrees. It is bright and sunny. The only evidence of the overnight storm is in the lingering mud puddles.

As the afternoon has worn on, the temperature has risen slightly, though the ground is still a little damp from it's overnight drenching. At this point, though, even that is starting to evaporate into the desert air. Trek is just in the process of scraping some of that lingering damp ground off her boot, with the looped mass of her dragon's straps swinging heavily from her shoulder. Said dragon is high above the pens, his yellow-tipped deep blue distinctive against the bright sky as he circles.

A star-dusted blue lands close by. Small, even for a Nowtimer dragon, but heavily muscled and full of youthful scrap. He backwings facing away from the Wingleader, so as not to blast or blow mud, mist or spray. The blue's rider unclips and checks straps astride. Slips down, runs hands over harness, checking straps from below as well, then thumps the stock blue on his chest and turns towards Trek. The dragon ambles over to a rocky perch and gives a wing-assisted hop up to a tall outcropping on which he can perch, folding with a rumble as he settles. The young man is T'ral. Southern wingrider who'd made such a grand show of his Weyr's dignity earlier. The direct line of approach, he's not here to ogle herdbeasts. Right up to Trek. A sharp presentation, not a thread or stitch out of place. Some mud on the boots, but fresh at least. Dark eyes are earnest, chagrined, but mostly business as eyecontact is made and the young man offers a snappy salute, "Afternoon, Ma'am. May I have a moment of your time?"

What's a couple meters between blues? Kanyith doesn't seem to mind, as he sends a politely verbose greeting to the visiting blue. Trek doesn't seem to mind, as she gets her first up-close-and-personal look at Esanth. "He has nice lines," she comments first, nodding her head toward the blue before returning the salute with something more relaxed, but still professional. Once she lowers her hand again, she kicks her boot against the fence to dislodge the last of the stubborn muck, then gives T'ral her full attention. "Absolutely. I'm here until Mister Pickyth chooses a meal, so don't worry, I have tons of time."

Esanth lifts his head to rumble-bugle a grinding, gravelly response to Kanyith. T'ral settles into an at ease posture, feet apart, hands folded behind his back at the base of his spine, posture upright. He manages to look both proper and, actually, comfortable. He turns his head, just his head, to glance at the settling blue, "Thank you, Ma'am. He's quite a flyer." If T'ral does say so himself. He looks up, noting Kanyith's lean lines and yellow points and back down. He squints, "Same of yours, Ma'am. He looks quick." Not fast. Quick. Fast was just velocity. Quick was velocity and reaction times. The corner of T'ral's mouth twitches at Trek's nickname for her 'mate at mealtime. "I apologize, Ma'am. For my behavior earlier. It was unbecoming and a poor example to Candidates. And a poor showing of my Weyr," Southern, "and Craft," Dragonhealing.

Trek grins her agreement for the "quick" and glances up toward Kanyith, who seems to be honing in on a particular herdbeast, a scrawny looking heifer who has not yet discerned her fate. She turns back to T'ral when he begins to apologize and waits until he's finished. "It was," she says simply, though there's no malice in it. She turns to lean backward against the fence just as her blue makes his move. The last memory of the doomed herdbeast was how good that little bit of brush tasted, and maybe that she was still hungry. Trek can't help but smile at the efficiency of the kill, though she turns her head forward rather than watch the rest. Once you've seen one … . "I appreciate the apology, though. Forgiven, provided there's no repeat performance. I meant what I said. Candidacy is hard enough, but now there's a gold on those sands, our female candidates have an especially hard time of it. More questions. Fewer answers. Expectations both real and imagined."

T'ral shifts minutely. It wasn't comfortable calling yourself out. Or having your poor behavior acknowledged, however malice-less. And even forgiveness is a healthy mix of relief and discomfort. At ease doesn't look so at ease any more. Kanyith stoops, "Permission to speak candidly, Ma'am." Dead herdbeast. T'ral can't help but feel a little kinship with the critter, except more like if the herdbeast went up and headbutted the hungry dragon on the snout first.

At least Kanyith isn't a messy eater. His feasting is as efficient as his killing, and there is a method to it that speaks of organized thought. He just might be sharing some of those thoughts with Esanth, in his usual colorful prose, but the readers here will be spared. Trek doesn't bother hiding her amusement when T'ral asks permission to speak, and her eyes twinkle softly as she nods to him, grinning. "By all means, please do. I prefer candid speak to just about any other kind."

Esanth croons a low creaking sound of admiration at Kanyith's efficiency. "I'd like your permission," Since she's the one denying him and all, "for me to speak with, or ask to speak with Prymelia now, during Candidacy, Ma'am." He swallows, jaw bunching, "Prymelia means rather a lot to me," understatement, "And should she Impress, seeing her will be off the table for," he looks bleak, and sighs, "Rather a long time. And with good reason." He blinks, "There are things she should know that will, hopefully, ease her mind. Heart." And his. A look of pure frustration flickers across his face. He scrubs a hand across his eyes and brow schooling his expression to neutrality, hand returning to it's folded catch behind his back. There's more, but the Wingleader may not need all the bloody details. Just like the readers.

Trek narrows her eyes slightly to give T'ral a speculative look, though whatever her speculation determines, she keeps to herself. There's a glance back toward Kanyith, but only for a brief visual check, then she turns back to the other rider. "You don't really need my permission, T'ral. My authority in this matter is pretty limited." To say the least. She hooks her boot heel against the fence and considers him for a moment longer before she continues. "Beyond that, I'll return your candid with my own. Don't put yourself above the Weyr. And maybe it's grandiose to say it, but above Pern. You've seen Thread now. You know what we're all up against. There aren't candidate rules so we can lord it over them. The rules are there to protect them, and to ensure as best we can that they make it safe and sound to the hatching. Safe and sound physically, mentally, emotionally." That last comes with a rather sharper look. "So. If you have things you feel you absolutely must tell her, do it now. Give her time to process whatever that is so she can move on to processing what's to come."

"I do, Ma'am, because you ordered me off." Chased him off, "Doing anything counter to what you ordered is insubordination. Unless the order is rescinded." Arguably he's still risking insubordination here. But… the right way, this time. Sorta? "No, Ma'am, I don't intend to put myself over anyone. Or Pern…?" His brow furrows, "Uh, what is it, exactly, that you think I intend to do, if I may ask, Ma'am? Because I didn't plan on breaking any rules." His brow further furrows, "Unless they're altogether different here." He dips his head, nodding at 'do it now,' "I want to speak with her before there's any egg-touching for sure." That mystical threshhold. "I suppose I could say what needs said by letter…" he blinks down at the ground, "But…" that's pale and lame and he hasn't seen her in near enough to forever. "That seems insufficient." Understatement.

Trek laughs softly and turns away, looking instead down the length of the fence. "You're a very literal person, T'ral," she muses before turning back to him. "Last I checked, you're not from my Weyr, much less my wing. If you want to go literal chain-of-command, you're looking at Q'fex. And Q'fex goes to W'rin, or vice versa. I have to admit, I'm getting a kick out of how much authority you're giving me." She winks quickly to softly the blow, then waves a hand. "Please stop with the guard stuff, or whatever it is you're doing. We're just riders. Just talking. What I said earlier was all about the candidate in question. I get this… y'know. Protective streak," she adds, shrugging. "Maybe she'll find a little gold lifemate someday, and if so, she's a curiosity. But if she doesn't, she might find some other lifemate, in which case she'd be joining a very small and still rather downtrodden group in this world." She regards him for a couple silent seconds, then smiles. "Anyway, I believe the only thing I actually told you to do was to not add to her worries and burdens. If you do plan to add to them, then yeah, I'm going to stand by what I said before."

"Harper training, Ma'am. Words are important." As are their intentions. He relaxes a little, shrugging shoulders to ease tension, but more or less, keeping the same posture, though now it's a bit more contra posto than parade rest. "I've put my foot wrong enough times to be careful about where I step and how, Ma'am." Except for when I'm a stammering idiot. He flicks a glance at that waved hand and steps up to the fence alongside the bluerider. They're just blueriders. He's still not gonna lean or totally come off his propriety. It's a comfort. "I'd be a fool to do anything else than treat you with the respect and regard I'd give my own or any other Wingleader." He arches a brow, looking askance at Trek. Because, refute that. It's WAY too informal (and, frankly rude) to risk calling out Igen's notorious prickliness, nor it's -ahem- poor treatment of non-natives. Oldtimers WAY included. AND it's poor treatment of even natives. It's Igen for pity's sake. "A curiosity? Ma'am? Care to elaborate?" She has a protective streak? "I'd thrash anyone who hurt her. That Largo…" T'ral's eyes narrow. "If I didn't think Prymelia was more than capable of setting him straight, I'd have-" he shrugs, pursing his lips with a wry look at Trek, "I'd have reported it to the Appropriate Personages. Because it's not my Weyr." Silence. "I'm glad there are people like you looking out for them. For her."

Trek's expression is far too casual as she arches a brow regarding the "Appropriate Personages", but it's followed by another grin. "And I'm not the only one. Rest easy, T'ral. Your dear Prymelia and all the other candidates are under very good care. And you should be happy there are folks like me at Igen," she adds, winking again. "Gold egg or no gold egg, every female candidate at Igen is going to get more of a fighting chance than in the last four-hundred Turns. I'd throw myself in front of a runaway wagon to see it done." That brings a snort of disagreement from Kanyith, who has been busy with the very last tidbits of felled 'beast. The navy blue dragon gives Esanth a low rumble, this time sparing him any monologues, then approaches the riders with a dancer's gait. "All right. That's the end of my duties to Kanyith's stomach, and now it's his turn to get to my own. Clear skies, T'ral. You'll figure it out, I have no doubt." She slips through the gap in the fence, riding straps in tow, and begins putting them back on the blue's shoulders with practiced ease. There is a last salute toward the fellow bluerider, a last tail flick from Kanyith, then they're airborne and winging back toward the Weyr Proper. And there might be a little bit of a barrel roll, as if to prove trouble that "quickness" mentioned earlier.

T'ral nods. He knows. Kyara, for one. But… it's Igen. "Uh, I know your name, but we haven't actually met, Ma'am." He hesitates before sticking out a hand, "T'ral," he tosses his head, "Esanth's." Esanth rumbles. At Kanyith, at Trek. He salutes, a little less formal, but no less respectful, watching the blue pair wing away, smiling at the acrobatic show. Esanth blats creaky approval and hops down the rocks to T'ral. Hand on the straps, the bluerider imagines Prymelia at her chores, saluting, dealing with the myriad shenanigans of Candidacy. He presses down a flutter of nerves, "Igen. I hope you're ready."

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