Who

T'quil, Ulrika

What

T'quil wants to trade shirts and Ulrika takes him up on it.

Slightly backdated

When

-- On Pern --
It is 8:54 AM where you are.
It is midmorning of the thirteenth day of the eighth month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.
In Southern:
It is the forty-third day of Winter and 43 degrees. Partly cloudy, the storm seems to be mostly gone with only the occasional short falls of rain painting the ground.


Where

Southern Weyr, Weyrling Barracks

OOC Date 28 Mar 2019 04:00

 

t-quil_default.jpg ulrika_default.jpg

"And then, I love her dearly, but she's a green. What does that say about me?"


weyrling_barracks.jpg

Weyrling Barracks

Natural entropy lies restrained by sheer force of will within the chaotic spiral of Southern's weyrling-barracks. The large entry hollows out into an immense common area at the front of the barracks, where sustenance can be procured for both sides of the lifebond: tables are typically set out with at least the trimmings for sandwiches, and often carcasses lie in the hollowed pit for fresh weyrlings to carve chunks of meat for their new lifemates. Beyond, the couches are set within a U-shape around a long pool, spring-fed, large enough to bathe growing dragons.

Heavy tapestries line the stone walls towards the rear of the barracks, while space is at a premium towards the front: shelves and pegs hold leathers and tools, books and useful trinkets of the dragonriding trade. The narrow-point of the U branches into two hallways: one for the candidate barracks, and one for the weyrlingmaster's office.


Little dragons feeding, little dragons bathing, little dragons sleeping, little dragons being oiled, little dragons getting where they shouldn't - a normal morning in the weyrling barracks, in fact. For the lucky ones who managed to get their lifemates suitably organised, breakfast's over. Morning is wearing on. Tresquil is wearing a green shirt - or rather he was until Myrraith had a little accident with a bowl of meat and catapulted the contents all over him. Now she's having a post-prandial nap and he's taken the spotted garment off and put it to soak - healers know all about bloodstains - and he's shaking out his spare prior to putting it on. He eyes it with distaste. It is definitely green, as required by the weyrling uniform. It's also brand new and very bright. After a moment's thought, he holds it up and looks round the people near him, calculation written on his face. "I don't suppose anyone has one of these around my size that's faded, and would like to swap? This is fresh from Stores, but it really doesn't suit my colouring." There's a touch of over-acting about the last sentence.

For her part, Ulrika's in decent enough shape - and not just physically. She's plenty accustomed to running on less sleep than most and she's not only had her breakfast, but also a quick wash, change, and some exercise to boot. Not much, not enough, but it keeps her in that steady state to deal with, well, everything that is Theidith. The gold is half-drowsing in her cot, tail flicking absently while her weyrling rider is glancing in the direction of the oil like that might be a good idea for at least one of them. But then T'quil's request is caught and the tall blonde turns her attention more keenly to the green weyrling with an assessing look. "Aye, I might, but it might be somewhat long on you," she replies. The fresh shirt is bright, but- well, if anyone's unconcerned about fashion, it's Ulrika. "Though I reckon you could give it to one of the dragons and they'll make it any color but green, given half a chance, aye?"

"There's that," T'quil laughs. "And I suppose time will tone it down a bit, too. But I can cope with long better than lurid, if this one's not too short for you." She has four inches on him in height, so it's not surprising that this is a concern. The shirtless greenrider walks over to Ulrika, holding out the offending garment. "Will it fit? It's a good job they don't need clothes, the rate they're growing."

She studies the offered shirt and sucks her teeth a bit, then takes a half-step back - but only to peel off her own (clean! she just put it on!) shirt. "Aye, well, only way to find out, eh?" Fortunately, ULrika does have an undershirt on, so nothing wildly indecent is on display. She offers her shirt up while accepting the one that T'quil offered up. She tests the weight and feel of it with her fingers, then pauses to chuckle. "Aye, well. They will have straps, but- that's not until later, at least, when they're big - but not big. It'd be a right headache to try to fit them for anything now. How are you doing with your Myrraith?"

T'quil takes Ulrika's shirt in exchange for his own, and holds it up by the shoulders to inspect the size. It is suitably faded. He slips it on, fastens it and tugs at it to test for fit. It is indeed rather long, but not impossibly so - and truth to tell, his own was a little on the large side, too. "This is all right for me, if that one suits you." He smiles. He always seems to do that when talking about his dragon. "She's fine. A foot longer than when she hatched. I'm glad already that she's not going to be the size that yours will grow to." Which is not entirely an answer to the question asked, but anyway. "How's Theidith?"

The new shirt is a little shorter than Ulrika prefers, but it's sufficiently long enough to be tucked in and that will satisfy her for now. It's a bright green, sure, but that'll change soon enough. "Aye, it'll do right well," she replies after a final, testing tug of the fabric. T'quil's smile is mirrored with one of her own, a bit softer, perhaps, and maybe not so wide, but- it's there. Pleased. Though perhaps not as pleased when the answer doesn't quite match with the question. "Oh, aye. I reckon she'll be smaller than Wrayth by a bit," she says after a moment, "but nowhere near as easy to manage as yours or the others." Her brow furrows just a little. "Aye, well. She's doing well enough. Learning, as they do. Trying to help, even if her help isn't actually helpful as yet." She slides a look askance, "But. We're well. And how are you?" Maybe reshaping the question will get a better answer.

"Better for getting some sleep last night," Tresquil responds immediately, which is true enough. "And getting to grips with the talking-in-the-head thing rather better now." Also true: he struggled with that for quite a few days. There's a pause as he turns towards the sleeping green form. Then he says quietly, "Still trying to work out what's hit me. It's strange having to wait until she's asleep before I can really think about anything. When she's awake - well, you can't help loving them, can you? It's part of the package."

There's a nod for both sleep and the mindlink-thing; her look is one of pure understanding and sympathy, through and through. One corner of Ulrika's mouth hitches a bit, not quite a smile, but almost there. "Aye. Can't imagine a life without them, now that they're there, front and center." She chuckles. "But it's still hard to know where one ends and the other begins. Not being you again until they're sleeping or distracted." She's silent for a beat, then, in that same hushed tone, "Do you find yourself saying what she's thinking? Or- just-" she trails off, struggling with the words. It's just too big of a thing and she's not exactly a Harper. "You know what I mean, right?"

T'quil nods slowly. He does know, more or less. He works out his answer as he goes along, step by step. "Not that exactly, or not much. But sometimes I'm talking to someone and she says something and I answer her out loud still- not because I can't do it in my mind any more, but it's as if she was joining in the conversation and everyone could hear her - but they can't. She just tosses things in - and sometimes I'm going from A to B, and she's already at C, and I don't know how I got there. And then I say it to whoever I'm speaking to and probably sound crazed. Does that make sense?"

"Aye, aye, that's exactly as it is," Ulrika's quick to agree with that; T'quil's wording is, thankfully, much clearer than her own thoughts. She does keep her tone low, lest she rouse any of the other slumbering souls nearby, but she's relieved at least, that the man understands. "That's probably part of why they keep us so separated from the rest of the Weyr, aye? We're all muddling through it together and the rest of the Weyrfolk are apt to look at us as if we're all just… addled. Riders understand, but the rest…" She shakes her head a little as if to clear it. "I've heard as they'll project dreams, too," just in case T'quil needed that extra thing to think about. "At least until they figure out their 'indoor' voice." She hopes.

"Oh. Wonderful. Ours or theirs?" Tresquil sounds uncomfortable at that prospect. "Quite possibly both, I suppose. Let's hope they outgrow that very soon. Especially as they're also worse gossips than a hold full of Aunties. I suspect secrets are going to be a thing of the past for a while, and keeping one's personal affairs personal…." He does up the remaining buttons on the newly acquired (and tastefully faded) shirt, and tucks it into his trousers.

"Both, I think," though Ulrika's nose wrinkles some at the prospect. "Bad enough that I don't have stories fit to tell a young dragon. Now I've my dreams to worry about, too." She nods to T'quil, understandingly; his discomfort is definitely a shared one on that score. "Aye, hopefully soon, but I have a feeling that our days of having personal affairs are all but over now, regardless." Even when they're older, who knows what shenanigans dragons will get up to? What they'll share? It's shiver-worthy and the blonde sets to buttoning her shirt up. The shiver returns, though, turning into a tightness that works down her side. "… I just oiled you. How are you itching again." Muttered.

"It's the growing that does it, I think. Myrraith sometimes feels as if-" Now it's T'quil who's at a loss for words. "As if something's happening in her skin. Hide. But it's just getting a little dry. At least that's easy to solve." Reverting to the previous topic. "Yes, I wondered about the various regulations at first. Now I see the sense of them. Most of them, anyway. The uniform is hard to excuse - why on Pern did they choose a colour that almost everyone on the planet thinks is unlucky?"

There's a slight grunt for that and a nod, as the former guard rubs along her shoulder and side to ease the itch a bit. "Something like that. My brothers had frightful growing pains in their youth and it's probably more like that than not." But, fortunately, it is easily solved, as he said. "Do you reckon it's an unlucky color, though? Really? You don't seem too much the supersitious type, T'quil." The topic shift comes as she starts to move away - but only long enough to get some oil and a cloth. Theidith is still sleeping and isn't too uncomfortable, but best to be ready. "I'm not one of those as believes in that kind of superstition, so- I don't understand how it's unlucky. It's a color."

T'quil shrugs, a little embarrassed. "I don't, really. It just feels as if we're going to need all the help we can get, and that includes how people see us. I wonder where that came from. Green dragons being… the smallest, maybe?" Myrraith rolls over on her couch and lets out a long sigh. He turns to watch her for a couple of seconds, but she's not waking yet.

"Nothing wrong with it if you are, but," Ulrika shrugs, a slow roll of shoulders that comes with a faint pop in one of them. "It seems to me that people get so worried about things being unlucky or ominous that they lose sight of what's really important. Kind of like worrying over not being able to sleep and keeping yourself from sleeping because of it." But as to the origin of it? She furrows her brow a bit. "Someone must know. Maybe a Harper. Could just be plants, too? They're green and tend to be trouble, if there's too much." Theidith, thank Faranth, is still sleeping like a rock, save for that periodic flick of tail.

"We'd be in trouble without them," T'quil chuckles. "No salad, no green vegetables - we'd all be sick from lack of nutrients and fibre, to say nothing of constipated." Spot the healer. "Heh. I want to know that now. But I doubt I'll be near the library any time soon." Falling silent, he checks on Myrraith again, then looks over at Theidith. "Did you expect - well, her?" A gold, he means. "I mean, I don't suppose anyone can safely expect to Impress at all, but when you thought about what would happen if you did, what did you think it would be?"

"Eating's one thing," the blonde replies with a chuckle. "But when you've miles of green just inviting Thread to come eat it all, that's another." Ulrika sucks her teeth some, though, and nods, "Soon enough, though. They can't keep us in here forever." Even if it feels like they will be. Having spent so much time together already, crammed in as candidates, it likely feels like this is just how life is now. The question catches Ulrika askance and she sucks in a breath, only to let it out slowly. "No. Not in a hundred-hundred turns," she replies slowly. "If I was the betting type, I'd have put marks on brown or green, in truth." Her expression shifts to something unreadable and she shakes her head. "Not that I'd change her, not at all. But." She shrugs, leaving that thought to hang a bit before she stitches it in with, "And you? Gone from not knowing a thing of Weyrs to- her. She really is a fine one. Is she what you reckoned on?"

T'quil shakes his head. "I suspect I'm going to be learning all about Weyrs rather quickly now. But no, I didn't expect to Impress. We've not had many dragonriders in our bloodline - oh, there was a goldrider way back in the Ninth Pass who's something of a family legend, but I don't have any close kin who are dragonriders. And everyone says that hatchlings are put off by the wrong kind of thoughts, and I really wasn't sure…." He pauses for an instant, but ploughs on. "And then, I love her dearly, but she's a green. What does that say about me?"

"You'll learn quickly, aye. You're smart and clever," Ulrika observes. "And for all that you might have been uncertain, she must have seen past all that to see what's up here," she reached up, a finger aimed to tap T'quil's forehead, "and here," that finger drops to touch his chest, just over his heart, if he'll allow it. But that question, that question just firms up her posture and her expression. "It just means she liked you best out of all those two hundred others. That's all it means, T'quil." There's a moment of consideration, then a wry pull of her mouth to a side as she adds, "And I reckon you'll learn more about Weyrlife than you wanted to, too, when she's older."

T'quil looks at Ulrika for several seconds, natural reticence warring with the strange fact that he trusts this woman. "That… doesn't fill me with enthusiasm," he admits. "And my parents haven't even answered my letter, which I'm rather afraid shows what /they/ think about it. South Telgar's a rather traditional Hold. My fath-" But what T'quil's father might or might not think will have to wait. He flexes his shoulder-blades even as he turns back towards Myrraith. She's rousing, and inevitably, she's itching. "Sorry, oil time. Thanks for the shirt." And with that he's hurrying back towards the green's couch.

The blonde's jaw tenses for a moment, as if prepared to say something more, to offer something else, but the tightness in her side and shoulder returns and she utters a low-pitched Istan swear of a particularly colorful flavor. Ulrika blows out a breath and promises only, "Aye, well. If you want to talk later-" but whether he hears or not in his haste? It's hard to say. She adds, "You're welcome," for the shirt, that is and then she's stepping away herself, to take oil to Theidith and tend to her lifemate's hide before it drives her mad.

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