“Damn.”

It’s not the first time the word has left Volion’s mouth since he spotted the steep-walled cone of Igen Weyr looming beyond the winding road of the pass. There’s been some more colorful vocabulary, too, but mostly for his own ineptitude in steering his runner along the narrower parts of the trail as he’s stared at his destination. Now, however…he’s inside it, the sandy expanse of the Central Bowl flung out before him in the hard light of the Autumn afternoon, the sky at this altitude such an impossible depth of blue compared to the myriad shades of rust and gold and brown that define his new posting.

People clad in the loose, flowing fabrics that make the desert region’s garb so unique mill along the packed-earth trails that vein the ground – near and far, coming and going, with and without various burdens. Some are in the company of runners, canines, and the like, and little glints and sparkles of darting color wheeling overhead – firelizards – create an almost festive scene above it all.

Still, beyond all of that, there are the denizens of this nearly foreign world, awe-inspiring and always owed – the dragons. As he watches, a small wedge formation full of them blinks in from ::between:: high above. Others – singly or with riders aboard – glide across the Weyr’s lower airspace on short trips to the Lake or other destinations beyond seeing. One – a brown – even lands a few lengths away as they go along, depositing two people near the doors to what Volion assumes is the Living Cavern before springing back into the sky on business of his own. The big Smith’s runner’s ears twitch, turn, and flatten a bit at that, and he reaches out to run a soothing hand along the grey-furred beast’s neck.

“You ever been to a Weyr before, sir?”

Volion tears his eyes away from the spectacle of everyday Weyr life to look at the sandy-haired young man riding to his right and shakes his head. “Nah. Ridden with R’gil outta the Hold to get places over the turns, but never been to any of the Weyrs.”

“Why not?”

With a snort, Volion directs his mount alongside one of the tracks to the east, almost belatedly remembering to follow the directions given him at the entrance. He gestures out across the Bowl with his left hand, letting his head go on a swivel once again. “You kiddin’? Look at it. Not much call for an architect to work on a shardin’ mountain. Been standin’ on it’s own since before we were walkin’ here. Plus the Hall’s always had decent Smiths posted out at the Weyrs.”

The apprentice quirks a brow above curious green eyes as he follows his Journeyman’s lead, puzzled. “But…not here?”

Massive shoulders shrug eloquently, though there’s an element to the whole tale of Igen Weyr that’s been perpetuated in the world beyond that’s always confused him. “Guess not. Igen’s always been at the ass end of everyone’s jokes out there, but with the Pass goin’, disrespecting our protection isn’t exactly the wisest thing to do, y’know? Maybe Eldain didn’t wanna waste good people in the desert, or didn’t think they needed one of me out here…look at that.”

To the west, a forlorn tumble of what looks to be the remnants of an old cave entrance sits, sad and defunct and useless, cordoned off haphazardly by splintering boards. “Heard about the old caverns,” he muses. “Been like that for a few centuries. Dunno why the Weyrleaders never thought to ask for help with it.”

“Maybe they did,” the younger man speculates carefully. “Maybe…no one listened?”

Volion gives a quick head-tilt of concession. “Could be.” Facing forward again, he leads them toward the end of the path that turns beyond a few sandstone facades to join the heavier foot traffic of a populated area. “Doesn’t matter. We’re here now, and we’ve got work to do. No Weyr deserves to have to put up with shit like that when they’re keepin’ Thread off our heads.”

Turning the bend into Igen’s Bazaar is like entering another world entirely compared to the Bowl behind them. Almost a self-contained Hold, the place is comparatively vibrant with color, close and loud with an earthier brand of life. Merchants call out advertisements for various wares – some pleading, some earnest, some too good to be true. Customers amble along largely at their leisure, stopping to peruse the open stalls or lay down an eighth mark for a bit of food and drink. Guards amble along the periphery on patrol, children duck and careen below the elbows of their elders (perhaps with a purloined pouch or two lifted as they go, if Volion is any judge). There’s a familiarity here for the new arrivals – not the open bustle of everyday life at Telgar Hold and the Smithcraft Hall, but close.

Tugging on the reins, Volion brings them to a momentary halt and slides off the saddle, opting to lead them on foot through the crowd as they continue on toward the Crafter’s complex. His gaze moves beyond the people and colorful culture now, scanning the stone shop faces and aged walls of the buildings that shape the shops and abodes. “Hey, Colev,” he calls back to his apprentice, “most common building materials and methods in the Igen region. Go.”

Colev, far more easily distracted by his new surroundings, drops his chin to look ahead, blinking. “Uh…is this a test, sir?”

“Yep.”

“Uhm…” He should be used to Volion giving pop quizzes by now. Tucking his chin to concentrate on placing his feet where they won’t get stepped on by a hoof as he leads his mount a bit closer, he mentally sorts through his most recent studies and hopes nothing slipped between the cracks. “Most common materials at hand are…sandstone, sand, and desert plants. Sandstone is- hup!” A toe catches on a slightly jutting stone, bobbling his steps a bit. He recovers quickly, but can’t help reddening in embarrassment. Latching quickly back onto the topic at hand, he goes on less haltingly. “Sandstone is easy to work, absorbent, and weather-resistant, but also more susceptible to erosion because it’s soft.” Oddly enough. “In Igen it’s more friable at higher altitudes and better for building, but harder to transport. Mud bricks are easier to carry, less labor-intensive, and cheaper. Half sand, a large quarter of clay, small quarter of straw, loam, whatever grows out here…"

"And shit," Volion adds, perfectly deadpan as he steps around a small mound of - aptly enough - dried runner patty. "Don't forget the shit. Mostly from runners or herdbeasts." It really helps in some places.

"…Yeah. That too." Behold, one of the facts that slipped down the cracks - perhaps on purpose. Colev wrinkles his nose and carries on. "Anyway, it's all mixed with water, packed into molds, dried in the sun. Most holdings in the area coat mud brick walls with stucco made of sand, cement, lime, and water, sometimes with plant fibers or runner hair mixed in for flexibility.”

“Oughta make you trip over your own feet more often.” Thus is Volion’s approval pronounced for the moment. Stopping them before a slanting set of steps that zigzags a few times up to a wide door in a wall coated over with a crackled example of that exact substance, he stretches the ride out of his burly frame and tosses his hand upward at the looming terrace. “What do you see?”

Colev squints up at the edifice, rubbing his neck and then stretching his arms behind him. “Mud brick here, sandstone up there…and cracks.” He frowns a bit. “Sort of…recent repairs, I think, but not all that well done…”

“Eh. It’s passable work,” Volion cuts in, a knowing half-smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth as he watches his apprentice’s scrutiny.

“But not Craft work.” He turns to look at the other nearby buildings, seeming to ignore his Journeyman’s chuckle. “It’s…all over the place here.” Finally, he looks back to Volion, remembrance dawning across lightly freckled features. “The quakes from a few Turns ago. They weren’t ready. The damage was worse out there…”

“But I need somewhere to start before introducing my improvements on a wider scale. And this…” Volion’s hands flip over to gesture around him as he takes one more look at the sprawl of his new playground, “…is perfect.”

He thumps the nearby girth of a hitching post with one booted foot and, seemingly satisfied with the structural integrity, whips his runner’s reins around it before relieving the beast of a few obviously weighty saddlebags. Slinging one over his shoulder and strong-arming the other, he starts toward the steps. Colev blinks after him a moment before following suit. “We’re stopping here?”

“This is the Craft complex, deadglow,” the brawny Smith drawls back as he starts his ascent, a subtle undercurrent of fondness present despite the insult. “Home. For now.”

The apprentice pauses in the midst of untying a satchel from his own saddle, eyeing the imposing rise of stucco-coated steps to the mud brick façade and the sandstone terraces pocked with abodes above and beyond it. Suddenly aware of the scale of where he is and the size of what Senior Journeyman Volion hopes to accomplish, he lets out a steadying gust of a sigh. There’s a lot to consider. A lot to say. But for now, the best he can do is echo Volion’s earlier sentiment.

“Damn.”

For his part, Volion is already comfortable, the atmosphere of Igen Weyr one of challenge and hard-won victories amidst near-constant strife that resonates deep in his blood. It’s something he thrives in. At the moment, however, he can’t help but agree with his apprentice, grinning on his way up the steps to the door. He’s got some bigwigs to talk to and a lot of plans to lay out.

Bring it on.