Who

Threvobek, Sidonie

What

Threvobek visits his old haunt and there's a surprise in store.

When
Where

Stables

OOC Date 12 Sep 2014 07:00

 

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Stables

The powerful odor of hot runner lies heavy in the air here, and even the relative open of the stable design - roomy stalls, lofty arches, this is incongruously one of the best designed buildings in the entire Weyr, legacy of a long-ago Weyrleader of Herder origins - cannot altogether dispel the stink of Animal. The Stables serve for the Weyr's population of runners, and house a small menagerie of other creatures. Avians, caprines and porcines all have their homes here, and all add to the earthy feel of the place.


Transients take up a large portion of the stalls, runnerbeasts that'll be gone once their riders have reached their objective at the Weyr, be it clutch-oogling or trading. Threvobek is on no one's time but his own; having completed his candidate responsibilities for the moment he's picking up conversations with the stablehands they didn't finish the sevenday prior and bartering new ones. Stablemaster Ulmaren is visiting Igen Hold but the area does not fall apart or slip into anarchy at his absence. Threvobek is eyeing one of the few Weyr milk cows ready to freshen in a month or less. She's huge. And getting her long jaw rubbed by the young man.

Heartless War, a mare of special beauty, is one of said transients, nestled in the stall daily by one Herder journeyman who traverses to the Weyr from the deserts beyond the Weyr proper. On this such fine autumn afternoon, Sidonie slips from the warm glare of Rukbat's golden yellow light into the hushed shadows of the Stables, where the murmur of voices and the stamping snorts of runners is a musical piece to set palm to the Herder's ears. With a patterned scarf in shades of the desert wrapped around her head, little wisps of blond hair peeking out, the loose folds of a creamy tunic that ends at mid-thigh, and shapeless tan skirt-pants, the girl is obviously a much more traditional, nowtimer Igen-bred female. With intent toward her ride home (the runner), Sidonie neatly side steps a stable boy carrying two large pails of water which causes her to almost run into Threvobek and his milk cow. "Pardon me! My apologies!" Profusely spoken are her words.

Slight hump, big dewlap, the breed is desert-shaped and a common sight. Threvobek hosts the smallest of grins as he wonders if the calf will inherit his dam's dappling or the solid dun of his sire. It could surprise them all and be dappled dun. Only gambling on that outcome with himself, Threvobek plans on sweeping the walkway when he reaches for a broom and finds there's the sensation of cloth at his fingertips. And it's attached to a woman. He's polite about withdrawing his hand then is not so couth, "what're you doing in here?" Some of the water escapes the pail and he hears it hit the ground but doesn't look.

Luckily, Sidonie doesn't slip in the water that splashes across the ground when she nearly side-swipes the water ferrier. "I'm getting my runner," she answers immediately, eyes cast to the side though blue irises peek from beneath the fringe of pale lashes. Age is meaningless in terms of how one has been brought up to behave. A nervous intensity clings to the Herder like a second skin, one hand catching the edge of the stall when she scoots quickly out of Threvobek's personal space. "And I am a Journeyman Herder. Sometimes I am required to inspect the animals, though runners are my specialty, but the others — sometimes they need help." A deep breath is taken in as she finds steadiness in the verbal reminder of the necessity of her presence in this space. Gesturing to Heartless War's stall down the way, voice is but a bare, light whisper, "My ride home."

The prevalent females in the stables give milk, meat, or eggs. Other varieties tend to leave as quickly as possible. Threvobek has his ass handed to him when she turns out to be a ranking stable presence, but lucky for the both of them Sidonie doesn't capitalize on the advantage. "So you're the girl everyone's talking about." 'Everyone' being stable grunts to seasoned handlers. He looks and acts from Igen, the Weyr more narrowly, and completes the initial decision to gather the broom. He scatters what little water was spilled away from the walkway's center. An insignificant move considering how quick it'll evaporate. "Ma'am." It pains him to, but he says the title with honed courtesy.

"I am?" Sidonie is painted in colors of startle: a flush to creamy cheeks, a widening of Azov-blue eyes, and the duck of her veiled head where slips of the fine-boned features of her face are seen in the slope of nose, bow of lips and point of chin hinted at beneath the scarf wrapped around. "I didn't realize…" Breathless nervousness returns, fingers tighten around the edge of the stall she grips, knuckles whitening as she channels her natural inclination of submissiveness to the tightness of muscle and bone of her hand. "I am Sidonie," she introduces, intensity of expression turned onto Threvobek, the force of will causing the young woman to hold the younger man's eyes for longer than five counts. "You are?" She dares to ask, the only whiff of rank that rolls off of the woman is in this question.

Before detaching from the bovine Threvobek reaches into a clay canister and tosses a modest handful of yellow salt to the ground. As the lid is replaced with an abrasive sound for all the crystals on the rim, "women in the stables are uncommon, crafters even less so. You do stand out, ma'am." His baritone resounds with authenticity, his personal feelings, though they might be hinted at, are for the moment inconsequential. "Threvobek, I used to work here before I was asked to serve as a candidate." The broom is passed with the habit of routine, eyes interpreting what they can about the journeyman and her runner.

It is possible that she's heard his name, though she manages to keep her expression averted enough to mask her thoughts. "I suppose that is true," the nervousness dissipates long enough to be a quiet contemplation of his words. Sidonie is a juxtaposition of ideals: conservative now timer woman, high-strung nervousness and an intelligence and drive better suited to a male, truthfully. While her eyes jump to where a knot would lie, the Herder asks, absently, "Herder?" Slowly, by degrees, the white knuckled clasp of her hand against the rough texture of the stable door loosens as the young woman gains her proverbial footing. "Congratulations," offered after a fashion, the words not loudly spoken but not necessarily whispered either.

Threvobek brushes the salt off his hands and attacks the detritus along the walls. "No, ma'am," refuting craft affiliation, "and thank you." Kino, one of the best technical runner riders, is hailed with a brusque wave and promise to join him at the cock fights later in the sevenday. He too, is a being of duals, one of the foremost being handling women. As a rooster boasts a crow, Rev pauses to see this runnerbeast of Sidonie though he could wait and judge for himself, "what breed is he?"

"She," Sidonie mildly corrects after a moment's hesitation in consideration if she wants to, forges ahead with, "is part Igenbred and part Splashed Marshbred, sir." Candidate or no, Sidonie's upbringing is hard to squash. "She is mine." A layer of pride winds around her tone as she slips forward, in the wake of Threvobek — giving pause to look away when the boy organizes a meeting to join the cockfights later. Not only does it go against her Herder instincts, it goes against her female ones too, but Threvobek is only given a thin press of lips before she redirects her attention to the former stablehand. "She's fine of form and handsome of color," with her runner, she even manages a whisper of a boast to the nervous tone.

Threvobek threads the broom on a wall nail when more or less done, and approaches Sidonie whether she likes the proximity or not. He is not much of a runner person, and says so: "Runners aren't my favorite, but I can appreciate them sometimes." Like the super fast ones he casts to tear up the dunes with. Yansa's runnerbeast Boreas was lightning on hooves. Heartless War's confirmation is followed with help from his owner's prompting, but after a while his eyes seem to bore through her to the smooth wall beyond. "I don't mean to hamper your progress." A shadow of a grin for being called 'sir'.

Stopping at the stall where Heartless War stands patient, knowing that freedom is only a few steps away, Sidonie casts a quick, furtive look to Threvobek, unable to help the query that slips from her lips, "What are your favorites?" Boldness is something to shy away from, causing her to tilt her head downward, staring into the stall rather than at Threvobek and his work. Her fingers itch for action, but with the Candidate here, it is visible to see that she won't indulge. The feel of his eyes boring into her, through her, spikes the nervous intensity which manifests in the slight tremble of her fingers. "Hamper my progress?" This is all but croaked out, masked when she tugs open the stall's half-door and steps into the confines of Heartless War's space. Velvety nose is given a nuzzle as the mare immediately seeks for treats.

The hands at rest on the stall door press a little warmth into the wood. "Bovines, caprines, and landfowl in that order." A messenger, checking the girth of his saddle, waits another half hour until it's cooler enough to hit the circuit trails. "You were going home, were you not?" Rev supplies with a vaulting of his eyebrows. His hands come down and reroll each sleeve of his longsleeved shirt. No special fashion here.

Softly stroking the side of her mare's neck, Sidonie chances a much braver look towards Threvobek, the darkly blue hued eyes holding an intelligence rare to those who behave so meekly. "I am about to get her ready to leave, yes." She nibbles the corner of her lip, a nervous hand fluttering around her face like a pale bird that tucks the scarf more securely around her head. "Caprines are adorable when they are small. I almost studied them instead of runners, but my family breeds and races runners." So, of course, she went into the family business. "It was a pleasure to meet you," she starts to say, ducking her head for the niceties given. Proper, proper woman. Though the gaze she holds from beneath the veiled fringe of pale lashes is double veiled by the upper edge of scarf that overhangs her forehead. "Good luck on the sands, sir." Bare, breathless, nervous these words.

Geeze, one fake growl or a hug and Threvobek thinks Sidonie would take flight. Not that he'd perform either as he takes a step back, then another culminates. "Interesting. Bet the Akzhans give your family a run for your money." Literally! There's something not to loathe about the young woman and Rev tries not to treat her unkindly. "Well met, journeyman Sidonie. Watch the winds." He dissolves into the background completely, soon rough housing with another stablebrat who tries to ward the candidate off with a dirty shovel. Silly boy, manure is no deterrent! Better run now, Sidonie.

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