Who

Alaeddin, Edomar

What

Alaeddin and Edomar look at the eggs, and it makes them hungry.

When

It is the first day of Autumn and 101 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.

Where

Galleries, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 27 May 2020 05:00

 

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Galleries

Stone benches rise up.. and up.. and up: grooves upon grooves show marks of their hand-hewn origins, small chips and uneven textures to tell the tale of humble beginnings in a place which looks upon the black-and-white Sands of Southern, a place of greater beginnings indeed. The Galleries take up roughly a third of the perimeter of the Sands: to the west are flat, staggered entranceways, ledges for dragons interested in watching the proceedings. Below and just easterly, a stitched-hide curtain covers the entrance to the bowl, keeping the wind away from the precious cargo often housed upon the Sands. It cannot help the shrieking of the wind above: though it is muted in this hollow, the intermittent sighs and moans of the thermals shrieking through the viewing-ledges above can be unsettling.


There is nothing to mark the changing of the season in Southern except the calendar, the heat not having gotten the message just as it does every Turn. It certainly doesn't matter in the hatching cavern. It hasn't stopped Edomar from wandering in, however. The day of the clutching, he'd been set to a task preventing him from coming to see. Now, the afternoon is quiet, and the erstwhile pirate sits in nearly the exact middle of the galleries, elbows resting on his knees with his hands dangling between as he stares out across the field of eggs. He's more or less used to the dragons now, as he should be at this point. But there's a certain sanctity to this space, reinforced by the way others comport themselves as they enter and leave. Even having his shirt half open in deference to the heat almost feels like it rubs that sanctity the wrong way…but it's likely just the imagining of one still adjusting to Weyr living. One who finds quiet wonderment in surveying something he's never seen before.

Sanctity, indeed; even the young and rowdy amongst the Weyr tend to treat this space with the respect it's due, toning down their rough-and-tumble games to peer with awe at the eggs, to whisper together in hushed tones, to wonder what will hatch out of this egg or that. And candidates gather together there to face their futures: Will there be a hatchling for them? What color? Where will their lives end up? But today, there is only one candidate to view the eggs, and this one's definitely escaping the rowdier candidates for a bit of introspection: Alaeddin, who moves in quietly, sinking long fingers into his hair to shift it away from his scalp in faint hope of a breeze across his scalp. It fails, he gives up, and settles down near Edomar, turning hazel eyes onto the Sands to sweep over the eggs, mildly curious. He hadn't seen them clutched, either. But there they are, looking mysterious.

The arrival of someone else nearby pulls Edomar from his consideration of the clutch for a moment, drawing steely blue eyes to his right to find a young man there. The white knot is briefly noted before he looks forward again, quietly wondering why the Candidate decided to sit right there when there's the whole of the galleries to choose from before realizing the probably reason. The middle is the prime spot for viewing, not to low nor too high. Understandable, in this case. "G'day to ye," he rumbles, quiet, and leaves it at that, his gaze settling on a curiously plain-looking egg amidst the lot for the moment.

Exactly. One can hardly see the eggs properly from way up yonder. It's too bad, really; sometimes, even relatively friendly men like a little alone time. But it 'tis what 'tis, so Alaeddin will have to deal. And so he does, politely enough: "And you, sir." He does know how to be polite, it seems; there'd been that rumor 'round the Weyr that he had no such scruples. His gaze sweeps the eggs again, before settling on the Ooey-gooey Mac and Cheesy egg, and his brows lift, briefly, before resettling into their proper position. These golds persist in laying such odd-looking eggs.

A sandy brow lifts at the address Edomar receives, a corner of his mouth going with it. "'Sir?' Not I, lad," he returns with rough wryness, and glances askance at the younger man. "Though I s'pose it's expected of ye, particularly wearin' that, aye?" A hand flips casually in the general direction of the Candidate's knot. "In which case, ne'er mind me."

Alaeddin's lips quirk, amused. "They'd have my hide for leathers if I didn't." He confirms, shrugging. "Being the 'lowest of the low', and all." Oh, yes; he's quite familiar with the rules, and all that. Idly, he stretches his lean form, trying to work out work-gifted kinks in muscle unused to so much cleaning; those take a special kind of strong, apparently, that he's long forgotten. But the Weyr will see he remembers. "But we're allowed to stop it, if we're told to stop it." And since Edomar has been so kind as to tell him to stop it, in so many words, he shall indeed stop. His gaze flicks out to the eggs yet a third time, and asks the inevitable question: "Got any favorites, yet?"

Edomar snorts at that. "You aren't th' lowest o' the low, whate'er they say," he notes. "Mayhap at the Weyr, but e'en that's debatable, considerin' there's a brig here." It's probably hard to say if he's being maudlin or just matter-of-fact right now. Hopefully the latter. The question of whether or not he has any favorites earn a blink, and he sits up straighter, eyes narrowing slightly. "I haven't been lookin' all that long, but…mayhap that one." He points at an egg that's the fluffy white of clouds…or mashed tubers - altogether plain, save for shades of brown and near-black that give it a crisped-at-the-edges appearance. "Dunno why, but it reminds me o' somethin'. And…makes me hungry?" He wrinkles his nose slightly at that, bemused. "Doesn't seem right; it's a dragon egg, for Faranth's sake." They should inspire reverence, not hunger!

Alaeddin puts out a hand to reassure the man. "They mean rank-wise, not person-wise. Candidate equals apprentice, basically," he continues with one of those weary, weary shrugs — he's had to explain this to a few of the more… snotty candidates who were shocked (SHOCKED, I TELL YOU) that their previous knots don't mean as much once they've decided to trade it for a white one. "Mighty surprisin' how many of the candidates who come from rank or money come here thinking that don't disappear once they got this." His own knot gets a flick. No, really, it surprises Alaeddin. That attitude comes from folk he'd thought knew better than that, and it's a rather irritating one for a Weyrbred lad like him. And then he eyes the plain egg with a squint. "Looks like that bowl full of tubers I had to mash up this morning." Will tubers be haunting him where'er he goes? It seems so! He points to the Mac-n-Cheese egg, and snorts, "That one looks like melted cheese over pasta (or whatever the Pernese equivalent is). That one makes me hungry." Indeed, Southern's queens are very, very good at doing the opposite of what they should. It's their hallmark.

Edomar just shrugs at that, knowing what was meant but apparently thinking about things a bit more deeply at the moment. "Seems t' me that the knot shouldn't mean more than the experience it signifies," he observes. "The thing on yer shoulder doesn't make ye. E'en if the white knot turns ye from Crafter t' Candidate, doesn't make all ye've learned go away. Just gotta find a way to use it in the present circumstance an' not be an arse about it." To his thinking, anyway. He eyes the egg the other young man indicates and gives a little chuckle. "Guess it'll be a different one for e'eryone," he supposes. Perhaps the queens are doing exactly what they should. Edomar hasn't been here long enough to make that judgment himself yet! With a gruff sigh, he rises and stretches a bit. "Back to studyin' I go," he says, and gives the Candidate a nod. "Enjoy yer egg-watchin'." Which he'll do just a little more of on his way across the galleries and down the steps until he's clear of the overheated cavern. Off to cooler climes in the bowels of the Weyr!

Alaeddin would also agree with that one; but: "How else you gonna get it through certain thick skulls that they're not in charge here, and know next to nothing about dragonriding?" He's perhaps seen too many come in with notions, and notions, none of them correct, all of them based on self-serving arrogance. Skills? They differ; being a dragonrider — it's far, far more difficult than most know. And then, Edomar has to go off to studying (another thing Alain's avoiding right now) and the candidate shall turn back to those eggs, whose looks make everyone hungry.

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