Who

W'rin, Yukie

What

A morbid conversation and a tapping.

When

It is afternoon of the nineteenth day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.

Where
OOC Date

 

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Pens

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.


Igen's winter is chilly, the desert sucking all of Rukbat's cheery warmth that falls in watery light to the emptiness below. Tucked away in the weyr itself, Yukie is perched upon the wooden slats of the fence, unmoving as she watches the smooth-flying green that lurks like a jade pendant hung suspended in the clear blue skies. Her expression lacks boredom or excitement, as well as it lacks any sort of disgust for what the green creature is about to do: which is fall upon the prey of her sort. Talons lash, blood flows and the rider on the ground murmurs a gentle reminder as the green effectively eviscerates: "Don't toy with your food." The beast is, in fact, still alive, but not for long. The green either heard the girl's command or decided that life's gift was essential, for in one swipe the death stroke is lain.

So enters the weyrleader, his gaze focusing quickly upon his own prey, perched in an unsuspecting manner upon the fence. Valiuth swoops lazily in the air as he stalks, he too a predator who likes to stretch out the agony of his dinner, coming close enough with each circle to incite anxiety in the beasts as they wait for death. Hands are pulled from fur lined pockets as W'rin comes to rest his massive forearms against the fence, one foot hoisted on to the bottom rail as he leans his weight against it. Silence for a moment as he watches the green with some appreciation of her movements. "It is in their blood to make their food suffer." The bronze has finally felled a young male, who he lets get up, stumble forward a few paces, and then swat down again. "Some more than others." The game continues. "It lets something out of their system. Like a good work out." Finally the man turns his bearded face away from the dragons to consider the almost-full-rider beside him.

"Suffering is life," Yukie's tone is calm, reminiscent of still, deep waters. Her attire is immaculate, in riding leathers, the bright sunshine-and-moonlight colored hair woven into a loose braid as it slowly gains it's length back. Her eyes do not tear from Inayalinaeth's movements, though she speaks calmly to the Weyrleader. In deference, but not in need. "To suffer is to understand the moment when suffering is released. Inayalinaeth merely transcends them to their next moment." A hint of a frown mars the girl's brow, a coolly collected greenrider turning to watch the Weyrleader, something deep hidden in the dark blue-green of her eyes. "Sometimes, we suffer too much." She doesn't move from her perch, as it affords her the height to see. "Your bronze is fit, sir." That, it would seem, would be a compliment. However strangely given.

W'rin, who does not often bother to listen to the philosophical ranting of riders, especially ones so young, seems calmer at this moment than usual. The release his dragon feels with the hunt, bringing an unnatural tranquility to the stormy minds they share. "Too much?" His thunderous voice as far off in sound as in thought. "You have only just graduated from weyrlinghood." He pauses, his eyes locking with her soberly, "Your suffering has not even begun." Those who look to the weyr for protection, his riders, those lost, those injured all his responsibility and the weight of all carried in a gaze he does not normally share, but no rider of his would ever say he was dishonest with them. "The life of the rider is not their own, what you want no longer matters. Our life is given for others. There is a lot of suffering with that. But you made that choice when you put on the white knot. And here we are." Eyes scan back to the dragons, where they stay. "Are you ready for that? For more suffering?"

"Weyrleader," Yukie's voice is soft, quiet. Tranquil. She's a leaf on the sea of life, unconcerned by the turbulence of others, held within the bubble of silence that affords her a unique view of life. "I have suffered my entire life. From the time that my family was wiped out from the plague, to the time when a comet crushed my world, to a four hundred turn jump in time that left my body weak and unable to perform the arts of healing. I have suffered at the hands of the people in the bazaar as I tended them and yet never did I shirk from my duty." The solemnity in the greenrider's eyes is at odds with her age: she is an auld soul trapped in the youthful form of a girl. "I do not shy from suffering, sir." All so quietly, so calmly, so gently stated.

"Hmmm." The man's soft gravely hum is both an agreement with the girls statement of her life's suffering and a warning that he does not voice. "Aye, you have suffered." He'll extend that much, "Perhaps you will be better prepared for the life to come than others." But he does not give in that she is fully ready for the sorrow of being a rider. His hands unclasp as one is drawn upward to scratch at neatly trimmed facial hair, his look as rigid and formal as his personality. "And knowing that many do not understand the sacrifice of a rider, especially an oldtimer female you will pledge your loyalty to their well-being?"

Yukie considers W'rin, his warning washing into the seas of her tranquility. As W'rin observes her, so does she search him. Looking for signs of something? Or just to take in the minutia of his expressions, the look in his eyes. Her gaze is not disrespectful nor lewd, it is merely the depth of clinical assessment. "I am as prepared for what life will give me as a person can be," which is not to say that she's prepared. Not at all. "I will weather well, sir." That is truth, the hard firmament beneath the eternity that she's bound to. "Inayalinaeth does not shy from Thread. It is her will, her essence, her reason for being, sir." Never does her voice hint at anything above a conversational quiet. She isn't affecting a tranquil stance; Yukie is tranquil. "I am neither old-time female nor now-time female. I am Yukie of Igen Weyr, bound to Inayalinaeth. I will do my duty, sir." A darkness touches the gentle soul that is the girl. Her own warning, given back on the seas of the conversation. Once it's gone, however, it's gone; she does not follow it up nor does it ripple the gentle expression carried in her eyes.

W'rin lifts a finger off the fence in agreement with who she is. "Aye. You are, Yukie of Igen, and the riders of the weyr will see you as such." Or they'll answer to their leader, "But Pern…" Eyebrows quirk upward, this is meaning, that others will not see reality as it actually is. One hand strays back into a pocket, no more aware of her 'warning' than anything else she said, or perhaps just affording the odd girl a break because of her potential talent. Fetched from the pocket is a wing rider's knot, and and clutched to the top a Whirlwind badge. "Joining Whirlwind has always been a choice, Yukie, rider of Inayalinaeth." If nothing else, the girl's formality makes him feel more comfortable in conversation than with most. "And not a choice given to many. We work twice as hard, we strive more, our rules are stricter. But I know talent when I see it, and beyond that a true sense of duty that binds a rider to those who look to it. That can't be taught." These may be the only compliments the wingleader ever gives to his riders, when he taps them, "If you trust me as a wingleader and weyrleader, take these." The knot and badge extended toward the girl, "If not, we can discuss your other wing options."

"The opinions of others are as meaningless as the grains of sands on an Istan beach that exists no more," Yukie's quiet response is in his fear of what she might think of the others thoughts on her. And she doesn't; she is as immune to derogatory comments as she is to compliments. She doesn't glow beneath his words of grace as normal females might, nor does she disregard them either. Yukie merely absorbs them, words rolled around in the sanctity of her thoughts as she regards the Weyrleader. She does not immediately take what's offered, because she gives real weight to what he says. Again, her dark blue-green eyes search deep into his brown ones, the fence affording the difference in height to make it possible. "Trust is to be earned," comes the quiet thought, though she reaches out for the badge and knot, "You've not failed yet, Weyrleader, so we will trust you until that trust is breached." A slip of a smile ghosts the girl's so-serious mien. "I would like permission to seek out additional duties of dragon healing while in the wing. I believe my healing skills can be an asset to you." Pause. "Us." She's got the badge and knot in hand now. With Yukie, there is no personal life. There is only dragonrider life. Healing. Fighting.

The man's own study of the girl not yet complete, though he does offer some insight of his own, "Oh. Well then you have not been paying attention. We all fail, it is those who do not learn or fail because of recklessness with others, that should not be trusted." Hands settle back into pockets as he considers the girls rather unusual request. "Aye, as long as the wing comes first. You may not skip drills for infirmary duty, in thread, if it is your turn in fall you may not leave to tend until you sub out." Were she riding a dragon that could fly a whole fall this would not even be considered, "As long as I see no slip in fighting you may stay on both. If it comes to it, you'll have to choose." A matter-of-fact statement with no indication of preference, simply what will have to happen if both cannot be maintained. "Drills are at dawn, rider."

Finally, humor surfaces through the sea of tranquility, "Point, sir." Yukie's brief lapse into human emotion adds a sparkle, a life to those deep blue-green eyes of hers as she cedes his point. But then the girl is all back to business. Very little will ruffle that calm. "Of course, sir." She agrees readily, accepting his terms the same way she accepts the knot and wing badge. Inayalinaeth chooses that moment to tear down another kill, perhaps a death in victory for their chosen wing. She is lethal, and full of grace. The collected aurora borealis under her wings flashes in the light. "I will see you then, sir." Never does the formality slip; Yukie is not a casual female. Yukie is just… well. Yukie. Strange.

Then Yukie will certainly fit in on Whirlwind.

W'rin either does not notice or simply does not acknowledge any human interaction in this entire conversation, only offers a final parting order. "We salute around here, rider. I'm sure you'll have that fixed by tomorrow." There may be the slightest curl of lips upward in a grin, or perhaps a frown, hard to read beneath the beard, and his general inability to behave normally in social situations. Valiuth, finally smashes the beast beneath his feet, gathering what parts of it are still intact the bronze takes to the wing to eat else where, probably somewhere the weyrleader will have to scrub down and Sienna will be upset about. As for the man himself, he simply turns on his heels and strides off to his next meeting.

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