K'ane, Majel, Merakh


An early morning at the lake, a rock-skipping lesson, and another offer of candidacy.


It is sunrise of the seventh day of the third month of the first turn of the 12th pass.


Lake Shore, Igen Weyr

OOC Date


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Lake Shore

Sprawled out beyond the Weyr proper's hustling activity and ambling roads, the cool, blue paradise of the Weyr lake promises escape from the oppressive hammer of Igen summer's cruel climes; the asymmetrical, sandy white shores hook delicately around the deceptively still waters running deep and sure, greedy peninsulas reaching white fingers stretching in crooked lines towards its center. A sturdy shack, weather-beaten and brown as cured leather, resides in isolated splendor upon one such finger, screened shelving offering a variety of brushes and fragrant oils housed in colorful tureens. Out beyond a small and dusty paddock ringed by a white fence, a long rocky pier stabs out into the lake, providing a panoramic view of the Weyr itself, while the southern shores provide varied shrubs and grassed for the massed herds in their pens.

It's somewhere in that hazy golden hour not long after sunrise, throwing the lake awash in light and casting a gentle glow on the surrounding rocks and squishy mud puddles. Wrapped in a rosy-dyed cardigan, Majel can be found at the far edge of the shore, staring most intently at her hand, or so it seems from a distance. There's a calculated shift in her posture, a shake of her head; eventually, she pulls her hand back and flings it forward, leaning forward to watch as ripples plop into being, one after the other. Rinse, repeat. Skipping rocks should be a casual, even fun pasttime, but someone's taking this exercise rather seriously.

Oh look, it's the PEBBLE POLICE. Or not, but definitely someone in a guard uniform, tall and straight. It's only as it comes nearer, stepping delicately around the puddles, that the form is easily identifiable for a statuesque woman. After a while, as the shore becomes a little more stony, she proceeds even slower, but keeps to the pebbled highway until she can get to the shore. The plok-plok-plok of skipping pebbles warn her, and she lifts one hand to shield her eyes from the glow. Identification causes a smile, and she crosses slowly to the woman's side. "Good morning. Getting your exercise in early then, miss?"

And some take other forms of exercise quite seriously: K'ane, for instance, appears a few good miles into his morning run, confident stride striking the last bit of bowl before it melds into shoreline. His breaths puff out in perfect little clouds of frozen warmth; he's in the zone. It would APPEAR that he's set on running past the curve of the lake, but it's still a bit of area to cover. Meanwhile, a bronze done in chiaroscuro with zero shades of grey for the proud justice of his starkly beautiful composition drops from the heavens, landing heavily on the shore next to where the rock-skipper skips and the guardlet guards. His multi-lidded eyes follow the pings with curiosity.

So focused is Majel that the guard's approach throws her; her hand falters the next trajectory, sending the small stone sinking down into the water upon first contact. "Is that a crime?" she queries evenly, exhaling before turning to give the other woman an affable, "You're out early yourself, you know." The new, winged arrival simply gets a sidelong glance, a raised eyebrow as she positions herself for another shot. "You're probably better at this than I am. Want a turn?"

Merakh's smile curves a little wider, about to answer when the bronze shows up to rest; long habit makes her take a casual sweep of the area, though nothing is said. Her balance changes deftly, a step-and-slide a little closer to the pebble-magician. "So I am, miss, and it's not a crime, of course." Her gaze tracks longingly towards the gilt-spattered stretch of the lake. "I've never been able to get the idea of it," she admits, looking back. "It's a rare one that gets a hop, and my ego took more bruising than the water's surface." She shifts the coat around her shoulders a little closer. "Perhaps if you could show me."

While K'ane runs - still a bit before he's properly incoming - Dhioth turns to loom over the brace of women. It's all unwitting, how unnerving it could be, this loft of chin and downward slant of consideration. A snout of sun-gilded apricot lowers to scent about Merakh, first. For all of his blatant shameless nature, he's rather dignified about the gesture itself, one long sweep of an inhale. At least he lifts his head to sneeze, rather than get dragon-snot all over the both of them; the wind blows it more-or-less in K'ane's direction, evidenced by the, "For th' love of fuckin' Faran…" that can be heard, off-a-ways.

Majel toes a nearby pebble in Merakh's direction. "It's all in the precision, " she shares with a conspiratorial nod. "Your rock must be well-formed. Your direction, adjusted according to the wind. Stance - " And she shifts the bearing of her weight slightly to demonstrate, but pauses in her litany as a large snout abruptly descends to the taller guard. "Well, " when he's finished. "Give it a try, then. He has the right idea. It's all about getting a little lower and aiming, too."

The shadow that slowly looms closer over their heads has Merakh stiffening; she's unsure whether the dragon discerns the scents of light citrus and a deeper, much fainter musky something with any degree of success, though it's nerve-wracking to suddenly feel - and hear, faintly - the long, indolent sniff. The subsequent sneeze, however, renders her expression comical. "I'm not sure I should be flattered," she manages to mutter to Majel, blithely inching a little away to let the bronze have unfettered access to the younger, shorter woman. It gives her some opportunity to look at the running man, and her eyebrows arch up indolently. Then, obediently, she crouches down to retrieve the pebble toed in her direction, and weighs it in her palm. She stands, obligingly widening her stance, and breathes out. Her mistake as she tosses it is soon clear: she's putting way too much force behind it, until the pebble acts more like a knife cutting into water than bouncing off it. It sinks immediately. Achievement not unlocked.

Dhioth cycles through shutting and opening his innermost eyelids, as if he's trying to clear his eyes from watering; sneezes, man. He stares down from lofty height with discrimination, perhaps unwilling to test the mettle of Majel after Merakh's unforgiving citrus. He takes a sniff from UP ABOVE, a hilariously dainty thing given his size, and then his eyes widen, nose dropping down in an arc of carefully-precise motion. "Dammit Dhioth, stop terrorizin' th' natives," his rider can be heard stating in exasperation, pulling up with an apologetic look to both of the stone-skippers. "No, c'mon," he punts an elbow full-force against the bronze's jaw. Dhioth doesn't seem to notice, intent on … sniffing Majel's shoes? It's kind of hard to get precision when you are as big as he is, but he's sniffing SOMETHING down there. Oh. Wait. Maybe it's the rocks. "Dammit y'doof…"

Majel shades her eyes lightly with a hand to follow the progress of the other's toss, expression optimistic. "You've got the elementary bits down, " she says cheerfully, scooping up another rock to demonstrate. "You just need some refining." Those were supposed to be encouraging words, right? "Not so forceful on your next throw. You're not trying to send the rock in with blunt force. You want it to merrily plane over the top of the water … " She trails off, hazel eyes lifting to the large, bronze head that's suddenly in her space. "Good morning to you, too, " she offers to him after a moment, smile puzzled. "Do you like rocks, then?" There's a shrug for his rider. "Or is it my boots? I'm afraid you can't have them. I'm pretty attached."

Merakh scoots away, and then a little more; for all she knows the smell of her boot-leather will be enough to make Dhioth sneeze all over her. There's a thread of tension in her frame, and her hands move to her pockets to twitch there, clearly uncomfortable. "Apologies are due at least," she says after a moment's thought. "I had no idea draconic noses were sensitive to some scents. I'll change it; good morning to the both of you, sir," to K'ane. How could she, having not been around one quite so closely before. "Is he…" Her voice warms with curiosity, and a grin tickles into place. "Perhaps he doesn't care that you're attached to them, miss," she teases Majel as she bends down for another pebble, this one a little flatter. She concentrates, throws with less force, and there's actually a little plink before it too sinks.

"Don't change anythin' on behalf of this lout," K'ane directs to Merakh, that wry note to his voice never changing. "He's just an' asshole stickin' his nose where it don't belong." He tries to push Dhioth off of his course with Majel again, but the bronze is UNDETERRED. He gives a bit of an eyeroll — K'ane, that is — and inclines his chin. "Well. He's Dhioth, an' I'm K'ane. An' you two are…" The question is implicit, squinting first at Merakh and then at Majel.

Majel has to creatively lean this way and that to see around Dhioth's head; there's a frustrated little exhale when she can't quite peek out to see Merakh's latest attempt, but the small skip before it sinks isn't entirely missed. "Try it again, " she suggests, alto warming a bit. "K'ane, Dhioth, " she repeats post-introductions, "I'm Majel. Nice to meet you both."

"K'ane, Dhioth," Merakh repeats as she watches the rider's attempts to push his dragon away, smile growing by the moment. "I'm Merakh." Under the guise of another pebble-hunt, she moves away enough to give the bronze unfettered access to Majel through the position she occupied; moving neatly around K'ane, she steps into a place where her personal space isn't twinging quite so badly. She doesn't toss the pebble yet. "Why is he so curious?" she wonders out loud. "Does Miss Majel here smell especially fascinating?"

Dhioth turns his attention uncanny to Majel for a long moment and then leans his head far up to allow his rider access. Or perchance to let her watch the display of stones. K'ane's eyebrows lift faintly but he shakes his head with an unsurprised kind of mien about him. "Merakh," he greets the guardlet, a little distracted… but not so much that he doesn't shift in an unconscious kind of way to put both of the girls at his front once more, an unconscious pattern never-forgotten. But his attention is elsewhere, at the moment. "Majel." His brow furrows in consternation. "Have y' Stood before, lass? Here?"

Majel seems about to protest that no, she doesn't - shouldn't - smell, thank-you-very-much, but she stills, a hand lifting to massage warily at her right temple. Uncertainty shines through her expression once Dhioth finally lifts his head, a rarely displayed emotion for the merchant. "Some turns ago, " she replies carefully, measured. "I was - " Young. Overly eager. Too self-assured. Resigned. She clears her throat, tries again. "I didn't want to try again after that. We didn't seem suited for one another at the time, candidacy and I."

"Ah, well, that explains it, Miss Majel," Merakh says idly from the other side, now much-better situated to observe the whole thing. "Your boots obviously smell of Candidacy." /That/ is a tease, as much shared with a roll of the eyes for K'ane at his lifemate's antics as genuine enjoyment of the situation. Out comes her hand, and she gently squeezes the younger woman's shoulder once, heartily, in congratulations. "I wish you all the best of luck then." with that she dips a nod to both and scoots even further away, not quite leaving, but certainly not in the thick of things either, expression openly curious.

K'ane scrubs at his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. He eyes up to Dhioth once, and goes to patting at his pockets. PAT PAT PAT. To Majel, "Well, s'a little different nowadays, with Thread fallin'." The tank K'ane wears doesn't hide the lividity of a relatively recent Threadscore, still-healing, curling over the curve of his right shoulder. As Merkah scoots back she'll likely notice it only broadens before disappearing under his shirt — and on his left shoulder picks back up in a massive back-spanning injury. Pat, pat — oh there's one. He scrounges up a damp coil of lint-flecked white from a pocket and dangles it off one scarred finger for Majel: "But if y' think it perhaps would suit y'better now, there may be a lifemate for y', hangin' in the balance."

"I've always thought healing might suit me, if I could find a way to pick up some basics in the field, " Majel says thoughtfully. Nowtimer attitudes toward women in the crafthalls aside, active participation in Threadfall could perhaps provide just that. Along that train of thought, her eyes move to that score curling over the bronzerider's shoulder, and her brow firms, chin lifting. There's a moment where she may struggle with the pros and cons, or perhaps she's simply steadying herself to take those few steps forward and accept the somewhat fuzzy, white knot. "I want to help. I'll give it another go."

Merakh's mouth twists at the sight of the long score, and her eyes trail quite unabashedly over and down a muscular back, trying to gauge how far it goes down. Certainly not something you should be stretching with running, it seems. There's no trenchant disapproval from that gaze, but after a quick flick skywards, and then one over the beautiful bronze, there's a last step away. "I hope there's a fighting dragon in it for you, Miss Majel," she finally says softly, nowtimer sensibilities squashed firmly down. "It's a noble profession, being a healer, I think. Good day to the three of you though, I really should continue." With that and a polite dip of her head, she turns on her heel and wanders off, pebble still clutched cramp-tight in one hand.

There's a wry twist, again, in K'ane's face. "Well, he agrees with y'," He tosses a chin in a vague nod towards Dhioth. "Considering he dragged me…" A batting hand as if to ward off an entirely different topic. "Perhaps Prineline will see y'well served t' run duties in the infirmary while you're a candidate." It is perhaps an unsubtle nudge. "Welcome t' candidacy, Majel. If y'make your way back t' the barracks, show 'em your knot an' tell 'em I' sent you, they'll see y'set up. It's — in th' lower caverns." What? He has a run to finish! Dhioth lowers his head to whuff at Majel, once, as if in benediction. "Dhioth says you'll do just fine."

Majel's face relaxes into a smile, suddenly cheerful. "I'd like that very much." Infirmary duties have got to be more challenging than mixing dyes. An eyebrow lifts at the friendly-enough dismissal, but the new candidate nods just the same. "Alright, " she agrees, amused. "Enjoy the rest of your morning run, sir. And thank you, Dhioth. Your confidence is appreciated."

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