Who

Idara

What

The truth of the destroyed robe becomes clear to Idara.

When

It is sunrise of the twenty-eighth day of the seventh month of the sixteenth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Candidate Barracks, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 23 Mar 2019 00:00

 

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Candidate Barracks

Perhaps the safest place in the weyr, these barracks: the stonework here is old, perhaps as old as the weyr is itself, for the uncanny cleanliness of ancient stonecutters marks neat corners and perfect arches. Richly-lit by glowlight, tapestries reflect scenes of yore from the walls - dragons flaming, holders farming, and one particularly well-made that depicts the impression of a dark-haired girl to a light-toned gold dragonet, dripping and fierce. The barracks themselves are open-air, with not even a curtain to divide the space of male from female. Bunk-bed style cots line each wall, hammocks strung along the middle for those unfortunate enough to lack the privacy that an adjoining wall brings. There are privies in the back and locker-style item storage in the front, and one especially large table next to a book-case filled with basic Harper texts.


Idara’s not getting as much sleep as she’d like. Between the exhausting chores making her body need more rest, the brutally early (to her) mornings, and sharing a sleeping space with too many snorting, snoring, smelly other people, she’s trying to take every minute she can get.

To say she’s annoyed by being disturbed from her rest by scratching and scrabbling is an understatement.

Sitting up in her bed, her initial reaction is annoyance at somebody disturbing her. Then she realises it’s not even light outside yet, and no-one else is moving around. The next thought is a panicked one - tunnelsnakes? Have they got into the barracks. She freezes, not wanting to move lest she be attacked by a pest.

But…no. As she listens, ignoring the snoring of one of the nearby candidates, she can tell that the sound is coming from…inside her press?

Her first thought is to shout, to get one of the male candidates to wake up and help her. But no; Ryott’s ribbing has hit her hard and she’s determined to deal with this herself. Reaching under her cot for one of her sandals, she slowly slips out of the bed, bare feet padding silently across the floor as she goes to the press.

Sandal raised to deal a blow to whatever’s inside the press, Idara flicks up the latch and opens the lid and - a startled squeak escapes her as a blur of green flies out past her. Her eyes are getting used to the dark, and as the thing loops back around, she realises it’s - “Lovely?

The green is chittering away, and Idara hisses at her, willing her to shut up. Then a thought starts to form.

Reaching into the press, she runs her hand over the top layer of clothes. She can feel the torn fabric, and the realisation is a lead weight in her stomach. Ryott didn’t do it.

Closing the press as quietly as she can and crawling back into her bed, Idara pulls the covers up to her chin. There’s no more sleep for her this morning, despite her tiredness; just some hard thinking to be done, and the tumultuous choice of whether to swallow her pride and apologise to the Igenite girl.

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