Who

T'ral, Catryn, Esanth

What

Catryn and T'ral run across each other in the Galleries. Awkwardness. Doubts. Restrictions. Furtive journal entries. Dragon interventions.

When

It is night of the twentieth day of the ninth month of the fifth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Southern Weyr

OOC Date 31 Aug 2015 07:00

 

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« … was that? Repeat. I’m … there’s interfe-SKKREEEAWWWK. »


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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.

It is the twentieth day of Spring and 80 degrees. It is a clear night.


It is a beautiful, cool, clear night. The stars glitter above the Glitter Weyr with a clarity (an appropriateness) that T'ral usually only sees in Esanth's mindscape. It is something of a personal tradition of his to come and sit and look at the eggs while noodling on his guitar, thinking on things. He’s flown seven Falls with Lynx. No deaths. But he’s not congratulating himself. Three of his dragons are in groundweyrs and out of action for months. Seven of his three dozen odd pairs are unable to fly Thread for two sevens. There’s a long lull until the next Fall, barring surprises (BOARDWALK), so they should scrape through. He swallows, looking briefly at the guitar strings as he shifts. Stone seats aren’t terribly comfortable, and he’s been here a while. Maktaba has been miserable. It's been more than a seven since N'tael and Yules Searched Catryn. He’s not even chippier or grumpier, just… miserable. Curled in a sad little lump on Catryn's pillow. Inconsolable. T'ral felt a stab of guilt for leaving the poor flit to his misery tonight, but he'd needed to fly. Spend time with Esanth. Play music. Clear his head. And so. Here he sits. Lost in a cascading tumble of notes, fingers tripping without seeming effort over the guitar strings, a complex wash of melody over the droning bass of Esanth's thrumming ever-presence. Snatches of other songs flow in and out, a pleasant backdrop to the other eggwatchers, he's playing with no real purpose other than to meditate on the very transience of the sound and the nascent essence of eighty dragons who will, soon, change the course of countless lives.

It’s been over a week since Catryn exchanged her Journeyman’s knot for a candidate’s and the adjustment is ongoing. Her lifestyle has drastically changed, transitioning from a respected crafter to a position that’s equal to that of a drudge has been difficult. Life in the barracks is constantly in motion. People talk. There’s no privacy. Nothing is her own. The clothes she was so used to wearing are not conducive to laundry duty, or latrine duty, or stable duty. She has never done so much physical labor in all of her life. And it’s only been ten days. And it’s only going to get worse if she transitions from candidacy into weyrlinghood. The quiet moments are few and far between throughout each long day, though she does take advantage of what little free time she has when she can get it. On this particular evening, Catryn is seated in the galleries with a journal on her lap and writing utensil in hand as she scrawls an entry. The area is expansive with people constantly in and out to view the eggs, so it’s no surprise that she failed to note the guitarist when he first arrived. His music is gentle upon the warm night air and Catryn lifts her gaze when she recognizes the manner in which those notes are played. She’s seated two rows back and further down on the opposite side of the stairway as she watches T’ral for a moment. Quiet. Until he stops playing. “Are you taking any requests tonight, sir?” A trace of a grin curves her lips.

T’ral’s hands still on the guitar strings and he senses eyes on him. A pressure, a presence, turning to look just as Catryn begins speaking. Cate! A welcome surprise. He hops up and walks on the seats, “Pardon, ‘scuse me, pardon,” making his way up to Catryn, guitar held high so he doesn’t spang anyone in the head with it. That would be a terrible thing to do with a guitar. HIT SOMEONE WITH IT. “Of course, Candidate.” He folds onto the stone seat next to Catryn and studies her carefully, noting the tiredness in sunstruck eyes, more twilight at the moment. Beautiful, though. Still the fall of which makes his heart skip. All the more because of their time away. He busies himself tuning so that his hands have something to do, itching to touch. Arms to hold. “What would you like to hear?” Eyes fall to the book in her lap, the (Maktaba gnawed?) stylus held loose in elegant fingers. Cate! The thrumming of Esanth’s mind might as well be T’ral’s presence.

Catryn salutes when T’ral draws near as her rank requires her to do. If anyone were to witness that she didn’t offer the gesture, she’d get slapped with some awful chore like latrine duty to tack onto her list of duties for the next day. It’s still strange, though. “I can’t remember the last time I did that.” That grin grows a little wider as she looks down at her journal and closes it, the Maktaba-chewed stylus tucked behind her ear which gives her the look of an apprentice. She used to have a stylus poking through blonde hair when she was studying at the Hall all those Turns ago. He might recognize the look. “I don’t know. Something that won’t put me the sleep.” Because she is tired. And those fingers of hers aren’t so elegant even after a week of this new lifestyle. They scrub across her face in an attempt to perk her up, her back straightening a bit as she draws in a breath. When both hands lower and rest upon her lap again, she exhales and looks out toward the eggs that are scattered about the sands. “How’re things with you?”

It’s a flash of something that flickers across T’ral’s face when Catryn salutes him. It’s complex the tight smile he gives, “Well don’t do it again. Salutes are given standing. Never seated.” There’s an element of rote in the correction, threaded with an unnameable other. He doesn’t return the salute improperly given. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. He’s getting plenty of salutes these days. Just one normal interaction would be nice. But that’s… a long way off now. He settles and gets a glimpse of words in Catryn’s tidy hand before she shuts the book. He nods, smiling, “I can do that.” He does. A quick-tempoed tune, emotive, expressive, with a steady bass thrum that drives it forward. The fingers are still elegant, those nails though… T’ral studies his strings and tries not to imagine how much fretting Catryn is doing over not having her routines. He watches her watching the eggs. “Good. Six Falls with Lynx now.” There was a surprise Fall that Lynx was not on hand for. A Fall tomorrow over the Azov. “Our last was rough.” Eyes tighten. The last had been over Southern Weyr itself. “Where were you?” Safe, it seems. He’d checked the infirmary. Twice. Three times, if the trip through to chivvy the trainees in getting the Klah Shortage sorted out. “You?” He gives Catryn a measuring look. He knows what the barracks are like. He knows how miserable Maktaba is. “How’s Alarph?” This is Alarph’s second Candidacy. He’s a pro.

As complex and tight T’ral’s smile may be, the chagrin glinting in Catryn’s eyes is obvious when she glances over at the wingleader after he sets the tone for their conversation. She casts her gaze down to her lap and very pointedly places her journal upon the stone bench right before rising from her seat. The salute that’s given is crisp, held for a beat, then she’s able to sit back down. And when she does, it’s several inches away from the bluerider after she collects her leather bound journal back into her lap. Lips purse when the writing utensil is plucked from behind her ear and used to scrawl some notes, the book’s cover partially lifted so it’s difficult for T’ral to spy unless he were to really crane his neck. “I think I was in the kitchen for most of the Fall.”she says, voice rasping until she clears her throat. The candidate’s eyes remain focused upon the page in front of her even after she closes the book and returns the pencil to its previous position. “Alarph is good. He still likes to sleep on my pillow, but we’ve a lot less space now so I think he gets confused when I bump into him at night.” Fingers curl around the edge of the journal as her attention drifts back to the eggs again. “Glad to hear things are well with Lynx. I think we’ve both been jostled with new routines.”

“I’m sorry,” T’ral offers after seeing Catryn’s embarrassment. “Saluting etiquette isn’t… it’s…” he swallows, brows furrowing, eyes drawn down to Catryn’s sturdy, sensible boots when she rises to salute. Dark eyes flicker up from under furrowed brow, “At ease, Candidate.” And, since it’s going to be formal, he grants, “Permission to speak freely.” It’s the most he can offer. The tune is well-suited to the tension, in fact, the moments of stress, moments of quiet. Such as what falls when the last note shivers and all that fills the silence between them is the scratching of Catryn’s stylus. He cranes his neck a little. No secrets, right? Fingers, for wont of other things to do, fall back to strings and the noodling flow of notes resumes. “Good. The wranglers are usually good at keeping Candidates safe.” Which during Fall, generally means inside. “Say, you didn’t see that rangy chef in there did you?” T’ral reaches to tuck a strand of Catryn’s hair behind her ear and stops, smile twitching. ‘Well’ is overstating things after the last Fall, but… there’s a shadow that falls over T’ral’s eyes briefly, he clears his throat and blinks. It’s gone. “Some more than others.” He looks at the strings, at the journal, at the stylus tucked apprentice-Catryn-like behind her ear, her long hair drawn up in a runnertail, “I like your hair up,” her eyes. There’s a glint in his now and a barrow full of rue.

Catryn draws in a breath and shakes her head after T’ral addresses her in that manner. Her eyes lower to her lap again as the breath is exhaled slowly through her nose. Lips purse. “I’d rather not say anything at all if it’d mean that you wouldn’t have to give me permission to do anything.” It’s a foreign concept. T’ral’s formality makes her skin visibly react to his words and she stiffens in an attempt to remain focused on the conversation. “I saw a new chef, yes. He wasn’t there when I was making dishes for Serval.” And now Lynx has been spared her efforts for an indefinite amount of time. “He wasn’t amused when I managed to burn bread and cloud up the kitchen.” A hand reaches up to scratch at her forearm as she quietly winces at the memory. It wasn’t pretty. And speaking of pretty, she winces again when T’ral comments on her hair that hasn’t been properly tended to since she accepted the white knot on her shoulder. “Thanks. What I wouldn’t do for one of my hairclips right now.”

T'ral's look at Catryn warms. "That's… brilliant." If they don't talk they don't have to do this dance of propriety. "Less awkward that way, right?" They can sit in silence as if on a long quiet evening, her reading (writing) and he playing. He hitches the guitar in his lap, taking the opportunity to shift closer — he didn't miss that move away, Catryn. However small the gap. Dragonriders are aware of spatialities. T’ral’s only response to Catryn’s confirmation is a narrowing of eyes, speculatively looking off in the distance towards the eggs, if not at them. “That was you, huh?” The Living Caverns had reeked of smoke for some time afterwards. He wrinkles his nose, part memory and part sympathy. “I’ll see if I can get some dropped to you.” Hairclips. “I’ve missed you.” T’ral’s head is hung, looking at the guitar, eyes askance draw his expression Catryn-ward, looking out from under canted brows, forehead wrinkled. “Maktaba is a terrible conversationalist. He hasn’t destroyed one thing.” A beat, “I’m a little worried about him. He won’t even look at buttons. Or styluseses.”

“No, there’s no point.” Catryn says with a sigh. “I’ve only got a small locker for any extra space and it’s already full. Just make sure Maktaba doesn’t chew any of them while I’m here.” Even though T’ral just said that the poor little brown hasn’t been himself lately. Catryn wilts at the thought and looks over T’ral again, her expression sympathetic. “I’ve missed you too, but…” She wavers at the thought. “I don’t know when things will be normal again. If ever.” The future is so uncertain at this time. “Lying awake in the barracks every night makes me think about what’s best for… everything. Me, you. Us.” And having an overactive imagination does not help her anxiety at all when she thinks about the future. A planner, she is. Not knowing is torture.

T’ral’s exhalation is through the gate of his teeth, “Pshhh.” He rolls his eyes in amusement he hopes to share, “Catryn, love.” Music fades as he reaches to tuck a crooked finger under Catryn’s chin and tip her face towards him. “When have things here ever been normal?” He blinks hard against that feeling in his chest. The rising and falling at once. Two turns and all it takes is a touch. A glance. And equilibrium trained in one of the most acrobatic wings on Pern goes happily pinwheeling out the window. He risks a brush of fingers on Catryn’s cheek, pressing them there a moment before withdrawing his hand. “We’ve been through this before.” The separation. He shakes his head against Catryn’s worry and shifts, letting the guitar slip up as he does, turning towards her, a knee tucked up, arms around the guitar, his cheek resting along its neck. “Looking back, every step along my way seems obvious. Inevitable. But…” he shakes his head again, the guitar’s head above his waggles too, “I could right very now have been on my way to Senior Journeyman Harper. Or following in my father’s footsteps.” T’ral would have made a fine Headman. “And…” it’s a heart wrenching expression, a longing for what can’t be, but a determination too, and pride, “Any of those could be ‘best.’” He risks another brush of fingertips against Catryn’s cheek, “Let’s say ‘best’ is ‘together’ and be done with it.” His brows pop in inquiry, smile slanting lopsided. He can’t (won’t) help it, fingers stray from cheek to hair, brushing unnecessarily really, stray strands behind Catryn’s ear. He pauses, glancing at fingers and drops them again and resumes the embrace of his oldest companion, a friendly bulwark now, between he and Catryn. “And whatever comes,” Thread. Impression. Injury. Pirates. Casseroles (Disasteroles). Serial killers. Flights. Wildlings. Double goldflights. Eighty eggs. “Comes.”

Catryn’s chin is tipped up and her face turned toward T’ral when gentle fingertips draw her attention away from her lap. His words bring memories of their relationship to the surface and with them comes a reminder that their bond has been anything but normal over the past two Turns. T’ral’s touch from chin to cheek to hair has her overwhelmed with appreciation that he’s here with her. A breath is drawn in with a nod and exhaled quietly as Catryn scooches closer on the stone bench to bump shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “Do you remember when you were released from the Hold after your time as a convict? I was still living at Igen then.” The glittery starlit sky is glanced at with a grin while both hands grip the edge of the bench. She leans forward a bit and then presses her shoulder against T’ral’s as her concentration remains skyward. “That was… six months. But it felt like an eternity. I remember having the same attitude of whatever happens… happens.” A beat, “Because you just left without telling me anything.” That last bit is more of a tease than anything. “It’s a little different now. It’s… my life that’s throwing us out of balance.”

T’ral rolls the guitar and squares on the bench for the incoming shoulder bump. “I’m not likely to forget that.” T’ral’s tone says ‘EVER.’ Barring, yanno, head trauma. It happens. “It’s better.” The bluerider shrugs. “We’re both here at least. And we know,” he see-saws a hand, “where the other is.” Her last has him laughing. “WELL. It’s about damn time you took a turn. Shirker.” Shoulder bump back. Please don’t laugh. Please don’t laugh. Please don’t laugh.

“Shirk this, bluerider.” Catryn quickly reaches over to tickle-pinch T’ral’s side and then very conveniently sliiides away from him so she’s out of range. “And it’s about time you waited for me.” One leg crosses over the other as she very nonchalantly opens her journal and collects her writing utensil again to scrawl another note.

It’s only a token evasion that T’ral offers. Any touch is welcome. And his face crumples, teeth bared in a pained grin as he twitches away from Catryn’s tickle attack. A very level and conspicuously devoid of mischief look is leveled at Miss Tickling Archivist-Candidate, a single finger held up. “That’s one.” He’s keeping count. T’ral looks placidly out at the eggs resuming the strum of guitar. He glances at Catryn and shakes his head at how she could look so good in a uniform designed for unremarkability. He clears his throat, eyes drifting back to the eggs, voice lifting to a quiet falsetto. ‘Dear Diary, T’ral is a big fat meanie head. And yet I luuuuuuuve him. HEART HEART HEART.’

Snickering. Catryn is snickering as she finishes writing in her journal. “One what?” A honey colored brow ticks upward and she finds herself glancing over at T’ral while the book cover is slowly flipped closed. “And wouldn’t you like to know what I write in here.” Nimble fingertips trace along the leather binding as she looks down at the small journal with a grin. She’s quiet for a moment longer and lets out a sigh as her boots grate against the bits of sand on the stone flooring. Lifting her gaze, she looks over at those dark blue eyes of his. “Walk me back to the barracks?” She should probably throw a ‘please’ and/or a ‘wingleader’ in that request for good measure.

“You’ll find out.” T’ral looks down at his guitar where fingers trip and pluck notes from shivering strings. He is well aware that Catryn is giving him a look, brow arched and everything. He can see the finger drawing down the spine in his peripheral vision and it draws a big smile. “I reckon I’ll get to see it, one of these days.” He looks at her now, head swiveling to pin her with a look of his own, “‘No secrets.’ Remember?” Plus, right now, he could totally just order her to hand it over. BECAUSE THAT WOULD GO OVER WELL. T’ral has learned at least enough to know better than to do that. He pops up to his feet at her request, “It’s a rider’s duty to see a Candidate safe.” He offers her a hand up, entirely unnecessary, but, hey. An excuse to touch. Not to be passed up. Once she’s on her feet, he turns to hop down the risers, “Pardon, ‘scuse me, pardon,” weaving through the egg oglers to his guitar case. Whuff. Creeeak. Clack-clack-clack. And T’ral is back, offering his arm. “Curfew soon, Candidate.” There’s a hint of sympathetic ‘better you than me’ in the look he shares.

“No secrets.” Catryn confirms while standing up. The journal is pressed to her chest when T’ral makes his way back to the guitar case and she’s left to stand by herself for a moment. He could absolutely order her to hand over the journal, but where’s the fun in that? It would just mean that she’d avoid him like the plague for the rest of candidacy and beyond. It’s bad enough that he’s corrected her already. That’s one. T’ral’s ‘better you than me’ look is met with an eyeroll at the same time his offered arm is denied. “When have you ever known me to stay out late?” Unless it’s working some overtime in the library on a project or for a display of some sort. A very slight shiver follows and a hand is raised a bit for emphasis, “I’d rather you call me by name rather than rank.” Journal is lowered again as Catryn makes her way down the row leading toward the stairway. “I can call you by rank and properly salute everytime I see you, but please don’t treat me like a number.” One of many.

It’s bad enough Catryn gave a seated salute. Seriously. Who is teaching people these things? There’s a dry laugh for Catryn’s question, “So, what?” eyes scan the upper reaches of the ledges where dragons loom to watch over the eggs, “Only most nights of any given seven.” Mmmhmm. Refute it, sister. He lowers his arm and brows furrow briefly. He tugs the hem of his coat taut, chin lifting a fraction. “None of the Candidates are ‘numbers.’” T’ral trails after Catryn, catching her swifty, her elbow touched, pressed, suggesting a stop. “You least of all.” T’ral’s face is grave. Grim, even. “If you Impress, Catryn… it’s just the beginning.” His face pales a shade. That shiver Catryn gave, echoed in a tremor, shoved down. T’ral recoils a bit. Blinking. “I call you ‘Archivist’ and you don’t bat an eye.” His face is a maelstrom of conflicted emotions, “Are you not proud to be a Candidate?” There’s a flicker of something there.

Catryn’s elbow is touched and she stops to pivot and look at T’ral. “We’re all numbers. They need as many bodies as they can get for those eggs. When the Hatching draws near, they’ll grab anyone of sound mind to Stand. It’s not earned.” Pride swells in her chest for her previous rank and a nod is given. “I didn’t bat an eye because I earned that knot. This?” Fingers pluck at the single white cord on her shoulder. “This was given to me because they need a body. Or someone to clean the washrooms and mend glittered socks or burn loaves of bread in the kitchen…” It takes some talent to fill the living cavern with smoke. “Knowing that there are other people who feel that I am capable of dragonriding does fill me with a sense of pride, but I often wonder if they’re just fooling themselves.” A beat, “Or if I am.”

“Is that what you think?” T’ral leans closer, “That you or others don’t deserve to be here because there’s no test?” T’ral’s presence intensifies as he begins to enumerate the ways in which Catryn is suited for her potential fate, “You sketched a portrait from memory.” In exacting detail. “Do you know how rare that is, that talent that you honed through practice? Do you have any idea how important the ability to hold an image in your head is to a dragonrider?” He swallows, “It’s the difference between life and death.” T’ral shakes his head, recollecting the pit he carried in his stomach when his weyrlings first learned to ::Between::. “You killed a tunnelsnake,” he flares a hand, gesturing at said tunnelsnake, “With a high heel.” Other hand flared, highlighting exhibit B. Lips draw into a rueful grin, “You climbed out your window like a cat burglar when you thought I was in danger.” A beat, “In your pajamas.” T’ral’s expression grows intent, fierce, “The body can be trained, Catryn. Hardened. It’s much, much harder to cultivate what you already have.” His eyes bore into hers and he points at his brow and then his chest. He blinks and leans away, straightening, “Any one of these Candidates could be flying my flank one day. Maybe you.” T’ral would not do well with Catryn in his Wing. Or would he? “They are not numbers. And neither are you.” He considers her last carefully. Quietly. “You can do this.” A beat, “What are you afraid of?”

“I didn’t pass a test to become a candidate, no. And while I may have the very basic attributes of a dragonrider, it doesn’t guarantee that I will ever become one.” Catryn says in a matter of fact tone. The journal is clutched to her chest again like she’s holding onto something that might not always be there, her expression turning solemn as she looks up at T’ral. “For Faranth’s sake, I don’t need to be lectured about what it is I should or should not be doing, or how I should or should not feel about any of this.” A few heartbeats pass until Catryn shakes her head and turns to start making her way down the stairs. “And I never said that I couldn’t do this.” The writing utensil is plucked from behind her ear as she opens the book and maneuvers the pages while single handedly balancing the journal against her wrist and forearm. It’s like she’s done this before in a different setting under different circumstances. Her pace slows while a note is scribed onto the parchment and then quickens again once the book is snapped shut and pencil is replaced. “Afraid?” she asks quietly with an elegant snort to follow. “I’m more skeptical than anything.”

“‘Very basic attributes.’” T’ral lets Catryn go on ahead. He’s stopped. “Is that what you think it means to be Searched? By a dragon like Esanth?” There’s a practically a whole wing’s worth of rider pairs sniffed out by the stardust blue. “This isn’t about T’zaim is it? Because he called you soft?” T’ral is scowling now, down at the Sands. Is that bastard bronzerider down there? There are ocular daggers heading his way, if so. Muttering unbecoming of a gentleman grinds out between clenched teeth. He trips along to catch up with Catryn, the guitar case thumping against his leg, craning for a glimpse of whatever Catryn is writing before she snaps shut the pages. “I guess I don’t understand why you accepted. If you’re this ambivalent.” He looks at her sidelong, chin tipped down, studying her. “I can tell you you’ve got as good or better a chance as anyone, but there are never guarantees. Is that what you want? A guarantee?” Oh. Maybe so. She even SAID so. T’ral swallows. I’m such an idiot. He looks over at Catryn, brow stitched fond and pained both, a tapestry of concern and care. He sniffs, feigning faint offense, as he cranes to look over the lifted edge of the book and the berm of Catryn’s shielding arm. “You rather did suggest you doubt you can do this.” He sniffs again, chin lifted, “I am offended on Esanth’s behalf.” A rumbling thrums into the back of T’ral’s head such that the bluerider dizzies, « Leave me out of this. » T’ral squints, » Oh, no. You’re along for the ride, pal. We’re here because of you. « There is an eloquent roll of constellations past be-frosted portals. There’s static on the comms channel before the frequency squawks to silence, « … was that? Repeat. I’m … there’s interfe-SKKREEEAWWWK. » Silence. “Jackass.//” Whoops.

Catryn stops short and turns to face T’ral when a surge of irritation manifests as a tingle on the back of her neck. “T’zaim?” The conversation she had with the bronzerider over a Turn ago surfaces from the depths of her memory when he’s brought up with such a scowl. “No. This isn’t about him. Maybe I seem slightly ambivalent about being a candidate because everyone can’t seem to picture me doing anything outside of the library.” The hand holding the journal is dropped to her side when she exhales slowly through her nose, and a quick glance is tossed toward the bowl where Esanth might very well be. The look on T’ral’s face hints that he’s in silent commune with the blue and the spoken insult is just added confirmation. “I know you are, but what am I?” There’s a hint — a hint — of amusement in her tone of voice that suggests she’s rather used to being the third wheel.

Speaking of T’zaim… “Someone paid my outstanding debt at the Clef.” Blinked remembrance tumbles out unbidden. “My stipend was back to normal and the Headstaff say a cavern worker,” T’ral doesn’t use the word ‘drudge,’ “Delivered the balance anonymously.” T’ral’s brow furrows. He sends a look to Catryn, ‘weird, huh?’ “Odd as things are around here, nice surprises just make me- What is that?” T’ral leans forward to peer at Catryn as they pass under a glow spilling light into the Hatching Cavern entrance, “Oh, glitter.” Ugh. “It’s everywhere, isn’t it?” There might just be a bit of extra sparkle in T’ral’s teeth, but dang if those mashed tubers weren’t delicious. T’ral gives the Archivist-Candidate a sidelong look, because he just spent the last quarter-candle suggesting otherwise about Catyrn’s suitability for Candidacy and dragonriding. Much to his chagrin. “It rather matters more what you think, doesn’t it?” They exit into the bowl where Esanth is, in fact, and he utters his eerie harmonic rumble in greeting to Catryn. “You up for a bit of a flight, Cap’n?” A pause, his eyes narrow and drop to the spongy turf alongside the pathway. His nose wrinkles, “That’s probably not appropriate. Or. Would be seen that way.” He toes at the pavers of the path. Minor wilt, in the slouch of spine and slant of shoulders.

There’s a bit of a wince when Catryn tucks her chin to look down at the speckles of glitter clinging to her shirt. It is everywhere. The Weyr will be plagued for Turns. Esanth’s rumble draws her attention upward again and she grins at the stocky blue — it’s been ages since she gave him scritches. And she seizes the moment to do just that. The small journal is tucked into the back pocket of her trous before she leans into the scritches with both hands running up and down Esanth’s snout. “I don’t think we should. It’s not that I don’t want to, but if certain people see me leave at this time of night, I’d probably get another chore list tacked onto the one I already have for tomorrow.” When Esanth lowers his head, he invites Catryn to drape over his muzzle and scritch the other side of his jaw. She’d curl upon the blue if she could, but will settle for a temporary sprawl as nimble fingertips work against the smooth hide. T’ral’s wilt goes unnoticed, especially when Esanth’s rumble vibrates beneath her and she’s actually laughing. “I really should get back to the barracks.” The deep rumbling against her belly makes her voice sound shaky, which causes her to laugh even harder.

Esanth rumbles, jaws cracking to show the zigzag knit of wicked teeth, his eyes shading a deeper blue-green under Catryn’s ministrations. T’ral looks up from his wilt and grins at the pair. He sighs. Defeat. “You’re right.” Eyes fall along the off-limits curves of Catryn’s body and alight on the blocky outline of her journal. He reaches out a hand to Esanth’s muzzle, presumably to join in the petting. Presumably. There we go. Lean just a little further… Is Esanth wise to this? There we go… T’ral reaches for blocky pocket just as Esanth ducks his head with Catryn sprawled over his muzzle to further spread her affections. There’s a sly and calculating cant to brow ridges and a look shared between dragon and rider. » Traitor! « Esanth rumbles his amusement and Catryn’s laughter peals out in staccato warble. It’s infectious, that laughter and T’ral inclines his head to Esanth, conceding the dragon’s superior move. “Well.” He announces, “Let’s go, then, shall we?” Esanth grunts and lifts his head, Catryn still aboard, swiveling to point himself towards the Training Grounds. T’ral sweeps an arm wide giving Esanth right of way, “After you.” He pivots neatly on a heel to trudge towards the barracks in escort of one still-slung-over-Esanth’s-now-lifted-muzzle-Candidate Catryn, guitar case bumping along against his leg.

Catryn can only assume that T’ral is walking alongside her as she’s carried toward the Training Grounds by Esanth. The trek isn’t far and when they arrive at their destination, the blue lowers his muzzle enough so that she can slip very easily off the smooth hide and onto her feet. Straightening a bit, both hands smooth the wrinkles of her shirt and pull the fabric down while she turns to face T’ral, who happens to be standing right there. The new rules she’s forced to abide by have her wavering as she desperately wants to reach out and hug him. To just put her arms around him this one time since it’ll be a long while until she can touch him again. Who knows how long, actually. “Thanks Esanth.” The dragon she can touch, so she does. More scritches are given to the silvery-blue hide for a moment longer when the lighting of the Barracks catches her eye and she finds herself stepping toward the entryway. “Oh wait…” The journal is snagged from her back pocket and flipped open, a page torn from the binding so she can hand it over to T’ral. “This is my schedule for the next few days.” Just in case he needs to know where she is in case of emergency or something. Right. “I heard that a few of us will be helping the Dragonhealers in a few sevens.” Stalling. Catryn is stalling.

It’s a mime convention here in the Training Grounds, as Catryn and T’ral twitch hands at the invisible walls between them. Esanth to the rescue, the smug bastard. The bluerider steps back a half-pace, drawing a hand down his beard, eyes rolling skyward. “This is going to be a long, long, long,” long, long, interminably long, “long Candidacy.” And … weyrlinghood. If. Calendars and dates flip through his mind’s eye and Catryn is handing him one such calendar page. “Oh? Oh. Thanks!” He scans it and then nods, handing it back. Oh. Wait. She tore it out, it’s for him. He flips it over, more schedule? Before folding it and putting it in his breast pocket. “Good. We could use some extra hands.” T’ral is happy to stall. “Green’s a good color on you.” A group of Candidates undergoing some ‘extra’ PT straggle in sloppy formation into the Training Grounds, shaky-limbed, sweating. Exhausted. T’ral notes ‘Flip’ among them. The wingrider detailed to put them through their calls the ragged formation to attention and snaps a salute to the Lynx Wingleader. Staggering into formation the group struggle upright and issue a volley of ragged salutes. T’ral turns, crispness somewhat marred by the guitar case in his hand, bulky thing that it is. He fires a salute in return. “Evening, wingrider. ‘Fun run’ around the bowl?” A nod from the other rider, “Aye, Sir. Any words of wisdom?” A sly grin at the bluerider from his former wingmate. T’ral casts a speculative eye over the wavering group. “No. A bath, something to eat. Bed.” He looks over at Catryn, “For everyone.” Esanth is peering at the group, his own intent look, sniffing out his Candidates, no doubt. “Good night, Candidates.” A beat, “Catryn.”

A very sympathetic look crosses Catryn’s expression while she watches her fellow candidates halt and assemble to properly salute T’ral and his knot. She catches sight of the look he casts down at her and returns her attention to her cohorts as they begin to file into the barracks. That’s her cue. “Thanks for the walk.” Or, well. Hitched ride is more like it. “I will see you soon, da— sir.” The salute she delivers to both wingleader and wingrider is quick, held for a beat, and then lowered once dismissed. It’s after that final farewell that Catryn turns around and enters the barracks to take her place amongst the ever growing number of candidates.

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