Who

Threvobek, Yukie

What

They scare each other. No one died.

When

No Idea

Where

Cold Storage

OOC Date 05 Aug 2014 07:00

 

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Cold Storage

Halite forms a thick, hoary frost on the walls, forever preserving the contents held within and offering up a somewhat bitter aftertaste to the still, chilly air. Frozen solid, carcasses are stacked like grotesque statuary against the far reaches of the walls, row upon row of foot-tagged herdbeast and fowl gleaming amid solid blocks of ice. The wintry chill of the place does little to dissipate the stench of blood that hangs,ominous, in the air; dry, coppery, permanent. The floors are covered in hides to contain any melt-off, while raised walkways between the aisles of food prevent contamination by human foot traffic and make it more difficult for the occasional pest to get at the Weyr's precious foodstuffs.


Everyone in Igen hides during a sandstorm, and Yukie is no different except for the fact that she's chosen the cold storage to find refuge. Deep within the depths of Igen Weyr, this is not really a place in danger of having a lot of sand involved. Thus, the greenrider seems so out of place with her austere, white dress and the rope of sun-kissed pale blond hair that dangles over one shoulder where she leans into the wall. Her balance is poised precariously as she tries to find the right juxtaposition of hip and leg to reach the smallest patch of little green molds that cling to the cold dampened walls. Her feet are bare (oddly) and she looks less like a wing rider and more like an urchin of nature. Dirt smudges cheeks and she is sans knot. A whispered sound of delight escapes parted lips as dark, blue-green eyes light with happiness at just almost, but not quite, but almost reaching the little patch of mold. At her feet lies the sad remains of a satchel from which quite a few specimen jars look to be in the process of being birthed. A giant, aged tome peeks out from the corners of the gutted satchel as well, the strap doing nothing to help hold its shape.

The door cracks open and someone gains entry, it's no smooth entrance. A boot is used to wedge the door open, foot striking out to the side and a shoulder positioned to bear the brunt of the door's returning weight. It's Threvobek, or if Yukie shouldn't summon his name, a stable grunt. Death dangles from his hand, the carcass of a small (60lb dead weight) porcine. It's skinned: fat and bone and muscle enough to salivate over when it's properly cooked and glazed in syrups. Door falls shut unaided and the young man takes a deep breath to hoist it on a hook. It's then he sees Yukie and startles. Poorly. "Shellin' wher bowels!" The very momentum preparing to launch it high cancels and the boy nearly loses his footing, teetering into a cured three-turn-old bovine torso. "You just shaved ten turns off my life!"

A first: Yukie, startled. Not much can startle the girl for in order to be startled, you have to hold onto certain expectations of life itself. Deep questions that writhe in the deep and yet don't exist within the girl's own sphere of life. However, concentrating so intently upon getting her sample, she isn't so much aware of her surroundings so that when the young man exclaims his expletive, she teeters on the edge of the smallest stool, weight unbalanced against the edge of rough wood. Half-turning like a startled cat, the greenrider has all of two seconds to summon recognition before she falls into a graceless heap, a collection of delicate bones and muscles and the float-flutter of a dress. Silence falls, breathing comes in short puffs of condensation riddled air. Finally, collecting herself to her feet, she turns to Threvobek a hand to her heart. Startled, her eyes are large and round and for a moment she appears to be truly, truly fully present in the moment. "Did I?" Eloquent.

The carcass is boosted again, this time with ire giving just the right impetus to snag the hook on a fleshy shoulder. Neatness need not apply, certainly the pig isn't critical. Threvobek is lulled by the blood pulsing in his ears and he can hear its faint surge, the soundtrack to his shake up. When Yukie does what he nearly did there's an honest part of him that enjoyed that but it's a part of his nature not civilized enough to be captioned on his face. "Yes." Ragged breaths smoothing, he arranges to help the woman up, sliding lengthwise between cold meats when lack of space warrants. "You do that to the cooks n' they'll likely jab you with a cleaver." How do you do, Yukie.

The present moment arrested, it lingers for as long as a breath, a heartbeat, and then Yukie slides back to the abyss. Her eyes are diffuse and wide, and her breathing equals out and the serenity is once again writ upon her mien. "Thank you," she answers when Threvobek aids in gaining to her feet, though the concern, the wideness of eyes, the pulse of the vein in her neck: all of these collectively dissipate, leaving the girl standing in a calm, placid stillness. "If they do, then it would have been my time to go." Hiking up the skirt of her dress to show the clean lines of delicate calf to the knee, she rubs at the skinned abrasion that flares an angry red on pale cream. "Do you hunt?" It is a question posed for the porcine he brought in with him, that detail not escaping her. "Threvobek." His name, pulled from the mists of memory.

Threvobek ensures he has secure footing on the walkway himself before pulling the known dragonrider to her feet. His grip, fingers stopping at Yukie's knuckles, is durably firm until her hand is released. The premier response of her time to go triggers a roll of his eyes, this is something to endure. "I don't know, can you can you still call it hunting when there's you, an animal, and a small corral?" From this vantage point of a few feet away Threvobek digests details, offers up "you're hurt," objectively. You're welcome, Yukie.

"No, nor is it sporting to end life in such ways, but it is necessity to feed the Weyr's hungry mouths," Yukie's assessment is calm, filtered through the zen-like tranquility of her demeanor. Yet something of her fright still exists, pulling her thoughts further from the depths of wherever she usually resides to the present moment. Enough that the flush of cheeks is true, and the eyes turn to Threvobek truly see the stable boy — more than just another of the collection of souls that make up the Human Organism, he is real boy (har har) that could provide essential aid. "I am? I am not." Question before statement, a juxtaposition of thought and expression. "It is nothing that salve won't fix." The skirt is released as easy, nimble steps — balance regained — are taken back to where her mold lies, tauntingly out of reach. "You sir," she quietly states, half-turning to lay the weight of her gaze upon the boy, "Could you please scrape enough of it off into this jar." He's got a good seven inches of pure height on her, not to mention the length of arms besides. A clear, empty jar is held out along with a butter knife.

Yukie's prism of serenity is a feat: she can take stale air, separate it into individual bands of color, and convince people they've seen harmony. Like a target of Cupid dodging heart-shaped arrowheads, Threvobek shields himself with a haunch, possibly wherry from the angle of its joints. "Suit yourself, ma'am." Not a taint of condescension there, he's not one to rush to the healers for anything. Saltwater and alcohol are the only components of his emergency kit. Looking around the grey flesh, yep, either wherry or the cold storage has bigger problems than mold, Rev analyzes what Yukie asks of him before answering. "I could." This lady is weirder than a three-legged hog. Taking the knife, "what's it for?"

"Four hundred and some odd turns ago, we had a plague. It swept through our lands like wildfire, taking everything living and animal with it where it touched," Yukie answers, calmly, eyes arrested on Threvobek for what he's about to do, though the softness that comes to limpid pools of blue-green has little to do with him and more to do with the memories that bubble up to the calm surface. "I decided that I would become a healer and help aid others to meld the old ways and the structured ways. I learned everything about healing I could, got my journeyman's knot and traveled to the future, where on my off candlemarks I still study my heart's passion." Attention pulls away from Threvobek to the mold that lies just out of reach. Covetous, almost, is the expression she wears. "Perhaps it has medicinal properties, perhaps it doesn't. But all strange plants can be future tools to eradicate the mire of disease. And I aim to collect that one. It is, thus far, unique to this room."

Threvobek marinates in Yukie's divulged bits of information, his tongue filling a slight gap of his teeth as he gathers all that will fit. "You know, I think I've seen this before," Hazel eyes sweep the dark area on the wall where the substance took its nutrients. Gross. "Between C'tran's teeth." Short guy, bad hygiene, Sandblaster, Weyr pun scapegoat. "Well maybe you'll find a way to make us all immune to Thread and the stench'll be worth it. Have you smelt this? Are my nostrils shriveling?" Mold and knife are given back so he can work the tip of his nose.

Eagerly does the greenrider await the mold and jar, Threvobek currently relegated to the vehicle by which that which she covets can be conveyed to her. As soon as the jar and knife are handed back, he is presented with a gentle smile — sincere — and a kind, "Thank you." The jar is quickly tucked into the satchel of nebulous structure before she straightens and dusts off her hands. "Something else would grow between teeth, C'tran's is full of mouth disease." Perhaps from the foot he constantly lodges into his cavernous maw. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it pleases me to continue to be a Healer, even if my life's work is now egressed from Healing to be that of dragonriding." Delicately does she sniff before shrugging. "It is life, nature. Some smells are not so sweet as other. Putrid wounds, for example. When the infection sets in, the rot can be smelled even where it lurks beneath the skin." Gross!

Confident his sense of smell still functions— he whiffs a raw tenderloin and the primal reek of flesh becomes almost lovingly familiar in this form or the one sheathed in skin and still grazing. Threvobek turns his hands in, fingers damp from handling the carcass and susceptible to the cold. "I bet he's your pet then, something to study." Yukie and C'tran sittin' in a tree, sharing foot and mouth disease! His grin has the boyish purity of unscrupulousness. "I…" thinking back to specific septic conditions seen in a stable, "have seen that." The difference between them is Yukie's proactive passion. "So, are you coming out now, ma'am?" Because his fingers could stand to have their nerve endings back.

Taking up the satchel, Yukie slings it across her chest and ensures that no jar escapes nor the large tomb that drags down the cloth of the bag to rest well below her hip, flapping almost at the knees. "It is no pretty sight," she does not comment on having a pet, though the calm look she levels upon him hints at a negative. With a last look around, she turns and makes light steps towards the exit. "I've got what I came for," this comes stated in a light voice filled with a satisfied smile. Limpid eyes sparkle and while Yukie is not given to explosive energy, there hums something about her demeanor that lends itself well to a sort of happy glow. "The cold is not good for damp fingers," stated for Threvobek, having seen the turn of his hands.

Threvobek's forearm brushes over the massive remnants of a herdbeast, some salt flakes still visible, legs severed at the last joints making it no less impressive. This was once Jobi. At peace with translating the living to the dead, and vice versa, there are no lumps caught in his throat or preliminary tears. Just memories not bound to bodies. Silently he gives pause at the door, presenting a hand to indicate he can carry the bag of healer unmentionables. "Don't take a healer to agree with you there, ma'am."

Yukie regards death with as little fervor as she regards life; neither evoke a swell of emotion good or bad. Although the masterwork of severing of tendons will bring a brief pause to admire a handiwork done right, but all in all, she laves the cold storage easily. A slight smile for Threvobek's agreement, though she will allow him to carry her bag of healer-y accoutrements. The bag is removed with little fanfare other than the bouncing rope of her braided hair against her back. "Do you ever go out into the sandstorm?" Idle question, or potential thereof.

Though the interior of the Weyr, a tomb of rock and inate darkness, always provides respite from the arid climate it nevertheless kindles a wall of warmth when they finally remove themselves from cold storage. It seems a matter of seconds before feeling rebounds in his digits but it'll be several more before the memory of cold leaves them. "Not always voluntarily," when an escaped calf or lost herder warrants, but in this one is the predilection to cut his teeth on a number of self-imposed dangers. "But when the mood's right I've been known to walk towards them." Yukie is allowed to pass before the door's properly latched shut.

If the cold has permeated Yukie's bearing, she does not show it, but she is a child of nature to suffer umbrage against her person without complaint. Whimsy dances within, chained to the chaos that writhes through the bond that keeps her contained to Inayalinaeth. "It is the wrath of nature. Never can one feel so alive than when one is facing down certain danger." She isn't rushing to run out into the sandstorm, but perchance there's a part of her that would. Stepping lightly through the doorway, she adds in serene tone. "I'm for the living caverns," she can't exactly get back to her weyr unless she braves the sand and wind, "although I've a partial mind to seek out the tea house. Until we part ways, I thank you for your help."

"Something like that," head ducking. In fact, it's everything like that but Threvobek is greedy with his praise. "Never been to that place yet, tea house I mean." He and tea are not real compatible entities. Not enough bite. But ran by the Steens there is at least one pretty server he wouldn't mind seeing. But today's wants and duties aren't apt to converge. "You just tell me where you want this and that's where I'll bring it." Frankly he's alarmed the mold might absorb its canister and wreak havoc. He'll follow Yukie's recommendations and be on his way.

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