T'ral, Quentin


T'ral and Quentin discuss important things. And politics.


It is midmorning of the seventh day of the first month of the second turn of the 12th pass.


Southern Weyr

OOC Date


t-ral_default.jpg quentin_default.jpg



The rise from sea to Weyr is made serene by a charming road winding sand-trodden from beach below to stonecut entrance above. The path wanders among a surprisingly green valley where purple flowers bloom in charmingly unfettered profusion. The meadows themselves are often in high demand as picnic areas, for dragons are not allowed to land in the narrow valley itself. No trees nor cliff lies near to shadow the clearing, however, and the intensity of sun can be unbearable for those not familiar with the humid drench of Southern's summers.

It is the sixty-seventh day of Summer and 115 degrees. It is sunny and bright. White fluffy clouds drift lazily across the china blue sky.

'Cool' was a relative term in Southern's heat, but morning's pre-dawn temperatures had made the humidity more a caress than the sweltering blanket that would come later. In the dim barracks, Candidates had been roused, grouped up, then split into work details and hustled off to another long day. As far as running goes, if you're not a fan, being in T'ral's detail is the closest you can get to 'fun.' He's got the best running cadences, see? T'ral's detail had been assigned to the Seacrafters. A ship in need of repairs was hauled up in drydock and in need of warm bodies to scrub the hull clean of sea-gick (thanks for the term, Nevik) and a festooning of barnacles. Apart from one candidate who'd been cut pretty badly as the crew scraped barnacles from the hull, things had gone pretty well. The sun is high and bright, the sky blue and the temperature brutal. The humidity brutal-er. The morning's gentle caress is a full on swelter that makes life a misery. A MISERY. T'ral, for all that he's sweat entirely through his work clothes, seems entirely unphased by the miserable swelter. Upright, voice resonant, bright, calling cadences to keep the pace brisk. The current cadence ends with a shout of victory that is more a ragged 'groan' from the Candidates, and, having reached their half-way point, T'ral calls a halt. "Walk it off. Stretch. Hydrate - slowly. Slowly." T'ral's arms go up, fingers laced behind his head, chest going a-bellows as he paces in a tight circle surveying the group.

Walk it off? Quentin would rather sleep it off. That ground looks mighty inviting right now. Slicking his hands through sweat-darkened curls, he stares at T'ral with frustration mixed with disbelief. "How's he able t' talk in this, much less yell like that?" mutters the herder-candidate to the boy next to him, who answers with a slow shake of his head. Finding a waterskin, the boy takes a sip, holding the water in his mouth to let it rehydrate starved tissue before tilting his head back so it slowly trickles down his parched throat. Another slow drink, then he caps the skin and passes it on, letting wobbly legs take him in a stumbling circle, rather like one of his canines chasing its tail. Slowly. Painfully. "Uuuuuugh."

As if summoned by the rhetorical questions, T'ral, still breathing hard, ambles over. His legs are plenty watery, loose and sorta likely to head in any direction at all at this point, but they seem more or less under control, though maybe springier than they should oughtta be. "How you holdin' up?" He pulls a knee up to his chest, stretching. "Quentin, right?" He's adopted his father's trick of knowing all the people in his domain. That leg is hugged to his chest and the released, dropping loosely to the ground. Up goes the other, with a little wriggle-shift of keeping balance.

Oh, uh. Quentin spins suddenly - a bit too suddenly for his abused legs - and ends up sprawled ass-planted on the ground, staring up at T'ral with startled blue eyes. "Uh. Yessir," he squeaks. Apparently not all those vocal changes had settled. Grimacing, he levers himself up on his knees, rubbing his behind with one hand before somehow - with great effort and no few grunts - managing to push himself to his feet. His wobbly feet. He probably didn't stagger this much even when K'ane got him drunk. Of course, he had Linden to lean on then, too. "Can't tell up from down, and I think left an' right switched places, 'cause they sure aren't where they're supposed t' be, but I'm alive." A beat, then, "Maybe." Tired enough that Keroonese drawl is coming out, something he generally manages to keep under control.

T'ral's eyes go wide, seeing that arse-over-teakettle coming aaaaaaand going. The hugged knee drops and he's poised to help Quentin up, but the young man has it covered-ish. Still hovering, T'ral's hands are half-deployed ready to bumper Quentin if any of those staggers looks like they'll result in another tumble. "Stick with forward, then," the bluerider's chest is still going. He grins. He surveys the group, a quick wary look, counting noses and seeing that folk weren't collapsed or heavin— oh, there's someone heaving. Working with the Seacraft never smelled good. And the fishy broth they'd served the Candidate work crew for lunch… Well, Someone's enjoying it in reverse. T'ral's belly twitches tense, brazen call cutting through the muggy air, "Easy. Take some water." Hydration. Super key. And not puking. He turns his attention back to Quentin. "Your father really likes sandwiches." T'ral, cutting right to the important stuff. He flips his leg up at the knee, catching his ankle behind himself, doing that wriggle-shift again to keep balance.

"He does. Peanut butter and jelly - which, honestly, suits me just fine if'n he wants t' share." Quentin grins shakily up at T'ral as he shakes out his legs, reaching out to the nearest Candidate to keep his balance by planting his hand on her shoulder. Hearing the hurking, he doesn't bother to look around - in fact, he angles himself so he doesn't have to catch sight of the poor retcher. Not exactly the best background music for a discussion of fine gourmet sandwiches, after all. "The cooks here certainly know exactly th' right way to make 'em." Catching his wind, he manages to shed some of his exhaustion, and that drawling accent with it. "Have you ever had one, sir?"

The bluerider switches legs, pausing, frozen on one foot, dark eyes looking off and up as if there were some great log of food consumed that he's consulting. This IS T'ral, so there may in fact BE such a log. But it's at least not floating invisibly in the sky. "Come to think of it, no." More properly, 'I don't know,' but that answer was growing tiresome. "I've served plenty of them," at least once a week at the Infirmary. "Huh." A quizzical 'huh' to himself and a nod, like some decision made. T'ral drops his stretched legs and bounces, hopping up and down briskly. Switching tacks, "What do you like best about Southern so far?"

"Well, the sandwiches, of course." Quentin's expression is innocent as he twists his head to watch the bluerider, taking his own stretching exercises at a more leisurely - read, lazy - pace. At least he's doing them, right? Flashing a quick grin, he shakes his head, swiveling his hips this way and that. "No, uhm.. well, not the weather, for sure," and a baleful sneer is sent skywards. "The people, maybe? Everyone here is a lot… nicer… than back home." His tone is decidedly guarded; even now, it's hard for him to speak disrespectfully of his masters. "Or I guess a bit less judgemental, anyway," he adds, voice dropping to a near whisper.

'Slow' was the instruction. So unless that 'lazy pace' becomes 'laggard' it'll do. "Seems our sandwiches are a real draw," recalling Tuli's great and wailed dismay at the destruction of a beautiful sandwich she'd created. "If you don't Impress, maybe take up Sandwichcraft." 'Wichcraft for short. "You'd have an august clientele." T'ral works his shoulders now, stepping back to swing arms in wide circles. He gives a purse-lipped nod about the weather, "Want a tip? Don't fight it." He speaks at the crest of each large armcircle before the air whuffs from his lungs. 'Don't fight it.' Really? Easy to say, "The key to living in this swelter is One: Hydration and Two: Indifference. Every thought you spend on how miserable it is locks that notion into your brain." T'ral is sweating buckets. "Fixes your mind around it." Arms swing, "Gives it momentum." Arms swing, "Power." He grins, rakish, looking off into the middle distance again as he reverses the swing of his arms, "It has its benefits too." Reverse arm swings, "If you know where to look." Not that T'ral is looking any particular way. Nope.

"It makes me want to cut off my hair," Quentin replies flatly. "And I like my hair. But lately it's either been limp," and he reaches up to scrub a hand through sweat-dampened curls, demonstrating their alarming lack of springiness, "or a giant bush that firelizards have tried to roost in." No, really. Sniffing, he peeks an eye at T'ral, as if hoping for a bit of sympathy with his plight. "I try to ignore it, I really do. Keroon can get this hot in the summer… for the most part. But as humid as the plains can get, it's nothin' like this," and he gestures languidly through the soupy air, demonstrating how thick with water it is. He's young. The idea of ignoring something that's discomforting him is decidedly alien. "What kind of benefits?" he asks curiously.

"That was going to be my next suggestion." The bluerider's own hair is short and straight, flattened by sweat into a damp cap at the moment. Not attractive, but not contributing to misery. No sympathy here. "You'll get the hang of it, just," T'ral's arm goes across his chest, pinning it in place with his other arm, crooked up, "Remember to forget it." T'ral's a pro at that. Just ask. He grins, lopsided. As far as benefits, the bluerider's gaze racks focus onto Quentin's face, it had been fixed at some point beyond the Candidate's shoulder. The look he fixes Quentin with is so entirely innocent it's pure mischief, "Half the satisfaction is finding out for yourself." He gives his arms a last swing and tips his head up to call out, "Ready to move in FIVE." Groans. Shuffling. The sick Candidate is getting to his feet and T'ral watches closely.

"Adults." Quentin's scathing one-word comment is very much under his breath. "Also, so not cutting my hair." He has one vanity. It's his curls. Fingers once again rake through the dripping mass, flinging outwards to scatter droplets of sweat across the ground - and maybe one or two nearby Candidates. Groaning as he's given a timelimit on this lovely reprieve from the tedious march, the boy uncaps his waterskin again and takes a mouthful, tilting his head back to let it trickle down his throat. "You enjoy this," he accuses the bluerider, fixing him with a dark stare. Then, belatedly, "Sir."

T'ral does the same, with the drinking. NOT with the sweat-slinging as Quentin CoverGirl whips his head around. "Enjoy what?" T'ral's tongue tests the inside of his cheek, head cocked at the Candidate, eyes darting to and fro about the clearing and the clusters of Candidates girding themselves for the run back.

Opening his mouth to answer - no doubt with a smart reply - Quentin pauses, then slowly closes his jaw, staring suspiciously at the bluerider. Some of these Southerners make it a bit too easy for him to forget little things like manners and consequences. "Exercising," he finally replies, a bit lamely. Because that was totally what he originally planned to say, of course. One last sip of water, and the skin is tucked away on his belt. "Guess it's time to push on?" he asks, perhaps a bit too sweetly.

T'ral's head is tipped back considering the teen's hasty and lame retreat, "Permission to speak freely, granted." Quentin hadn't asked for said permission, but T'ral's pretending he did. He takes a swig from his canteen, the blood-warm water sluicing down his throat and washing away saliva gummy for having hollered running cadences for the whole distance from Seacraft Hall.

Oh. Well. That was disappointing. Clearly, Quentin must practice the art evasion harder. "Uh, freely?" Blue eyes go wide as the boy gazes up at T'ral, the epitome of innocence. "I don't understand, sir." But even that attempt at playing dumb is a bit too much for him, and he barely manages to bite back a smirk, turning it into some kind of weird, twisted smile instead. "I just mean, you enjoy, uhm… teasing. Like your answer about benefits," he adds hastily, lest the bluerider misconstrue his remark. His hair is his touchstone, clearly, from the way he runs his fingers through it as he stares anxiously at the weyrlingmaster, clearly expecting a sharp retort.

T'ral has a pretty terrible pokerface. Or… at least, an only erratically good one. So he's reasonably well-attuned to the terrible pokerfaces of others. Don't worry Quentin. A smile twitches the edge of T'ral's mouth at the attempt at innocence and the last minute ejection of said attempt. At Quentin's question his eyes narrow, not in anger, but in thought. He rubs a hand down the beard framing his mouth. Thinking. "There're two things to know. One, I take the rules seriously and, two, I like it when people think." Too abstract, even for T'ral, he elucidates, "In this instance, I'm observing the 'no fraternization rule.'" Which covers canoodling between Candidates (not at issue here) and puts boundaries on interactions between weyrlingstaff and Candidates. "The benefits of this heat, you'll have to figure out on your own." He cuts a look at the female Candidate next to T'ral who is looking intently at the bluerider. Puzzled. She glances over her shoulder and, after a moment, laughs. The bluerider's eyes are impassive, but lit with amusement. "So. I don't consider it teasing, but if you do, I can be more plain."

Some of that might have been a bit over Quentin's head, given the decidedly puzzled look that crosses the boy's face, but he finally nods. "Okay." It seems the safest response at the moment. Another brush of his curls, then he drops his hands and shoves them in the pockets of his pants, rocking back and forth from heels to toes. He twists his head slightly, eyes sliding to follow the gaze of the other Candidate, but whatever is amusing her - and the weyrlingmaster - eludes the young man. The frustration at clearly missing something shows deep in his blue eyes, but his face is admirably passive as his gaze skews back to T'ral and he rocks, back and forth, back and forth. "So-o." Erudite as always, Quinn.

The female Candidate puts a hand on Quentin's shoulder, steadying herself in a stretch as Quentin had done earlier. She whispers something low to Quentin, directing his eyes to a knot of young women across the clearing. Sweaty and appealingly clad. There's a knot of young men not far from them, preening as they stretch. The interplay is timeless. The female candidate, Harla, dimples at Quentin and switches off, stretching her other leg. T'ral blinks, narrowing his eyes to try and hear what the young woman says, but if he catches it, he doesn't give any sign, instead watching to see what Quentin does.

For a moment, Quentin continues to look confused - but then his expression shifts, first annoyance, then a kind of weary resignation. His gaze lingers neither on the young women nor the young men, but rather falls away. He murmurs something in return - it has the sound of "thank you" - and his expression is lightened by a brief, quick grin flashed towards Harla. Once he's certain she has her balance, he shifts subtly away, then lifts his gaze to the bluerider, shrugging slightly. "I 'magine I'll find something," he finally replies, after a moment of silent contemplation. "Ain't never anything so bad there can't be some good to it." For a kid who couldn't quite grasp a simple concept earlier, he's certainly got some philosophical bent. He also has an accent again - a bit stressed, perhaps?

T'ral's brow knits in concern at the uneasy cast to Quentin's features. He takes another swig from his canteen, recapping it and afixing it to his belt. He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and scrubs a hand back over his scalp. Fucking K'ane. I'm terrible at this. He watches the cascade of expressions on Quentin's face. He tosses his head, summoning Quentin a short distance away, out of perceptive Harla's earshot. "You all right?"

Frowning slightly at T'ral, Quentin glances around, as if seeking some help, but unable to disobey the weyrlingmaster, he follows slowly behind, his reluctance clear in the dragging nature of his steps. However, the bluerider's question is clearly unexpected, and he blinks deep blue eyes at the man, tilting his head to one side in puzzlement. "Yeah, m'fine. Well," he corrects himself slowly, tamping down on his accent as he calms, "I think I'm fine. Seems not everyone does." Again, that flash of frustration, just shy of anger.

"Not everyone?" The bluerider's upright posture eases a bit, a contraposto slouch, comfortable, at ease. Interested. Dark eyes survey the clearing, clusters of Candidates stretching, drinking, catching their breath, the vigor of youth bringing them back to center quickly. But they're still tired enough not to be getting into trouble. Yet. "Up. No sitting. Stretch out!" T'ral barks over Quentin's head and flashes an apologetic look at the Candidate, face schooling back to interest again.

Shrugging, Quentin consciously mirrors T'ral's pose, eyes narrowed slightly as he tries to emulate the bluerider's nonchalance. "Some people just expect everyone t' be like everyone else. It'll pass, m'sure." Not exactly much of a student of human nature, if the boy believes that. "Really, though," he adds, stressing his words slightly, "ain't nothing wrong." Unspoken "with me" hangs in the air as he pauses, those clear blue eyes of his fixed firmly on the weyrlingmaster's face. "I just gotta adapt." To the weather? Or to being in a Weyr - a world away from his previous life?

T'ral nods, soaking in the words. Some people. Mmmhmm. There's something bothering the young man to be sure. But T'ral's not going to press. Not directly. "You told me about your deep and abiding love for sandwiches." What could be more intimate? "What's your least favorite thing about Southern. Weather excepted." Because, duh. The weather is ALL 10 of the Top 10 Least Favorite things about Southern.

Hey. Sandwiches are king. His father shared one of those precious sandwiches with him - that probably counts as one of Quinten's highlights in his life… or at least in the past month or so. "Least favorite things? And I can't pick the weather? Now that's just mean." As the conversation slides out of boggy ground, the boy's frame visibly relaxes and he grins up at the bluerider, eyes twinkling. "Uhm. I guess humidity counts as weather. Maybe… oh! I know." His voice lowers slightly. "Those damn evaluators that were sent from the North. Ain't right." Clearly, being a Candidate hasn't damped the boy's fight in his Crusade - even if it's managed to distract him.

Sandwiches are delicious, sure. T'ral has yet to have a PB&J. Maybe he could get Q'fex to make one. If he remembered more (READ: Any) of the missing two years he probably wouldn't entertain the thought. 'Those damn evaluators.' Interesting. "You're Herdcraft, right?" T'ral uses the present tense, he'll always be a Harper. With Crusades. "Why'd you think they're here?" T'ral's own language is rounding at the edges.

"I am," Quentin replies proudly, lips twitching upwards. T'ral's next question, however, drives the smile from his face and his expression tightens slightly. "I think… I think they're here because the masters don't want to admit that the crafters that came to help save their shit might just know some things better than they do." Clearly, he's begun to adapt to the Weyr a bit, to be willing to speak so openly in defiance of his masters… even if his cheeks gain a bright highlight and his shoulders hunch unconsciously. "And I think they're afraid to admit that girls are good for more than just takin' care of home. I mean, I get they might feel a bit scared - I don't like it when someone's better'n I am, but think of what we could learn!"

Now would be as good a time as any to work on his pokerface. He's floored by the words coming out of Quentin's mouth, not because they're subversive, but because he might as well be listening to HIMSELF from Turns ago. "I left Harper Hall for similar reasons." He folds his arms across his chest, "Found my father here, too." Kindred spirits. On more than one level.

"You did?" Quentin stares at the bluerider, jaw dropped slightly in astonishment. "Then you understand, sir, why…" He trails off, shaking his head. "I don't understand. So much knowledge… imagine what we could do with what they," and he gestures vaguely, encompassing the Weyr - and its resident Crafters, "could teach us." He sighs, expression a bit crestfallen. "Maybe the evaluators will do some good," he murmurs, not sounding quite convinced of his own words. "Maybe they'll wake th' masters up." He lets loose a sigh, then shakes his head abruptly. "Who's your father?" Then, blushing, adds quickly, "If you don't mind my asking, sir."

"I did." T'ral grins now, teeth flashing briefly in the frame of his short-cropped beard, "I do. And I think, perhaps naively still, that Southern's wisdom will bear out." He looks off towards the Weyr, "Cross-craft training, sharing Now- and Oldtime techniques. The best way will stand." A dark look flickers across his brow, "Though we're very beholden to the North still for firestone." He dips his head down, looking at Quentin out from under raised brows, "So don't go mouthing off to the evaluators, or even talking about this too much. It's a delicate situation." And, for maybe the first time EVER, T'ral is grateful that his life is relatively simple and that the concerns of the crafts and the politics of the Weyr and its place in the world are not his to navigate. "Be sure to be extra nice to our goldriders, hey?" Not that anyone, especially a lowly Candidate, needs that urging.

"I don't… I don't usually talk about this," Quentin admits, cheeks heating slightly. "It's just, well… you did ask." His head lowers, and he peers up at T'ral through the thick mass of curls that falls over his forehead. "I wouldn't want to screw things up for the Weyr," he adds earnestly. "I just want the crafts…" He trails off, flapping his hand to emphasize what it is he won't say. After all, the weyrlingmaster did just ask him to hold his tongue on the subject of his crusade. At the bluerider's admonition about goldriders, however, the boy throws his head back, staring with wide, shocked eyes. "I would never disrespect a dragonrider, sir!" he exclaims. "Much less a… a… weyrwoman!" How easy to forget his own whiskey-induced actions not so long ago.

"This," T'ral waves a hand back and forth in the space between the two of them, "Is okay. Just, be careful -be smart- until we're through this." Delivered with certainty that Southern would get through it. Jaw set. Eyes flinty. "Southern's Crafters will always band together." Except when they don't, like, maybe now, with 'legitimacy' dangled in front of everyone. Solidarity? About goldriders and riders in general… "No," T'ral considers Quentin over folded arms, "I don't imagine you would. The goldriders carry a heavy burden. Our work," Fighting riders and, by his Candidacy and potential-future-Impression, Quentin is, for the moment included in 'Our,' "Is hard and dangerous. Taxing," he looks very tired momentarily, "But relatively straightforward. Care for your 'mate. Watch your Wing. Flame Thread. Don't get hit." He left off, 'Do it again.' And 'For forty years.' In the long run, it would be VERY difficult to be a fighting rider. But still… relatively straightforward. "Their work is… fraught." With what? Fraughtness.

"Glad I won't never Impress gold," Quentin mutters, listening to T'ral with a rather fascinated expression on his face. "I don't even know - " He cuts off abruptly, shaking his head. "No, I can't really say that anymore." Whatever it is he didn't say. "Any dragonrider deserves respect," he says instead, staunchly. "S'way I was raised, and what I'll always believe. I was at Keroon," he adds in a soft voice. "I saw. No one'll ever tell me that you guys," because he totally doesn't have a dragon… yet… "don't do th' work of any crafter or holder and then some." Aww. Srs little Quentin, complete with jutting chin. It doesn't last, as his lips threaten to quirk at some passing thought. "Anyway. I don't wanna be sent back to Keroon. Not right now."

T'ral laughs at the idea of relief at not becoming a goldrider. "No, small chance of that. Unless you AND one of those eggs is hiding something." His lips twitch. The tone is not a dig at Quentin's manliness, just a wry observation. Maybe T'ral does like to tease. Or maybe his sense of humor is a bit cracked. T'ral nods at the young man's sober accounting. "I'm glad to not remember that." T'ral wakes with nightmares that might be memories. Or might just be nightmares. There's no way for him to know. "It's hard to quantify what we do. Because when we're effective life is normal. It's not better. Just normal. Safe. When we fail," he swallows, "Everyone suffers. And everyone knows about it." He shrugs, "Coming off an Interval, folks aren't used to needing us. Here's to hoping that as the Pass continues, Crafters and Holders will see us as more than freeloaders living off of their sweat."

"Some already do," Quentin assures the dragonrider quietly. He doesn't take offence at T'ral's quip about his manliness - or lack thereof. In fact, it seems to go right over his head. Blue eyes peer keenly at the bluerider, and his brow furrows with a little confusion as he asks, "You were at Keroon? But you don't remem- " He cuts off. "Not my business. Just… sometimes there are small blessings in this world, yes? I can't imagine what it was like from a rider's point of view. Being on the ground… was bad enough." Taking a deep breath, he shoves that subject aside, unwilling to dwell on dark thoughts when in such compatable company as the weyrlingmaster. "I believe everything will work out, sir."

The bluerider nods, agreeing, "Some do. More and more." His brows raise at Quentin not knowing about his 'condition.' "Ah. I see the rumor mill isn't functioning in that regard. A good thing, I suppose. Yes, I was there. No, I don't remember it. You can ask, if you want." It makes some folks uncomfortable and since Quentin is steering towards shallower waters, T'ral gives him the out of not asking. "We'll all do our parts. On the ground. In the sky," he looks upward, "Hold, cot, Weyr. We're none of us alone in this." A smile tugs his lips as his star-dusted blue sweeps overhead. Especially riders. "All right. Fall in," T'ral says quietly. "Good talk, Quentin." T'ral trots off to round up his work detail with a nod to Quentin and, when he passes her, Harla. Straightening and lifting his head to call out, T'ral's air-shivering cry rings out over the clearing, "Fall in! Double-time to the barracks." The work detail tramps out of the clearing towards the weyr bridge. Setting a quick pace, T'ral catches Quentin's eye, a brief nod, missed if Quentin's not looking, and then the bluerider is hollering again, "Loud and proud, Candidates! Rattle the bridge! Shake the Bowl!"

The out is taken - though not, apparently, from any discomfort on Quentin's part, given the boy's almost placid expression. More likely, he feels if T'ral wants him to know, T'ral will tell him. He's easy like that. As the bluerider calls for the Candidates to fall in, Quinn takes up a place behind Harla, ignoring the half-questioning, half-sly looks aimed his way. He monopolized enough of the bluerider's time, it's likely there'll be a rumor or two cropping up before heads hit the pillows tonight. Returning the weyrlingmaster's nod with one of his own - coupled with the faintest smile - the boy takes a deep breath, shakes out his shoulders, and joins in the ragged chorus. Well, if nothing else, he got his rest.

The work detail moves out, foot falls in a semblance of rhythm, voices raised in arguable unison. Call and response:


(while on the bridge)
T'RAL: Across the Bridge!
CANDIDATES: Shake the Bowl!

(on the stairs past the Weyr Entrance)
T'RAL: Pound the Stairs!
CANDIDATES: Shake the Bowl!

(on the way back down to the lower bowl)
T'RAL: Down the Hills!
CANDIDATES: Shake the Bowl!

(going past the Craft Complex)
T'RAL: Hail the Hall!
CANDIDATES: Shake the Bowl!

(going past the ground weyrs, not close, in case there are convalescents in residence)
T'RAL: Past the Weyrs!
CANDIDATES: Shake the Bowl!

(past the Leadership Courtyard)
T'RAL: (stage whispering) Tiptoe tiptoe!

(at the Training Grounds)
T'RAL: Round the Grounds!
CANDIDATES: Home at last!

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