Who

Hy'sh, R'sk, Rh'ysar, N'ox | Sovroth, Nazjandareith, Rekitryth, Tozkoth

What

Baby Dragon Chaos.

When

It is the seventy-ninth day of Summer and 105 degrees.

Where

Weyrling Barracks

OOC Date 26 Sep 2017 04:00

 

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FWA-WOOOOSH.


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Weyrling Barracks

Natural entropy lies restrained by sheer force of will within the chaotic spiral of Southern's weyrling-barracks. The large entry hollows out into an immense common area at the front of the barracks, where sustenance can be procured for both sides of the lifebond: tables are typically set out with at least the trimmings for sandwiches, and often carcasses lie in the hollowed pit for fresh weyrlings to carve chunks of meat for their new lifemates. Beyond, the couches are set within a U-shape around a long pool, spring-fed, large enough to bathe growing dragons.

Heavy tapestries line the stone walls towards the rear of the barracks, while space is at a premium towards the front: shelves and pegs hold leathers and tools, books and useful trinkets of the dragonriding trade. The narrow-point of the U branches into two hallways: one for the candidate barracks, and one for the weyrlingmaster's office.


ZOMBIE WEYRLINGS GO! Hy'sh is out here with Sovroth's giant ass, oiling the whiskey-leather brown with monotonous motions. He doesn't really seem to be awake, the artist's hands enjoined in this drudgery on autopilot. Sovroth, meanwhile, fastidiously points out exactly what spots Hy'sh has missed with sere flashes of aged white and vivid maroon.

A soft sound plays, wound through the noise of the barracks as a lone weyrling sits off to the side. His skill with the instrument was prized before, though it will no longer be so prized. His learning arrested, halted before it reached final fruition. Still, R'sk plays softly, a melody that tells its own secrets and mysteries. He does this to studiously ignore the dragon that rolls around on its back, feet up - to show off the soft expanse of belly. Claws flex: don't try to touch. Despite the melody played, R'sk's eyes are red-rimmed, and he plays more from muscle memory than anything else. He plays to keep Nazjandareith happy. He doesn't yet notice Hy'sh, but Kisa notices Sovroth. In three seconds flat, she's pouncing. FWA-WOOOOSH.

Rh'ysar and Rekitryth aren't very far off, but the bronze pair are focused entirely on a Super Important Project. Or rather, Rekitryth is working on a Super Important Project, and Rh'ysar is indulging him in the hopes that it will keep the young dragon from causing any other distruction. It doesn't keep him from vocally sharing his opinions of how the wildling man is handling his instructions. « No, not like— not like THAT, you idiot! » There's a huff of frustration from the 'idiot', before Rekitryth adds, « I've got to get me some thumbs. »

"Tozkoth, no, take that out of your — you can't be eating — I've told you…" N'ox's voice proceeds him as he follows his munchkin-walking tooth monster, who is gnawing an overly large oil paddle. The young bronzerider's eyes are red rimmed, and he is similarly a zombie weyrling. Why doesn't Pern have RockStar? I bet this group could use those. He straddles his enormous beast, using gentle yet firm fingers, trying to remove the wooden thing-a-ma-bob. Tozkoth continues to chew. Eventually, the bronze stops and spits it out, like it's nothing, in the direction of R'sk and his instrument. N'ox sighs in calm exasperation.

Tooth monster, thumb monster, CLAW MONSTER WTF « ! » comes Sov's single unstrung red-wine exclamation at the sudden impact of his sister against his freshly-oiled hide. "What tha fardlin' bleeders!" cries Hy'sh, his Bitran brogue classless as it is loud. "Olek, come getcher girl before I broom her straight off!" he's flailing backward from those little baby dragonclaws, 'cause omfg those things look dangerous AF man. (hi everyone, meet hy)

Nazjandareith has feets full of sharp claws, needle-sharp as a dragon's go. Though their promise is yet unfulfilled. Same with his teeth as they try and chew into his brother's neck: wings flap and R'sk looks up. He blinks. Eyes the dragons, eyes Hy'sh, eyes his boy and drops his head. "Nazjandareith." His voice is dull, half-hearted. See, the secret is that right now? He's not R'sk's problem. He is, but he isn't. "C'mere." He says it like he doesn't mean it. Doot, doot, doot. N'ox and Rh'ysar are eyed and his music falters. "Don't we all just look swell." His fluid voice contains a wry humor while still STUDIOUSLY ignoring the green's antics.

A moment of frustration, Rekitryth takes those razor-sharp claws to the wooden structure which Rh'ysar is attempting to build, destroying the thing in seconds. The man looks down at the mass of broken sticks in dismay, far too much time invested in what is now a wasted effort. But he bites his tongue, hard. "Right." Breathe in, breathe out. Don't yell at the baby dragon who doesn't know any better. Rekitryth seems slightly more pleased with his plans in this form, at least — already moving on to the next thing he can try to destroy just to see how it breaks. "I haven't checked how I look."

Crouching down to retrieve the bit of wood his dragon just spat out, chuckling and shaking his head - in tired good humour - N'ox grins a bit at Hy'sh's exclamation, apparently finding the situation with the claws amusing too. Baby dragons, man. His gaze sweeps to R'ys, and then Rh'ysar, just in time to see Rekitryth destroy the wooden thing. "Swell." He echoes, just shaking his head as Tozkoth wanders over and starts gnawing on some of those sticks.

Sovroth snarls and tussles with his sister, his own movements ungainly and clumsy but executed with more thought than a baby dragon should give such things. Hy'sh scrambles back away from the fracas, and then throws his hands up in the air when the two of them completely turn over the bucket of oil. It runs, quicker than shit, toward Toz and Rekitryth. SLIPPERY THINGS INCOMING. "Are ya fucken kiddin' me?" vented in frustration to the ceiling, but also to R'sk. Accusingly. Like only a brother from another mother can.

Nazjandareith is no where near her full potential so he is no match for his brother's game: he's clumsy, yet with the luck of a raven. He bends like one too, able to contort himself until his teeth snag his haunch. With a strangled sound, he scampers away and skids into a table on all that oil they knocked over. Like a scalded cat — HE HATES TO BE WET OH MY FARANTH THE WORLD IS ENDING — he spins off the table and hits a barrel of meat. Meat goes flying like a damned meat rain. Blood and bits drop with disgusting splats — dangerously close to what Rekitryth has destroyed. He flaps his wings and air hisses out of his snout. "I am not seeing this," R'sk warbles in an old-world country blues sort of way. "Nope. I'm hoping if I ignore it, it'll go away." Accusation slides off his back, but he does give his buddy a sharp look. Then it's N'ox's turn. "Your boy is eating the furniture." In case no one saw that.

Wait, that's still Rekitryth's pile of sticks, even if it's no longer whatever brilliant device he had planned. With a growl and a snap of his jaws, the bronze lunges at his brother. Those over-sharp claws come far too close to the other bronze hide, and Rh'ysar is forced to lunge and pull him back. It would be completely fine, except someone spilled a bunch of oil everywhere. As Kismaraeth goes spinning, Rh'ysar's feet go sliding out from under him, bringing Rekitryth down on top of his rider. There's a long string of invectives from the bronze as he struggles to regain his footing, probably slicing his rider open at least once in the process. It's only a flesh wound.

Just a scratch.

The good news is that Rh'ysar gets one resurrection, right?

"I know," N'ox replies, not without humour, to R'ys, and sighs. AND NOW THE FLOOR AROUND TOZ IS LAVA. No, wait. OIL. THE FLOOR IS OIL. This is new. Tozkoth's wee legs start to slipper-slide in opposite directions as he chews on that stick, and for a moment it looks like pudge mcfudge dragon there might do the splits. But somehow he doesn't. UNTIL REKITRYTH ATTACKS HIM. The surprised noise he emits is a bit like a kitten-quack, and he flattens onto his stomach. Watch out! He has sharp edges. He swipes his tail back at his brother, good humouredly. N'ox, chuckling, a hand over his mouth, no where near the oil, suddenly loses traction and falls onto his bum. DON'T KNOW HOW THAT HAPPENED. Sharding bad luck. AND NOW THERE'S MEAT RAIN. Toz spits out what he's chewing (because he's still chewing) and just opens his big toothy maw, letting that meat rain fall in. « Mates, mates! Check this out. » His face is all bloody now, but MEAT RAIN.

Sovroth rightfully wins (in his mind — concensus on that MIGHT BE A LITTLE DIFFERENT outside of his own head) and, as he's in the dead center of the oil, decides to do the smart thing and just sit down. Hy'sh just owlishly blinks around at all the mayhem and says in a hopeless tone of voice, "What the fuck is goin' on?"

"My dragon is hungry again," R'sk almost-wails, tucking the instrument under his arm. "It's like the burn of liquor in the gut that won't go away." All of that and Nazjandareith is now huddled under a table giving the room BIG EYES. "I… I gotta go take care of that…" He gestures to his brown and strides off. See, he's learned. Eventually, she follows. "Later," he mutters, tipping a lazy, two-fingered salute off his brow.

Rh'ysar is bleeding. Probably not to death, but it's enough that he should probably get himself cleaned up and bandaged before it becomes something worth worrying about. Rekitryth is somewhere between accusatory and guilt-striken. « What did you have to go and do that for? » See, this is all Rh'ysar's fault. Or maybe Sovroth? Kisamaraeth? Whoever it to blame, Rekitryth will make them pay… if he remembers tomorrow. For now, bronze and rider will slip-slide their way back to their couch, where Rh'ysar can clean the both of them up.

"Tozkoth," N'ox pushes himself to his feet, heading over to his dragon. He almost butt-plants again, but decides to slide across the oil instead. He does a bit of a shifty-eye at the HUGE MESS. It's a good thing D'ex isn't a weyrlingmaster. As it is, N'ox is just going to shout, "Oy!" after R'sk. "Your dragon caused this, you should help clean it up…" Rh'ysar is bleeding tho, so he's excused, except for the huge pile of sticks. "YOU TWO!" The assistant weyrlingmaster has returned, and is apparently blaming N'ox and Hy'sh whose dragons are in the middle of things. "Get this cleaned up." #fml #boo #innocent #badluck

"great job," lower caps necessary 'cause hy'sh's face is dejected af. "Fine. Come on." That's more-or-less to N'ox, and — the following amounts of time are filled with the chaotic comedy-drama of The Hijinx of Hy'sh and N'ox, and all the things that can be used to wipe up oil. Some people's poor uniforms nearby are going to get SACRIFICED for the cause.

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