Keep Walking Forward

Just The Crazies

Fri, 15 Feb 2008 05:12:17 GMT

Creston and R'us are both up too early and both in the springs.

Hot Springs
The first thing which draws your eye when entering this vast subterranean cavern is the sheer height of it - a massive bubble hollowed out of rock by the pressures of volcanic gases at some time when Fort's volcano still spurted flame. The eye is drawn up and up into the darkness of the ceiling, where occasional flecks of mica reflect the light and catch the eye, flickering like solitary fireflies. Towards the northern end of the cavern, the ceiling disappears and the sky can be seen where the volcano eventually released built up pressure so long ago - now it forms an entrance to the hot springs for dragon and rider, dropping down through the open ceiling to the rocky lake shore or to various ledges high in the walls - from which the more daredevil riders have been known to dive on occasion.
Down at ground level, the warm lake laps the shore gently, never completely still. Steam rises from the surface and ripples stir from the movement of the hot water seeping in from hidden springs. The lakeshore closest to the Weyr entrance is smooth and gently sloping, a safe place to bathe and talk, but further out there are various rocky coves that can be reached by swimming or by dragon. At night, glows set in the walls reflect their glimmer onto the water; by day, the light from the ceiling gives the lake ever changing shades of blue and gold, deepening to soft opal at dusk and dawn, casting shadows that seem to harbor small crevices.

A light fog dresses Fort Weyr this morning, a swirling and many-parted fog, the kind that makes a person aware that a fog is basically a cloud that's come down to kiss the ground. It keeps the morning more chill than it might otherwise be, though should the day prove clear the sun will burn it off by noon. But it's now barely past dawn and it's hard to tell where the gray of the fog gives way to the white of the steamy mist that rises from the hot springs; it's most apparent not to the eye but to the skin, when the droplets stop being damply chill and turn cloying and warm. Lindith sweeps through both with equal aplomb, gracefully cutting through sky and then the mist inside the cavern to alight on shore and let her rider off. She wears no straps, ready for her bath, and immediately wades out into the lake. R'us stands barefoot on shore a while, wearing just his jacket and his shorts and therefore a little ridiculous, to watch the margarita lady begin her lovely ablutions.

There's another watcher in the waters, though the steam and mist might obscure him at first, making his dark hair just another of the cavern's making shadows. But shadows don't move water, and there's the distinct sound of droplets and small splashes as a green dragon swoops her way in a little unexpectedly. A towel, revealed to be more than a pooling of fog, is snatched up by a hand and dunked down into the water. What was going to be a tool for drying becomes a means of modesty instead. "Uh," calls a voice in the mists, "Morning."

R'us blinks into the mist, trying to focus on a dark-headed shape, on the splush and swish underwater of something that looks like fabric. "Morning," he calls back, frowning, brows drawn. The Weyr and its ways have taken his modesty from him - or turned it inward upon himself, more accurately - and he sheds his coat and boxers tidily into a pile safely out of the water's way, then wades into Lindith's wake. Once he's hip deep he slides down into the hot water and starts paddling toward the voice. "Creston, that you?"

There's not much more splishing to guide the greenrider, now that the towel is settled. Better to keep still or it might up and float away. You can drop a holder in the Weyr, but you cannot, always, the the Weyr into the holder. Or something like that. "Oh," the voice in the mists says again as that smoky translucence shifts enough to reveal Creston where he's seated in the springs up against the edge. "Yeah. R'us?"

"Ashes, you're up early." Though drawled, there's almost a grunting tone to these words, something Creston's heard in the greenrider's tone before but might or might not readily place the significance of. R'us needs only a glimpse to know his way through the water to the edge where the holder lad's tucked; the springs are familiar enough to him that he puts his head down and swims the last few yards longstroke. Then he's upright again, tossing his head violently to get the wet hair out of his face, treading water just before the other man. Grinning a little, loosely, hesitant. "Don't tell me they're putting you on dawn shifts. In the -garden-, man, it's probably still frosted."

The groundskeeper remains lounging, not quite daring to move as R'us swims closer and whoosh, back goes that brown hair and a handful of water. Creston swallows and manages a smile of his own. "Oh, naw, nothing like. I was just...up. And chilly. So." So. So here he is. "You're up, too," he notes. "Sweeps?"

"Well, s'warm here." R'us grins, almost easy, and gently kicks himself toward the cavern wall so he, too, can look for purchase against it, for one of those little ledges best for sitting. "No. I'm free 'til evening actually. Just up early. I was up late."

"Ohhh?" Creston asks with another small smile as the greenrider appears and looks for purchase. "-Were- you." It is, perhaps, the young man's first attempt to sound vaguely suggestive. It may be a bit of a question as to whether he pulls it off.

He's trying to sound suggestive with someone who is perhaps a bit oversensitive to these things, though, and R'us' efforts to sink enough to settle in something of a sit on a ledge just a little too low beneath the water to keep him from floating a bit are halted so he can turn his head and stare blankly at the holder lad. Thick brows slowly slide upward and first panic, then amusement flicker in the depths of bovine eyes, in the purse of a broad mouth. "Yeah," he replies, at length, rough and ragged. Creston can be modest with a wrapped towel; it might take more than that to hide the flush that spreads upward from R'us' thighs over his belly and into his chest, but he suppresses it before it can get above the waterline so it -could- go unnoticed. "You doing, uh. I'm glad you're still here."

There are a couple more blinks on Creston's end as R'us goes from panic to wry to almost-flushed. "You -were-," he says, suddenly smiling brightly. "Hey. Nice work. I'm, yeah, I'm all right. Staying around." He lifts his hand out of the water to slick it through his hair, getting the shag wet and pushing it back from his face. "For a while."

R'us grunts, and at 'nice work' he outright turns his head away, jerkily tipping his chin down; and when that doesn't prove enough to haul his wet hair forward of his face he actually puts up a hand to pull the bangs down in front of his eyes and the other hand to finger through them as though he's trying to remove dirt by means of wet fingernails. "For a long while," he rasps, bending a leg up under himself so he's half-kneeling, which makes him tall enough on the sitting ledge to properly counterbalance flotation and finally seem stable in the water. "Or a little while?"

The smile diminishes as R'us looks sharply away and corrects his bangs, and with it gone, Creston's expression teeters rather closer to woeful than neutral. But he cups his own hands, splashing his face and then scrubbing at it so by the time R'us is speaking again, the ex-holder looks normal, if wet. "Long while, probably. I don't know. No plans to leave, I mean."

"Really?" R'us is easily guided through a variety of moods today, it seems. He turns his face back to Creston and flips back his bangs with a hand, his grin easy and wide, his eyes earnestly pleased. "How'd that happen? Creston, that's amazing. Are you - are they - how?" Has the greenrider ever been effusive enough to reach a hand out like he might grab the other man's shoulder? Chalk it up to the late night and the early morning, maybe.

There's a bit of a smile wanting to escape Creston's mouth for that sudden excitement, and now its his cheeks that are going a bit pink due to circumstances certainly unrelated to the current ones. "I just wrote home. Told them I couldn't do it. They're...I dunno. No one's written back." He swallows and shrugs a tiny bit. "I don't much expect them do."

R'us' eyes, already wide, widen more to hear what the holder's done. So simple, so small, but the greenrider seems stunned by the weight of it, and when he comes to that hand that floated hesitant just gives in and falls in a clamp on the other man's shoulder. He himself must lean a little closer to do it, bringing up the other knee underwater so he can shuffle to the edge of his sitting ledge. "Oh, _Creston,_" the greenrider breathes, his brows drawing now, the amazement giving way to pain. "I'm - I don't know if I should say good job, or I'm so sorry."

"Well," The shoulder not touched by R'us' hand lifts and falls in another awkward shrug. Made more awkward yet by the fact that the other one keeps still for fear of shooing away that touch. "You don't have to say either, it's all right. But, thank you. For before, too. Letting me go on about all of it. Kinda helped line some things up, I guess. But, anyhow," he tries a smile while clearing his throat at the same time. "What've you been up to since then?"

"I'm glad." Lowly spoken, voice rough but warm, R'us shapes a little grin around the words and squeezes the other man's shoulder to emphasize them. But that motion makes him aware that he's -touching- the other man at all and his gaze flicks down to where his hand's landed - and then his hand slips away and he's leaning back on his heels, sticking his hands where they belong on his thighs, licking his lips and gathering composure. "Uh," crap, does he have to talk about himself again? "Navel-gazing, mostly."

"Really?" the younger man asks, a little quietly. His shoulder, finding itself bare again, sinks with the rest of Creston's body a bit lower into the water. A poor substitute, but a serviceable one. He looks over at R'us sharply for that last, laughing. "Really? Whose navel, or shouldn't I ask?"

A startled twitch raises the greenrider's brows. "Uh," he says again, turning his head away from but keeping his eyes upon the other man so his gaze is wary from their corners, tipping his head forward to encourage soggy bangs to slowly drift over his brow. "It's a figure of speech. Means, uh, thinking a lot, probably too much, mostly 'bout myself. I - nobody special." And then the flush he held back from his face hits his cheeks in full force and when he looks away this time, he takes his gaze away too. His shoulders bend and there's a desperate shame Creston can't see in R'us wide-eyed stare across the water, begging Lindith's distant and splashing form to save him. "I should, uh, let you have your peace and quiet," grates the rider, miserably.

there's more than enough blushing to go around and Creston closes his eyes, leaning his head back. "Oh. I...oh. Right. Sorry. What've you been thinking?" The last couple words of that fumbly explanation has Creston opening one eye to look over at R'us. Nobody special. "Oh," he says again. "Plenty of peace and quiet to go around, even with company. I mean unless you want to...well, I mean, long night. So, if you're tired, I don't mean to keep you."

"No, I mean." R'us raises wet hands out of the water and covers his face with them. It takes him some effort, it seems, to draw breath through them; they are long, ragged, deeply sucked breaths followed by slow sighs. They give him back, in a few moments, composure enough to pry his hands off of his face and turn to face Creston, and when he does so the rider's expression is regretful, ashamed, but no longer embarrassed. He straightens his shoulders and explains, "You must think the worst of us. Of riders. You must think the worst of me, that I'm - degenerate." He pauses to grind his teeth and gather strength for another attempt. "And. I think you're right. I think it's true. But we're not supposed to - we're not supposed to advertise it to holdfolk. We're Pern's protectors. Noble, honorable. I must seem horrible to you."

The holder...ex-holder...simply stares at R'us for a long moment, mouth open, blinking slowly. "Wait. What? I mean, w...er..." Creston presses his lips together in an attempt to form scattered thoughts into some sort of cohesion. "No," he tries. "I don't think that. I wouldn't stay, if I thought that. I think you're great, R'us. Degenerate?" He smirks, weakly, shaking his head.

The eyes that tried so hard to be stoic are fast falling back into agonized; R'us' brows peak in the middle and his mouth forms a desperately unhappy frown. "Great," he repeats, skeptical but resigned. "There's a reason riders live in mountains away from everybody else," he says, sadly, Creston's own words. "I feel awful. You shouldn't have to - I mean, you'd hardly been here when she -" He looks out over the lake, brows drawn fully now. Lindith splashes and flirts with her own wings, twisting in the water, evidently oblivious or else doing a lovely job of faking it. "You've kind of had a crash course in degeneracy."

"Yeah. The very large beasts that wouldn't fit anywhere else," comes the other man's easy reply. "Come on, R'us. Don't...I mean. I like it here. I like the people I've met. I like..." a faint flush returns, "...the degeneracy." He lifts a hand to reach over and carefully touch the other man's arm, what bit of it's above the water. "What, exactly, are you trying to talk me out of?"

He's still looking out at the splashing lady when that hand comes out to touch him, but what Creston most recently said is sinking in by then so when he turns his head back, swift and jerky, at the touch, it takes him quite a moment to stare and seem to hear what he was -asked.- Even then he doesn't immediately answer. "You like it," clarifies R'us, flat. "Ain't trying to... I don't think I am. I'm trying to apologize for myself. For not being what the harper songs say."

"Well," Creston' hand stays where it is, "Harper songs make dragonriders pretty single-minded and unapproachable. To be honest, never really thought about you much as people, before. You were, you know, things in the sky. Important things, but..." he clears his throat and, with his other hand, flicks a tiny splash of water towards the greenrider, "Glad you're more than that. Glad you feel things and make mistakes." There's a twitch of his lips. "And blush."

R'us' head twitches, his chin going down and slow-drying bangs flopping forward, as if that little splash might come along with some harsher gesture. But in a moment his shoulders unhunch and he lifts his head again, to look soulfully up at the black-haired lad. "M'sorry," he mumbles, "f'things I said t'you. Mistakes." Isn't he just genius at sticking to the worst possible parts of a sentence? He bows his head again, looking down at the water, studiously ignoring the hand, so much so that he can even move his arms to cross them over his chest without quite disrupting the perch of Creston's (invisible) fingers. "Can't help it."

"Yeah," the man with invisible fingers agrees. "Me neither." He gives R'us arm a final squeeze before his hand retreats back to the water. "Wasn't what I meant. I just meant general, like. Mistakes."

"I know." R'us looks down at the ripples in the water spreading out from where Creston's hand submerged. Then he shifts on his ledge, turning his back to the wet wall of the cavern, sinking into the lapping edge of the lake with his head against the rock. "Ashes, Creston. I don't mean to be crazy. I just figure you should have - you know, good examples here." He lifts his head only for the pleasure of thunking the back of it gently against the rock. "And I ain't providing real well."

"I'm not seven," the other man notes gently, running a hand anxiously through his hair. "I don't need you to be a sparkling emblem of Weyrs everywhere for me. Just be you. Just wanna be around people, is all. I don't need to be taught."

A grin jumps onto the greenrider's wide mouth, as broad and easy as anything, though maybe a bit sheepish. "Yeah, I know. Suppose I'm not doing any better f'you as a friend than I was as a model dragonrider." He sneaks a sideways look and the sheepish grin turns to an apologetic one. "For wanting to be around people I always seem to find you in the secluded places trying to be alone."

There is a small snicker from Creston though it smacks more of relief than of pure bemusement. "Well it's barely sunrise. Only the crazies are up, now," he teases. "Glad you came around to be crazy with me."

R'us snorts crudely, and grins in somewhat the same way, shaking his head slowly by rocking his skull against the rock wall. "Glad you're staying among us despite the crazies. So - you said they ain't going to - you don't expect anything back?"

"Despite?" the retired holder laughs. "More like 'one of'." His smile becomes smaller, but it lingers as he follows R'us' lead, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. "Naw," he sighs. "Probably washing their hands of me, figuring out some good excuse for why I'm gone for keeps. Can't really say 'I care about you' and 'I'm trampling everything you wanted your whole life' at the same time and expect anything good of it."

A little 'heh' accepts Creston's self-condemnation to the crazies' number. "You told 'em why you're staying?" He tips his head over a little, finds the other man's eyes closed, and straightens his neck again. The water laps against the rock as R'us slinks lower in the lake, unfolding his knees from beneath himself, giving in to the water and sinking almost to his chin on that low ledge. "I guess if you put it like -that,-" he adds, wryly, not serious.

"Well," Creston swallows, his brows drawing down a tiny bit, "told them I couldn't marry. I wasn't coming back. Suppose I never exactly got around to explaining exactly why. I mean the specific reason. Liking...you know, um, boys. But, they haven't written back to ask, so I guess it's all okay." Or as okay as Creston seems to expect it to get.

"Ah." A beat. This next is drawled more than usual, slow-spoken, like R'us is taking some care with getting it right - and with the tone, which is a little bit wry and a little bit solemn. "Well, I guess you still got that in your pocket if you need it, then."

"In my pocket?" Creston asks, blinking his eyes open and looking over at R'us. "What, if I change my mind, you mean?"

"Nah." Now the greenrider's got his eyes closed, and there's something of a weak yet smirky grin on his mouth. "I mean, if they do write you. If they put any pressure on. You got one more thing to hit them with, if they try t'reason with you like I did." A beat. His eyes open and he looks over. "Not that I mean the reasons would be the same."

"Oh," Creston laughs, shaking his head. "Well, I guess I do at that. I think being gone for months did most of my arguing for me. We'll see." There's another small chuckle. "Their reasons probably wouldn't. I dunno, I'm mostly just not letting myself thing about it too much, yet. Working all right, so far."

"Probably got a point about the long absence." R'us closes his eyes again, drawing a deep breath, letting it out in a deep sigh. Finally he's relaxed, shoulders slumped against the rock, mouth lazy; he uncrosses his arms and lets them float in the gently shifting waters, legs floating too from the edge of the ledge below. "So what're you thinking about instead?"

"Little things," Creston offers. His towel requires him to stay seated, so he drifts less than the greenrider. "What'll be planted, next. What theyll have me do when tithes come in. Maybe see about getting on ground grew. Visit the Hold or other places, maybe. Just things."

"Well. Seeing as I already offered you a ride home, I guess if you want a ride somewhere t'visit you should just let me know." He lifts his arms out of the water and locks fingers over his head, then raises them high in a stretch that brings his back up off the rock wall. "Unh. I should get my hair washed proper and try to look alive."

"You look all right to me," sort of slips out before Creston can train his mouth to sit down and shut up. It's the warm water or all the smiling or the fact that floating and naked, well, it's hard not to see the naked when someone is floating. "I, uh, I mean," the younger man clears his throat, his hands lowering to clench the towel in his lap. "I mean, I'd feel bad, visiting places, if you're just gonna drop me off and pick me up." No, that doesn't quite sound innocent either, and the once-holder winces as he closes his eyes. "Shells."

R'us lets out a bark of a laugh, not too loud but still enough that it bounces a bit in the mist, rattling off the cavern walls. He pulls his center of gravity back onto the ledge and, once he's seated somewhat, arms treading a little, turns his head to look at the other man again. By then, though, it's not like R'us is taking what Creston says as a joke. "Uh," notes the greenrider, eyeing the ex-holder with brows one up and one down. "Well, depending on where you go I might have business of m'own there too. Or be able to invent some. Or just take a break there. F'you don't want someone tagging you 'round it ain't like I have to."

"Oh. Well, okay, then. I guess, I want to go somewhere, I'll check and see if it's somewhere you'd want to go, too." There's a momentary pause as Creston attempts to replay his words in his head, testing for grammatical correctness. But, his lips just twist wryly and he shakes his head. "I think my fingers and toes are gonna get beyond wrinkles to shriveled, if I don't head out. Good talking to you, R'us. Say hi to Clarity for me."

"Sure." R'us is still looking at Creston a little strangely. But at the notion of soaking-wrinkles the greenrider shrugs, nods, grins. "Right, don't want that. Good to see you, hey, and good to know you're staying." The grin gets a little bigger. "Again."

Return of the blush. Creston laughs, slicking his hand through his hair as he nods. "Yeah," he agrees meekly before pushing up and out of the water. Having soaked his towel, keeping the dripping thing around his hips will have to do for drying off. "See you."

R'us watches, his brows a little furrowed; they stay that way even when he tries to push an affable expression to the surface and lifts a hand to wave. For a moment there's quiet in the cavern to welcome Creston to his departure... and then Lindith starts splashing again, as though her bath was never interrupted by having stolen a moment to see if something was odd about the black-haired boy.

What He Did

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 18:41:55 GMT

After a few months of not talking, Creston and R'us bump into one another in the herb garden.

Herb Garden
As you enter the small gate, before you lies a large, open area which is bounded by high, clipped bushes. A mixture of herbal scents drift over to greet you. The garden is carved into four sections by stone pathways that end at a central location--a small pool. The pool is used to keep the proper humidity in the area and is slightly to one side, leaving a space to grow the herbs that prefer a drier climate. Small posts stick up out of the earth near the clumps of herbs, identifying them. A few benches are scattered here and there among the patches for you to rest and enjoy the beauty (see places). At the opposite end of the garden, you see another break in the bushes that leads to a large shed used for drying and preparing the herbs.

R'us is in the herb garden. Again. Not that anyone not tracking his motions would know it's a repetitive thing. Spring's onset brings out the first scents of sage in bud and creeping thyme in bloom, and evergreen lavender and rosemary have started to put out new growth. It's a fine place to sit and feel a little removed from the Weyr, since if one puts one's back to the gate the high shrubs reduce the peaks of the bowl to just so much mountainous terrain. That's how R'us is situated today, on a bench by the pool at the 'crossroads' of the paths that quarter the garden, his back to the gate, his boots up on the bench, barely room for a very slender soul between their toes and the other arm. There is something tucked between his lifted thighs and his stomach, something protected under the sprawl of his broad hand, but his attention's on the mountain-lined sky, drifting into space.

Spring has come to Fort. While much of the herb garden has begun to grow and flourish, there are still some bare patches of earth waiting to be turned over and replanted with seeds. The job falls to the Weyr's groundkeepers, or rather, to one specific groundskeeper who, for all his talk, is still here. Creston steps into the little oasis with a hoe in one hand and a bag of seeds in the other. The spot he's meant to deal with happens to be near the little fountain, and so near the figure seated on the bench. His steps slowing, the young man swallows before making his way to his tiny plot of land. "Hey," he offers cordially over his shoulder to the greenrider.

R'us' head comes up at the footsteps, so he knows who's coming as soon as the lad's within his line of sight; yet the greenrider sounds a little surprised, maybe a little happily so, when he replies to the lad's greeting. "Creston." It comes out through an easily-missed flash of grin; easily missed especially because it's followed by a somewhat sagging expression, bordering on sorrow. He looks down, strokes the thing in his lap - the thing responds with a soft crooning and a shuffling around that obliges its holder to shove down his knees a little and make room. Clarity stretches her wings immediately in the space provided, trembling through a yawn, shaking off sleep. "What're you, uh, sowing?"

There is a faint nod for his name. Yes, he's Creston, though his back is turned to R'us so he can set his bag down and give the ground a few pokes with the hoe. This means he misses both of the rider's expressions. "Basil," he says. "For summer. Ground's pretty damp, shouldn't be too hard." The holder's head lifts and he peers over his shoulder at the unexpected little sound. And at the unexpected little firelizard, too small and too young to be Imprudence. "Oh," the boy murmurs, looking down at the green thing. "Is that...was that..."

"Maybe I can help." R'us twists a little, turning his weight into one hip so he can reach for a pocket halfway down the outside of his thigh on one side, one of many such pockets on this particular pair of pants. In his lap the green thing, who is not just younger and smaller than Imprudence but also more lovely of form and less yellowy of hues, stumbles mid-stretching due to her owner's moving, letting out a little squeak of protest. "She is and she was," that moving owner grins, his voice a little strained from keeping a tight stomach to lift his hips so he can fish a thick folding knife out of his pocket. He unfolds it; the blade looks like it's long since had its last chance at cutting anything. "Clarity, say hello. - Ain't much of a shovel but maybe I can make rows." He looks up at Creston with a lame grin, the worn knife brandished, while Clarity blinks slowly and, after a long moment thinking about it, says 'quirrrrk?'

Pauses with the hoe slightly lifted, caught blinking down at the little green (or perhaps the way R'us twists about), Creston's brows twitch upwards as the dulled blade is held up. And then there's the strange greeting. "Clarity," he repeats. "Quirk, yourself." The greenrider's offer is considered for several moments before the holder-boy laughs softly and shakes his head, letting his own tool plunk to the ground. "Yeah, sure," is the quiet reply. "C'mon, then. Just don't stick your hands down until I've gotten the dirt all stirred up." Which he sets about doing, the dark clumps breaking into smaller bits and getting reworked.

R'us laughs a little at Creston's reply to Clarity's hello, and since he's been bidden not to get his hands into the dirt until the hoe's safely out of the way the greenrider makes no hurry of plucking the little green off of his lap onto the bench so he can swing down his boots and stretch into a stand. When he's finally done so, though, the firelizard flaps her wings in a way designed to draw attention, not flight, and makes a few little squeaks. "I'm not going far," grumbles her master quietly, and proves it in trudging the couple steps to the edge of the bed to kneel and consider the turned earth where Creston started. "Which way you want the rows to run, how far apart?"

"Lengthwise," Creston says without yet looking up. "Width of your hand between each one. The seeds are in that little sack, there." He inches further down the plot as he digs and churns, nudging a few stray stones and pebbles out of the bed as he goes. "Warm weather's nice after all that snow. How's Firefall been?"

R'us leans over onto the hand with the knife in it, knuckles-down, and reaches for the sack of seeds with the other. "Sort of like a wing," the greenrider grunts unhelpfully, though his tone is a little bit rueful and a little bit wry, which all told is probably more information than the words approach. He puts his knuckles out into the soil, drops the bag beneath himself so he's bent hands-and-knees over it for ease of use, and starts digging a furrow with the knife. It goes smoothly, relatively easily since the ground's already been worked, except for a few small pebbles too small for the hoe to notice that the rider tosses aside into the foundation of a miniature rock pile. "Better'n before the last weyrlings. Maybe I'm just more used to flying Fort, period, b'now."

Funny, how when R'us bends over the way he does, Creston hunches his own head down and digs a little more roughly at earth that, by this point, needs no more tilling. "Well, sounds like an improvement from before. Where were you, before Fort?" He pauses, considering the drawl that comes and goes with the greenrider. "Southern?"

R'us makes five rows; that's as many as he can reach without crawling clear into the soil, which he seems disinclined to do after a moment squinting at the other side of the bed - perhaps he figures he can reach the rest from there. "Harper," he says, unthinkingly quick about the answer, sticking the knife blade-down in the soil at the end of the furrows, marking the place from which he'll continue after moving down closer to Creston's end of the bed. "Oh, you mean recently. Yeah. We were down South for - man. A few turns." He pinches some seeds out of the sack, mouth twisted and eyes narrowed in thought.

The jabbing at the ground must finally be given up as well and finished. The hoe is set gently aside, ensuring the safety of R'us' fingers wherever they so choose to travel. "Harper?" Creston repeats, one brow twitching upwards. "Yeah? Would've pegged you for Weyrbred. You were searched?"

"Weyrbred!" R'us spits this up in a laugh, straightening from his work, hands coming to rest on his thighs and butt on his heels, turning a broad and surprised grin up at the other man. "Oh, no. I seem weyrbred?" Disbelief, though not displeasure. The grin turns lazy. While he's distracted Clarity's balancing on the edge of the bench, her little talons wrapped over the edge of the wood, eyeing the little pile of pebbles covetously. "I was searched, yeah. Lined up in a row with all the rest of Harper's worst students. Bet they were glad to get rid of me."

"Naw, that can't be right," Creston says with a small shake of his head. "Why'd anybody want to get rid of you? I guess I just assumed, you know, you seem pretty settled in. I supposed I didn't think about it." He smiles, faintly sheepish. "I guess it's about as smart as assuming all harpers were born at the hall. Just hard to imagine a rider being anywhere -but- a Weyr."

"Oh, I don't doubt they'd have kept me just fine if I hadn't been searched." R'us bends to his work once more, sprinkling seeds into the rows he's cut, then shuffling with the seed-bag farther down the line toward the rest of the freshly-turned soil. Behind him, Clarity makes a wings-assisted hop onto the ground and starts prowling up on the heap of pebbles, tail lashing. "I just wasn't a very good student. Th'hard part, I guess, would be in imagining me not a rider. Then where do I fit?" He picks up his knife, starts continuing the furrows; pauses to glance up with a grin. "Maybe still not Harper, considering."

"Maybe not," Creston agrees, crouching down to watch Clarity and her coveted pile of pebbles. "Think she found something, there...I guess, since you are a rider, you don't have to ask yourself that anymore. You've got a place. No one can dispute it." Resting his hands on his knees, the boy shakes his head. "Must be nice."

Clarity prowlprowlprowls toward the pebbles, slinging herself lower to the ground with each step, evidently unaware that she's being watched. Those pebbles, they've had it. She's gonna get 'em. "Oh, it can be disputed, believe me. You think I've been from Weyr to Weyr for no reason, think I've ever done anything but train weyrlings because it's what I do best? But no one can deny what I am, I guess; no one can pretend I'm something I ain't." R'us sticks the knife into the soil at the end of the new part of the furrows, pinches seed, distributes it, not having quite realized that the comment about 'she' was meant for him to understand, or else having misunderstood it enough that he doesn't look up, anyway. "Lindith's kind of hard to miss that way."

"You mean, you train weyrlings even though you're not best at it, or you do other things, even though you're better off training weyrlings?" Creston asks, settling into a sit as R'us does his work for him. Clarity is watched a little, though the greenrider is watched more. "So, why did you bounce from Weyr to Weyr, then? You that much trouble?"

Pounce! Clarity leaps onto the pebbles, sending them scattering like marbles, and chitters disapprovingly at the ones that got away before trying to scoop one up in a forepaw for closer inspection. "Do other things, even though I'm better with weyrlings." R'us' broad hands gently push soil over the sprinkled seeds and when that's done he leans back on his heels, to look up and over at Creston, or where Creston was anyway; now that he's sitting, the greenrider changes his focus to suit. "No. I... asked. To go. Every time."

"Well, there aren't weyrlings all the time," the holder points out to the rider. "You couldn't work with them nonstop unless you moved from Weyr to Weyr, and I don't gather that's exactly what weyrlings need." He drapes his arms on his knees, smiling a little for a baby green's botched attack. But, for R'us' answer, the smile fades. "Oh," he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

"Why're you sorry? I wanted to go. I got to go. Can't complain." Not that the greenrider's dry, gruff demeanor suggests a real happiness about all the moves, either. For a little longer his regard rests on the younger man, brows drawing slowly lower over his eyes, but eventually he just says, "Don't mind brushing up with the wings between weyrling classes. Just - want a little focus on lesson planning, ideas, work with the weyrleaders a bit." His eyes twitch and narrow. "Well, ideally."

"You don't get that, though?" the holder-boy inquires. "Does P'draig?" He shifts a little in his sitting. "I didn't mean sorry for leaving so much as sorry for whatever made you want to leave, I guess. I don't imagine folks pack up their homes and head out for another part of the world without reason." Lips quirking, he looks away. "I know they don't."

"Oh, P'draig works on the lessons between groups. So do I sometimes, I guess, though - I haven't started yet." A little color rises in his cheeks. Was he just badmouthing the weyr for not sticking to this process when he himself hasn't done anything about it? Noooo. He looks down, finding Clarity's rock-inspecting - she drops one, picks up another, sniffs it, drops it, repeats - a useful diversion. A little silence passes, though not as much as the most of a season that passed since their last talk. "So what was your reason," R'us tries, softly.

The holder studies the little green as she discovers the futile and inedible nature of stones. There is a tiny hiccup of a smile as R'us blunders, but there it goes again for that final question. "I noticed," he murmurs, looking from Clarity's inspection over to her master, "a slight similarity. Why do you keep asking that?"

R'us looks up, blinks. Slowly. "Uh," he replies, the syllable no more meaningful than it ever is just because he draws it out long and stretchy like rubber in the sun. "Similarity between," he tosses his head, flings back his bangs, blinks a few more times, "Me and P'draig, or me an' her?" A gesture to Clarity, who must catch the movement peripherally and takes it as an invitation; she proves her wings do work with a quick sail over to her master. R'us winces as her untrained, so-far-undulled talons close over his forearm, but bears it until he can raise her flailing to his shoulder.

"Well, I meant you and her," Creston replies, wincing in faint sympathy as the green lands hard. "But, I suppose I could find similarities between you and P'draig. You, uh, both ride dragons. Whose names end in 'th'. And you both have hair. And eyes."

R'us lets out a bark of a laugh and, since his hand's up there anyway from having let Clarity off on his shoulder, ruffles his hand up the back of his head, mussing his hair, only to smash it back down with a reverse-course combing. "Yeah. And we're men, and we're Fortian, and so on." Shaking his head, he folds his knife and tucks it back in the pocket it came from, then shoves up off the ground to his feet and plods over toward Creston, making a vague mind-if-I-sit gesture with one hand. He doesn't just invite himself to sit, see, because he intends to note, "Keep asking because you keep coming 'round to it like it hurts." Pause. "Not like I figure I can fix it." Frown. "So. Maybe just nosy." Deeper frown.

"And so on," Creston agrees with a little laugh of his own. There's a nod for R'us wordless request, and the holder scoots a bit to the side so that the greenrider can sit. "Well, that's wrong of me," he murmurs, "and I'm sorry. You're right, I should stop dropping little vagaries if I don't want to talk about it. I'm just...I dunno what I am. Suppose that's the problem." Studying the ground he finally offers, "I was supposed to get married."

R'us has settled into place beside Creston by the time he's apologizing, and the greenrider tries to interject a protest, but it never gets past the bud of 'Uh' into actual words. It's the 'what I am' that killed his desire to stop the other man's speaking, and after that there's just those wide brown eyes focused, warm and intent, on the black-haired lad beside him. Even though Clarity's licking his earlobe. "Afraid," he says after a moment, very quietly, "or lack of a bride, or," pause, "a problem between she and you, or - ?" There's surely other options.

"No, no, there was a bride," Creston assures. "A very specific bride. She's nice. A good girl. Our families, we have cotholds, and we were going to combine the land. The spread would have been big enough to petition so we'd be recognized as a minor hold. We'd been...that's something my family's wanted since before I was born. They were counting on me. Everyone was." His knees get drawn a little closer so he can rest his forehead on the arms draped across them. "There wasn't anything wrong with her."

Maybe it's starting to add up. Or maybe R'us' eyebrow has a desire to hide under his bangs, although that could be inspired by the earlobe-nibbling that the greenrider lifts a hand to gently discourage with a little shove of emerald muzzle. "Wasn't," he repeats. "Isn't still, I guess, the way you talk about yourself."

"Yeah," Creston agrees quietly into his knees. "Isn't. Faranth. I gotta go home."

They're fast, the greenrider's motions, all performed in one smooth, quick concert. He leans over, reaches out. A broad hand lands on Creston's knee, then stays there, warm and weighty. "You think, after this long, she expects you?"

His head lifts, startled, as Creston feels a warm hand on his knee. "I dunno. Probably not. In which case, there'll be another girl I should marry. That's what holders do. They grow up, get married, have little bitty holders that go on to do the same."

R'us' hand tightens. It is a very small thing, the flex of the muscle of his palm against the other man's kneecap, pressing the trouser fabric rather than his skin closer; then he lifts his hand away and twists to better face Creston. "You don't want to marry." He reaches up to brush Clarity away again, and she gets a little huffy about it, leaping in a quick sail to the ground, then creeping off to unbury some basil seeds. "I sound stupid. My point. You don't want to marry anyone. Not just her?"

"I don't want to marry," Creston agrees, his mouth pressed up against his knees so his words come a little muffled. "Not anyone. I like men." His eyes close slowly. "I know that's nothing, here. It's like saying 'today's the fifth in the seven', but back home...it's what holders -do-. Everyone was counting on me, and I was so selfish I couldn't...she's getting into the seeds."

R'us is quiet for a long enough time after all of what Creston's said, his brows drawn, his eyes deep from thought, that it should be obvious that he didn't understand. Maybe 'getting into the seeds' is excused as a saying for 'wondering what happened to her intended husband.' When the greenrider finally does speak it's with a little clearing of throat to introduce it, which has the unintended effect of distracting Clarity from her digging. So she's looking at Creston, too, when R'us says, "It's not quite -that- nothing, here. No... shortage of riders, don't want to think, talk about it. Like it only happens in flights." There is just the faintest note of derision in this last bit. "And you ain't a rider. Greenrider 'specially, or blue, to some degree. So. Uh. You don't feel comfortable here I don't... blame you." Except he -is- a little bit baffled, by something anyway, given the furrowed, consternated look on his face.

"Brownriders don't seem all that picky either," Creston muses faintly. "It isn't that I...I just shouldn't stay. I can't just run off and pretend where I'm from isn't there anymore. That they don't need the alliance I can provide." He exhales slowly and blinks over at R'us and that furrowed brow. "What?" he asks faintly.

But R'us' chin goes down, his expression changing into something quite else, maybe abashed, something soon hidden by the curtain of his forward-falling hair. "Brownriders ain't all like P'draig." Beat. "And P'draig ain't been like... for long." Beat. "Didn't realize." That's way out of context, but maybe Creston will recognize it as an answer anyway. Maybe not. The rider's not concerned about it; he lifts his head, flips back his hair, ready to face the other man again, practical, gruff, simple. "No brothers?"

"Three brothers," Creston replies, "Two married. One engaged...maybe married now, dunno. Takes a lot of land to become a minor hold." He smiles faintly, unhappily. "And we have one sister, so some of what we have'll go with her, most likely. Course you didn't realize. You weren't supposed to."

One brown brow slinks up under the first few wisps of the bangs trying to slide back down over his forehead. Brothers, sister, they're a topic to be put aside just for a second. For now, R'us is gruff and maybe just a bit more macho than necessary, bristling and drawling all at once: "So what, you come here to practice pretending to be straight for a critical audience?"

"I think I got plenty of practice doing that where I'm from," Creston counters dryly. "I came here because this was where the caravan I jumped onto was headed. It's not anywhere anyone would think to look. And I just wanted to see...Faranth, I don't know. I was just running. Then I was here."

R'us draws in a long, steadying breath through a flare of nostrils. After a slow, tightly controlled sigh he seems a little less bristly. "So what're you going to find out if you behave exactly like you always have, only - guilty?"

"Nothing," Creston says, straightening a little. "There's nothing to figure out. I was just hiding. Just putting it off for a while. I guess maybe I thought if I went to a place where people...maybe it would turn out I was wrong. Confused."

"Then you found out you weren't." R'us pauses. "Or it sounds that way." He pulls up his boots a little closer, leans back on a knuckled hand, and drapes the other arm over his knees. This small distance gives him a different perspective, maybe, on the younger man. "So you feel obliged to your family and your - hold." He will give it that name, out of respect for its ambitions. "Have you thought about the outcomes if you -do- get married?"

Creston lifts his head to blink over at R'us, one brow lifting. "I can get it up, if that's what you're asking. Coming here isn't the first thing I've tried to...fix it. If I get married, I just...never know. What it would be like. But that just has to be okay. There'd be kids. Everyone'd be happy." Almost.

Must not let corners of lips curl upward. Mustn't. The absolute necessity of this control stops R'us from saying anything for long enough that through the rest of Creston's answer he just looks at him with a blank intensity of concentration. "That's," he begins then, and pauses to make sure he's serious, "not what I was asking. I mean. Look at it five turns after. Couple of kids. Then what? There's a guy who delivers your wife's shoes when they're done being made. There's a guy who fixes the baths when they leak." Beat. "Are you going to be that good at being married?" A twitch of one shoulder, a trace of a shrug - R'us does allow that it's possible. But the question, see, it's been asked.

"I think I'd be better at being married than I would be at jumping a stranger that's likely got a wife of his own and no interest," Creston says, lifting a hand to run it through his hair. "I'm twenty turns, right? I mean, this is the prime of my life, isn't it? When everyone's young and dumb and gets in trouble. So I figure, I mean, if the worst I do is run away and come back and it's all better, all I'm going to do is get older. Calmer." Duller. "It'll get easier, won't it?"

"Maybe," allows R'us with another one-shouldered shrug, this one more meaningful. Clarity's given up on unburying the seeds - they are so small, it's hard to find them among the dirt - and is digging in a clump of dead weeds left from last season for more interesting quarry. Her master is paying her no apparent attention at all. "Until you're middle-aged, if I understand anything about why old wives don't want their men visiting the weyr with the tithe trains alone. Which. Say. Twenty turns after this wedding, you're a lordling and you have to come to the Weyr to meet the big knots, so on, so forth, they put you up a couple nights. What then? I'm - just asking." The shrug takes both shoulders this time, though it's still lopsided from the leaning on one hand. "I guess I'm just wondering - what the stakes are if you get married, and it doesn't work."

"Marriages don't not work," Creston answers with a shrug of his own. "You work through it. And that's another point, right there. Perfectly normal men can't stay faithful, when they should. So why should it matter who I look at? It's not like looking at other women would make me a -better- husband. It's just about self-control, is all."

"Are you abnormal?" Oops, that was a pit, Creston, how's the bottom of it? "Am I?"

"Oh shells, shut up," Creston groans. "You're not. I am. At least, that's what the rest of Pern would say."

R'us' brows, on their way up already from asking the viper-pit questions, slide the rest of the way into the shadow of his draped bangs. "Because of Lindith."

"Because you were Searched. Because there's nowhere else you were meant to be. Yeah. Because of Lindith," Creston says, sinking his arms back across his knees. "What do you want me to say, R'us? Everyone's wrong, and normal is what we make of it? I think that's a lovely sentiment, but it doesn't last very long if you actually try to wear it out in the world."

Bristling again, R'us grunts, "Yeah. Weyrs. Ain't the world." His jaw's tense, but he won't let that stand by itself, not when he still has this to ask - he clenches his teeth once, skips his gaze away from the other man, brings it back and grinds it out. "So how do you know you're meant to be there doing that?"

There is a small and frustrated noise from the holder boy. "They're not the world I'm from or the one I have to go back to. You don't think I want to stay here? You don't think I want to, shells, to kiss someone that actually makes me..." Creston takes his turn prickling and clenching his jaw. "Don't act like I'm saying things that aren't true. There's a reason riders live in mountains away from everybody else. Giant dragons aren't a part of most peoples lives. Weyrs -are- different. Who else would do it, if I didn't? There isn't anybody else. It's just me."

"More than half the people that live here aren't riders." R'us tips up his chin. "Without them there'd be no riders. No Weyrs. And given long enough like -that-, no little holds to try to marry up and expand. I ain't weyrbred." The irritation, the challenge and frustration, gives way to a sudden grin, broad and happy; he's still tickled that, for a while at least, Creston thought him to be. "Sure. Weyrs're different. But they ain't easy. Draw a straw for ground crew. So don't act the martyr to me. If you go back there and do what they want, do it because you want it too. Don't matter to me if you sacrifice. You get a -hold- for it. You want one, that's fine by me."

"I want to pass the task off to someone who'd be happy doing it," Creston says, blinking a little at that sudden smile. "I didn't say easier. Different expectations, though. I liked figuring out crop rotations. I liked the work, thinking things through, puzzling it out. But, a wife? Of course I don't want that. So you tell me. What am I supposed to do? How can I just stay and say 'well a Weyr needs their groundskeepers, so never mind'?"

"Well." The smile's fading, but what it's replaced by contains no bristle. But R'us has been leaning back on his hand a long time and when he stops, straightening, wincing at the white on his knuckles, he shakes his head and interrupts his train of thought. "You actually want to try to figure out another way, you got to think outside of either you go back or you don't. Stops having anything to do with who you want to rub against. You - don't really need me to get you there." He looks up, flexing his fingers, offering a weak bit of a grin. "I'll try, if you want, but - I'm not holdbred, either, not really."

"I guess I'm feeling pretty stuck in that box," Creston murmurs with a faint quirk of his lips. "Here, wiggle them from the base of the fingers, not the middle knuckle. It works better. Anyhow, I don't care where you're bred. Worst you can do is suggest something that won't work, and it's not like It'd make anything worse than it is."

R'us looks from Creston to his fingers. They pause their wiggling, then resume, attempting to obey instruction. "Thinking about going back to the bench," he confesses, a grin around it, brief-lived. "So for your family, is it about marrying this other family, or is it about the petition? Do you care what the girl's family wants? Do you know what she wants?"

"It about the petition," Creston pushes up into a stand and then bends down, offering a hand to help R'us up as well. "They want it too. We were going to join lands and petition together. And then holders would be elected from either line. Care what the girl's family wants because we're neighbors. Having them mad isn't so great." He walks over to the bench, sinking down and glancing around to make sure Clarity's around before looking back at the greenrider. "She and I, we never talked much. I just assumed she wanted what any daughter wants. Home, family, not to be left standing at the altar."

R'us takes the hand, levers himself up with its help to a stand, still stretching the other hand's fingers. "And your brother who's probably engaged now - wouldn't just be engaged to her. Tidy, if he was. But you don't know." He halts, finding himself standing before the seated Creston, listening; after a moment, he too sits. He must be less worried about Clarity, because he doesn't look for her - she's dug something akin to a rotten tuber out from under the weeds and is considering its edibility with nips and tastes in the middle of the path a few yards away. "Were you -that- close to the wedding?"

The young man looks down, cheeks flushed. "Night before," he mumbles. "He was engaged before me. I was the last one. For, well, they're obvious reasons now. I guess they could have broken it off with who he was meant for and paired him with Olena. But he's sixteen turns. They were going to have a long engagement, marry when he was eighteen, I think."

"So he's younger but was engaged first." Beat. "Man. You cut it close." R'us grins a little, flips back his bangs with a toss of his head, turns against the corner of the bench and pulls up one boot onto the edge of it so he can stretch an arm over his knee, the hand offered quite close to Creston, palm-up. "She doesn't know?"

"I panicked," Creston groans into his own hands. He forces himself to straighten, settling his back up against the bench and blinking down at the offered hand. His own remain curled in each other on his lap. "No. At least, if she does, I didn't know she does. So far as I'm aware, nobody knows."

Maybe the hand's just there for gestural purposes. R'us curls its fingers, a little bit supplicative. "Well, I do. Now." It's meant to be a reassurance, supportive, maybe. "Don't think you can advise them or anything until you know what's happened since you left. Whether your brother's married, f'example. Whether she - Olena? - has." His shoulders twitch; this time the shrug's suppressed, and he draws back his hand, puts his boot down on the ground. "But if the petition's the point. Ain't there any way to match up outside of marriage?"

"Land's tricky," Creston sighs, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees. "Everybody's using what they have, and you need it all to be connected for it to be of any use. So you have to find ways to join up plots together without displacing anyone. Pretty much, that means marriage. Unless you can buy the land right out from under somebody or force 'em off. But that's..." he wrinkles his nose, shaking his head.

"Foster trade wouldn't be enough," supposes R'us, then, shaking his own head in turn. "What about your sister - does Olena have brothers?" But his brows are furrowing even before he's finished the question and displeasure makes it sound very little like a question at all. He raises a hand, shoves back his bangs, wipes down his face with a groan. "This ain't getting anywhere you ain't already been."

"No, her and an older sister, already married." Creston looks over, smiling faintly. "Fostering's for alliances, not for merging lands. Unless you're fostering so the kids they're fostered with might marry them. It's a mess. Thank you for trying, though, Good've you."

That faint smile's returned by one much like it - broader, but no stronger. "Told you, not holdbred." R'us reaches up, then down, putting his hands to the back of his neck, and rubs muscles there that must get plenty of exercise with all the stiffening, bristling and stoicness they're put through. "Riders. We. I'm not supposed to suggest stuff like this. But weyrmatings can have - more people in them than two, sometimes." A little color moves up his neck, threatens to flood his cheeks; he takes a moment to suppress it. "You could try working something out with Olena. I guess. But - that's assuming having a chance at being a lordling's more to you than being a groundskeeper." The humor's as grim as the idea is last-ditch. Again, he shrugs.

Creston lifts his head and blinks slowly at R'us. "That's...outside the box, all right. Married folk don't do that. Which is, maybe, why riders don't get married." He smiles again, watching the way R'us' fingers work at the kinks in his neck. In his lap, Creston's fingers curl more tightly together to keep them from reaching anywhere they shouldn't. "I should get back to work."

"Yeah. So I wasn't supposed to suggest that." R'us glowers at his own hands as they fall into his own lap, as though those hands are at fault for his sharing his own moral failures with, of all people, a holder. "Sorry." For some reason he seems to believe this is the best possible answer to 'I should get back to work.'

Creston's fingers untangle enough for one hand to reach out and settle over the greenrider's, once they flop into his lap. "No rules," the holder boy offers, "in brainstorming. Don't be sorry."

The greenrider's hands stay perfectly still, objecting not at all to being touched; but R'us chin jerks back and his head snaps up with whiplash abruptness, eyes wide and blank. Then he puts his head right back down, hiding behind the veil of his bangs, staring at the three hands in his lap. "Improper," he explains, reduced to single-word self-condemnations. "Presumptive."

"Creative," the younger man offers instead, "Inventive. You really think you can top a gay holder that left his bride waiting all dressed in red on presumptive impropriety?" Creston smiles a little and his hand offers R'us' a squeeze before lifting to retreat. "I got you beat by a mile."

"Ain't trying to top you." There's a pause after that which might be a bit longer than it would need to be, and R'us only looks up after it, jaw tight from some sort of very strict self-control. "Just unhappy with having said it. I know better. So." Bangs, flip. "I guess I should... get her out of your way." He knows where Clarity is, rolling on her back, wings flat out to either side, tormenting a chunk of the rotten tuber that she hasn't yet deigned to eat, and he demonstrates this with a tip of his head toward her. "Which. Thanks, by the way. She's beautiful." Maybe less so at the moment than sometimes.

"Dunno why," Creston murmurs with a small shrug. He follows the greenrider's gaze, and his lips hitch upwards for the unsavory antics of the little green. "You picked her. I just carried 'em from one spot to another. Are, uh...are we gonna be all weird, now?"

"Well, thanks for carrying, then, and for offering." R'us gets up and lets out a low whistle through his teeth. Clarity lifts her head up, blinking. The goo is forgotten; she just about tracks through it in her rush to upright herself and soar for her master's shoulder. He half-turns to look back at Creston then, one brow up, mouth twisted, a rotten-tuber-eating lizard on his shoulder licking his earlobe. "We weren't weird before?"

"I, uh..." Ruffle, ruffle, ruffle goes Creston's hand through his mop of hair. "Maybe we were. Not in a bad way, I didn't think." He stands so he can reach down to gather up seeds and hoe. "I mean, I don't want you to feel like, because I said anything, that I, uh..." His cheeks go pink and the holder shakes his head. "Anyhow, thanks. For sitting with me."

R'us looks at Creston a while longer, watches him bend for the seeds, for the hoe. His expression is blank, maybe a little confused. "Don't expect anything of you," he offers. "Won't tell." He watches a moment longer, like something might be slowly dawning on him; he might even be aware of the color in the younger man's cheeks - but then he's also aware, suddenly, of the firelizard tongue bathing his ear, and more importantly, "Ugh, Clarity. I know where that's been." Shove. "Sit with you any time, Creston. Glad you ain't mad. And don't leave without letting me know." He turns away finally, and trods for the lake.

Big Mouth

Wed, 06 Feb 2008 17:10:47 GMT

Way back before Creston's firelizard eggs hatched and shortly after the greenrider took an overnight trip to Ista, he and R'us talk. R'us gets an egg. Creston gets interrogated. Well, kinda.

With the chill of winter in full swing and the general crush of the Living Caverns, those who seek a quieter place to relax in the evening have found a slightly less hectic area of repose in the Lower Caverns. Creston is one such fellow, cheeks flushed and hair damp from the snow and the chill. He's reading in a chair by the fire, a basket full of black Istan sand set in front of the crackling blaze.

R'us is not, if the businesslike drum of his footfalls is any indication, hunting for peace. He's on a mission, clomping carelessly through quiet places on his way not into the deeper tunnels promising baths and repose, but out from them. He comes into this hearthroom with that same attitude of got-somewhere-to-be, but in this room, unlike the others, he stops. It's because of Creston, obviously, because that's what the greenrider's looking at when his feet glue themselves to the floor. A moment of that unblinking regard takes in the flushed cheeks, the damp hair, and after fixing his understanding of the situation R'us pries the soles of his boots up and comes closer to the fire. He's dry, jacketed, ready to go out. "Look a bit wet there," he observes, gruff, and looks down into the seat of a chair like he might consider plunking down in it, but doesn't.

The young man's eyes lift from his reading and trip to meet the greenrider's. "R'us," he says, a small smile starting to lift the corners of his mouth. "Hey. Well, they have me shoveling. And it was snowing. I just got off so..." One hand ruffles damp hair as if that might make it dry faster. "Pull up a chair?" he asks, gesturing towards the chair the other man observes. "If you have time, I mean. Been keeping busy, since the weyrlings graduated?"

"Ugh, shoveling." R'us drops into the chair, wide-kneed, back-slouched, arms draped over the chair's and turns his gaze toward the fire. "I guess. Going to be assigned into a wing for drills and fighting soon, probably going back into Firefall." He pulls a face, an exceptionally unpleasant face, one that's probably a new one for Creston to see: upper lip curled, nose wrinkled, eyes wide and a little glowering. He realizes, apparently, that he's doing it, and tosses off the disgust with a flip of his bangs, turning his eyes back to Creston once they're presentably not on fire. "How about you? Since, uh, I saw you last."

"Ice chipping's worse," Creston notes with a roll of his shoulders. "Had that yesterday." Of course, R'us' words and his sneer can't be wholly ignored. They're not, in point of fact, ignored at all. "What's wrong with Firefall?" he asks. "Oh. I've been fine. Found those," a small jerk towards the basket of black sand. "Rode on a dragon for the first time. Probably, that's not so exciting to you." He smiles a little wryly. "Just been around, shoveling, otherwise. How about you?"

The glower comes back, and asking questions about how R'us -is- after bringing up the wing issue again seems likely to be an unproductive gambit. He turns his gaze back to the fire, although the 'found those' does earn a flicker of interest at the basket before the greenrider loses his stare into the flames. "Ain't supposed to be in Firefall," he explains, all too readily, as an answer to 'how about you.' "Was in the Weyrleader's wing, when the Weyrleader was P'ter. Stuck in Firefall when I came back from Southern. Not as bad as Skysentry but -" Suddenly he's looking at Creston again, passing annoyed by his expression, thin-mouthed and grim-browed. "Look. We serve. Don't matter who the wingleader is. We do what we're supposed to do. Don't always like the business of who we do it with, is all."

"So, you don't like Firefall as much as the Weyrleader's wing, but you like it better than Skysentry?" Creston asks, canting his head a little to the side. "What's different about them? I mean, what's the trouble with the 'who's in those wings?" He leans forward enough that, for that glance, the sand gets dusted away enough to reveal twelve wee eggs of various colors.

"It ain't the wings. It's - well, I got a beef with my own 'leader and Skysentry's is even worse, though it ain't my business to say so, and I wouldn't want to be in th'Weyrleader's - " Suddenly his jaw snaps tight and R'us is looking into the fire again, his brows deeply drawn, his mouth a thin, long line. There's a tension in his shoulders, a tendon in his neck that rises and falls again, betraying a movement inside his mouth, maybe chewing. Even the revelation of twelve little eggy gems can't immediately reopen those shutters, though after a moment he does lower his focus to take them in.

R'us gets a long and thoughtful look for that cutoff tirade, Creston's head tipped a little to the side. "I guess Weyrs have politics just like everywhere else," he offers. Elbows are rested on knees, and then Creston reaches out to turn a couple of those little 'gems' so a different side is facing the fire. "Want one?" he asks quietly.

A grunt replies Creston's guess, presumably in the affirmative, and R'us slumps a little deeper into his seat, bending his back until from behind the chair he'd be invisible but for his hands barely noticeable on its arms. So he remains until that question, so gently put, and the greenrider's gaze flicks over to his companion again. A moment longer, and his expression softens somewhat. "Oh, I got three, Creston, I - shouldn't." Which is not quite the same as not wanting to. A smile tries to fight its way through the disgust and tightly wound irritation to make his mouth a happier shape, struggling with little, but at least some, success. "You giving them away?"

"Three?" Creston asks, his brows lifting. "Well, they're little things, and they can come and go as they like, so I guess it's different than having three canines or runners or some such." He nods, giving another egg a careful turn. "Yeah," he nods. "I am. I didn't exactly mean to find them, just sorta...anyhow. You're welcome to, if you like."

"Not the same as runners for sure, or even the little yippy pups the holders sometimes have; at least a 'lizard lets herself out to do her business." R'us pulls another face, this one nothing at all like the disgust that the business of Fort's wings and his places in them inspired; this one's just a little nose-wrinkling of bemusement, almost fond, even. He looks on the little eggs a moment longer from his deeply slumped slouch, then sucks in a long breath and, letting that breath out as a resigned, knowing sigh, peels himself out of the chair directly onto the floor. He creeps over hands-and-knees for a closer look at the eggs, with a glance up for Creston along the way. "You could keep one. Folks have 'em, in the dorms. Even little kids."

Creston smiles a little. "I wish my sister's yappy pup knew how to do that," he murmurs with a roll of his eyes. The eggs get a long look from the holder-boy, though he has to duck his head down as R'us creeps closer on hands and knees, lest the other man see his own slightly-fond smile at that action. "Nah," he says quietly. "I'm out in the cold so much and..." he just shakes his head. "Maybe in a while."

"You got a baby, you put it in your jacket, keep it warm," shrugs R'us, pausing to get off of his hands and lean back onto his heels, straightening so he can look up at Creston, flipping back his bangs to do so. "But they fly from the day they hatch - you could leave it somewhere warm with food, for s'long as a shoveling shift lasts. Mouthy hardly got any attention from me, he was so close to weyrlings coming, but - well, here." Showing is better than telling. The greenrider's expression goes a little vague, his eyes roll a little bit back - the expression's almost exasperated - and then there's a tiny little green-gold-brown collection of wings and limbs sailing down to the kneeling man's shoulder. "He ain't trained very well but he can come and sit and carry a message as long as it's going to the weyrling barracks."

"Woah, hello," Creston laughs as the collection of limbs and wings swings down and lands on R'us. "I hear they can kind be useful. P'draig says his two come and get him if Palia's fussy." He holds out a finger to let the bronze sniff at it, still a little uncertain of proper etiquette with draconic creatures. "He's called 'Mouthy'? That's a bit ominous."

Mouthy leeeeeans from his rider's shoulder, craning his neck long so that the provided finger may be thoroughly sniffed, then tasted with a quick flick of tongue. "I'm trying to teach him to get me if Imprudence clutches," the rider's saying with a wry, maybe rueful twist in his mouth and voice, but then the little bronze interrupts by yawning out a big 'squawwwwkaaaawk' at Creston's finger, followed by a baleful head-turned one-eyed look up at the dark-haired young man. R'us simply winces. "Yeah. Uh. It ain't ominous unless you're wanting to sleep.'

"Or think," Creston laughs, trying out rubbing that finger lightly along the side of the firelizard's neck. "If Imprudence clutches? She...a gold? Green? What's the matter with her clutching?" This reminds him to take another look down at the eggs. "Think I'll still pass, this time," he murmurs, the smile fading. "Couldn't hardly...well...not a good time, is all."

"Green. And that's what's the matter." R'us is inspired, though, to follow Creston's gaze down at the twelve eggs in the basket, and as the younger man speaks a little more, the rider's brows draw again, a thoughtful uncertainty on his face. Mouthy's not troubled by such things, though, and he turns his neck for that rubbing, then leaps from R'us shoulder straight for Creston's knee. Beware of talons, thankfully kept dull-tipped by whatever their master has them do besides laze around and beg for food, clinging for purchase.

There's a small wince, mostly anticipatory and mostly anticipating pain that doesn't come, thanks to those dulled talons. Creston runs fingertips lightly over the back of the little bronze, peering up and creeping his shaggy hair from his face with his free hand. "So, besides dreading Firefall, what've you been up to?"

Mouthy's back arches toward the fingers sliding over him, eking every possible pleasure out of Creston's petting. R'us is focused hard on the eggs in the basket, though, leaning back down onto the knuckles of one hand and reaching to turn the basket with the other for a better look at what's inside. "Went to Ista overnight," he sighs, after a moment, looking back up. "Not a lot, honest. We usually take a little rest after the weyrlings get tapped up. Strike the barracks, clean a little, then - free days. I got Lindith's fighting straps oiled up and ready to go. She practiced a little chewing. That's about it."

"Ista?" Creston asks with a small blink, brows lifting. "It's, um, it seems nice. Over there. Was it restful for you?" The boy focuses mostly on the little lizard perched on him, those arches enticing Creston to keep on scritching. "Practiced chewing? Oh. Firestone. Of course."

"It's warm." Ista. R'us turns his gaze down into the basket again, tipping it a little so that his squinting focus can look over in particular a certain egg, his brows twitching. "It is nice. And full of firelizards, though I guess I've only got one from there. You found these wild, you said? This the sand they were in?"

"Yeah, on the beach. Well, in a downed tree on the beach. Ista," Creston explains before it all can get anymore awkward. "P'draig took me there for an evening. Didn't stay over or anything, just ate, had a couple drinks, went home. But, with these. It was warm. I got kinda burnt." Small talk. Woo.

"I guessed," inserts R'us, about where, island-wise, the eggs came from; that sand's not innocuous enough to mistake. At least not for him to mistake. Recently. But that line of thinking is thankfully shoved aside for this one, one that requires the greenrider to lean back on his heels again, spine straightening, bangs flipping back up out of his eyes from a toss of head: "P'draig took you?" Beat. "The sun can be. Intense. P'draig?"

"Yeah. Paddy," in case there might be some other P'draig. "He was heading out there, anyhow, and he asked if I wanted to come along. So, I..." the boys shoulders lift and fall. "He and this other rider seem to be...that is...I sort of got the feeling he goes to Ista sorta routinely." Creston clears his throat and gives Mouthy an awkward little pat.

Creston calls him 'Paddy.' R'us stares blankly. Strangely enough it's the 'he and this other rider' revelation that causes the stiffness in the greenrider's shoulders to sag in... it would have to be relief, wouldn't it. "Oh. T'mic, I bet?" He withdraws his hands, the one that had been on the basket to turn it and the one that was knuckles-down on the floor for leaning, and rests them lazy on his thighs, his guard up even if his tension's gone.

"Right," Creston agrees with a puff of relieved breath. A known quantity. This is much better than an awkward revelation. "I think P'draig might've stuck around, but I'm not used to drinking and I kinda got...anyhow, he got me back home all right. Shelling embarrassing. T'mic's nice. Gregarious. But, nice."

The greenrider's mouth shapes a slow smile. "So who was putting your drinks in front of you, that's what I want to know." He's relaxed enough now, relatively certain that there's not going to be some kind of big problem over T'mic, to glance down at the basket again. He doesn't have to touch it; the one he's got an eye on is still there. He's just checking. Sometimes eggs grow legs and wander off you know. "So was that this first dragon ride, to and from?"

"Well," Creston says with a ghost of a smile, "the gregarious one, mostly," he murmurs. "He had an excuse. It was..." the holder nods. "Between's so...I mean, I'm not sure how you ever get used to that. And coming back here was worse. It was like I just couldn't get warmed up again." He shudders, rubbing Mouthy's headknobs between his fingers. "The flying was something, though. Can't say I regret going."

Mouthy lets out a small rumble - small compared to a dragon's anyway - and shoves his head up into Creston's hand, arching in pleasure, wings sleeked against his sides. "You don't ever get used to it," R'us admits, watching with a slow-shaking head as his little bronze gets such care. "What was T'mic's excuse, again?"

"Realized it was my turnday. Which required a lot of alcohol, I guess. I dunno, I think he meant well. Or, didn't mean ill in any case. Needy thing." This last is for Mouthy who wins a bit more scritching and rubbing from Creston's fingers. "Not sure I'll ever really get used to all of that, either. Weyrs." He shakes his head, lips quirked ruefully. "I should go home."

"Ohhh." R'us might agree on the lots-of-alcohol count, by the way he grins and nods; he doesn't deny what Creston says about Mouthy, either, and settles back a bit better onto his heels just to watch the lizard enjoy the attention. At least until that last bit comes out - and with this aspect of things on the table for the first time with a sober version of the dark-haired holdbred lad, the greenrider's expression goes serious and he raises his gaze to consider Creston's face. No bangs-flipping this time; this regard is intense enough through the curtain. "You think so?"

Creston's not smiling much either, anymore. But he has Mouthy to watch, which saves him from having to peer back at the little 'lizard's master. "If I was any kind of..." The boy falls quiet to swallow and then breath out slowly. "I should go home. Just make the best of it. It's what everyone else does, I shouldn't be any different."

"Sort of had the idea," R'us replies, voice gone gruff but also very quiet, conveying a certain respect in the exact same syllables as a certain questioning, "that you were here because you figured this was the best you could make of it." Now he pushes back his bangs. Using his hand, rather than that flippant jerk of his head. "You're doing the work and it ain't killing you. So there's something else. You want to say?"

"No, I'm here, because I'm a coward," Creston replies, giving Mouthy a squeeze that might be too tight for comfort. "I thought if I came here, I could settle my head. Or some idea would come to me or I'd get better. But, nothing's..." clenching his jaw, the holder shakes his head. "Everything's the same, and I haven't got any ideas. And it's been months."

Mouthy lets out a predictable squawk, but should Creston attempt to let him go or put him down his head will be right back there nudging at the young man's hand for more attention. His master's a little less forgiving, maybe: the expression of sober interest is bordering on stern, though there's not a lacking of kindness in those deep brown eyes. "Everything's the same as what, Creston," R'us asks, hands loose on his thighs again, tipping his head up a little to look better into the lad's face. "If you're a coward - what is it you're afraid of?"

Held captive by a firelizard. Creston can't get up or move away while the little thing's still on him, and as it won't get off, here he stays. "The same as it was when I came here," he replies. What's he afraid of? "Me," the boy says, shoulders slumping.

For a little while, just a few seconds really, R'us blinks. Then he clears his throat and reaches up - not to touch Creston, though maybe his hand held such ambitions at first, but to stroke Mouthy's chest. Still, it's the dark-haired holder the rider's focus is on, so it must be he who's intended to answer, "Why?"

"You'll laugh," Creston tells Mouthy. "Or pretend you get it, but you won't." There's not any accusation in the younger man's tone. Just a sort of weary acceptance. He's considered this, perhaps, for longer than just the past few minutes. "Which egg do you want?"

Mouthy twists his neck, turning his head up toward Creston. Maybe this is just so that R'us can rub the stretched-out throat the little bronze thus offers, but it might seem, were one inclined to give firelizards such credit, that the little attention sponge is trying very hard to take Creston very seriously even though he doesn't appear to be edible in any useful way. "The one that looks like a fruit," R'us says, without looking back at the basket, in an I-am-not-done-here tone that might imply this diversion is not working nearly as well as the words themselves would suggest.

"Okay," Creston agrees with a nod. "It's yours." Mouthy gets more rubbings for his very serious self. Or maybe he gets rubbings because that means Creston has an excuse not to speak anymore, just at the moment.

Mouthy absorbs attention. R'us watches. The fruit-looking egg sits warm and cozy in its basket, pleasantly oblivious. The greenrider is quite comfortable, thank you, kneeling like so, bottom on his boots, he can watch Creston pet a bronze firelizard that isn't his all day long. No hurry here. Once enough time has passed that he believes this is completely, absolutely clear, he clears his throat and asks, "You do something back at the Hold they'd like to see you come back about?"

All day is a long time, though Mouthy doesn't seem to mind. Creston's mouth presses itself into a thin line as the egg sits and R'us remains. He darts a glance up at the rider as his hands go still on the firelizard. "How come you're so curious about all this, anyhow?"

"I encouraged you to stay here." R'us does not gesture, does not shrug, does not shake or nod his head; his eyes are there waiting for Creston's, not as dark but certainly as deep, and at the moment awfully level and patient. "Feel responsible. Might feel even more so if you're a criminal or something ought to be taken back by Weyr escort."

This summons up another twist of Creston's mouth. A wry and mirthless smile. "No, not a criminal. Not by any legal standards, don't worry. You're all safe." Mouthy gets nudged again to encourage him off the other man's lap. "I should turn in. Long day tomorrow. Don't forget your egg."

"I know that," growls R'us, though having given exactly zero indication that his statement was illustrative only, meant in jest, it might seem a little unfair that he's so displeased for the lack of appreciation of his humor. Still frowning, he lifts a shoulder in what at first seems like a one-sided shrug, but a sharp "Come" reduces it to what it really is: an indication of which side Mouthy should fly to and where he should perch, which the little bronze does with only minimal reluctance. So Creston's free, no longer pinned under the enormous weight of a needy firelizard, but the greenrider goes on looking at him and not getting that egg out of the basket. "Will you tell me," he says finally, mouth thin, voice just supplicative enough to sound strained, "at least what you hoped would change?"

Creston ducks his head down, still smiling faintly in that way that has nothing to do with pleasure. He eases up into a stand, stretching his knees and rubbing the spot where Mouthy had perched. His answer is short enough and obscure enough that it could have been one of the greenrider's. "Me."

R'us holds the stare a moment more. Thinking. Then: "Right." Understanding, or acceptance of the answer he's been given, at least. But then one heavy brow starts trying to sneak upward, and he has to break his attentiveness to Creston to look down at the basket, lest he look too obviously like he's trying to figure out what just happened. "You planning on going, then?"

"Just now, I'm planning on going to bed. Probably I'll go when the roads thaw and the traders start coming again. Leave the same way I came." Creston runs a hand through his hair, pushing it into a wild and puffy concoction.

R'us gives in. His hands leave his thighs; he leans on the knuckles of one and reaches into the basket with the other. Mouthy watches attentively as his master, taking extra care not to touch the other eggs, fingertips the fruit-looking one away from its siblings, rolls it up onto the sand and then palms it. "Don't want to keep you up," he explains, curling his fingers around the little prize, then gently lifting his hand while the other opens his jacket's top two buttons. The fact that he's overwarm from the fire is just now starting to sink in with sweat around the temples, but he won't be taking the jacket off now, after tucking a warmth-needing egg into its inner breast pocket. Then he's rising to his feet, moving carefully. "You want, I'll take you, when you decide. Got a while yet, f'you're waiting til spring."

"Well," Creston murmurs, watching as R'us gently gathers up his egg and tucks it safely into his pocket. "Thanks. I'll think on it." He leans to cover up the others with sand again, turning the whole basket before stepping away from the fire. "Good night," he offers, without actually moving anywhere.

Yeah, that works really well. Creston having been the one pressing for a departure, his failure to take it only seems to convince R'us that there's no real hurry in leaving. He does back up a step from the fire, though, putting himself loosely within reach of that chair he'd sat in before, and stares at the other man in his not-quite-but-very-nearly-impolite way. After a moment: "Want me to walk you?"

"I can find my way," Creston replies, creeping his hands into his pockets. "You should get your egg settled. It's cold out there. Anyhow, I'm lousy company right now. I'll, uh. See you. Around." He scuffs a foot against the ground before slowly turning and beginning to make his way out of the lower caverns.

R'us watches, turning so that he can watch more easily, as the other man scuffs, turns, slowly retreats. Open staring gives way to a twitching narrowing of eyes, consternation deep on the man's broad features, creating the first signs of what will someday be quite the furrow in his brow. Mouthy antses around impatiently on the shoulder he was given to perch on, but rather than free him to go where ever he might be anxious to go, the greenrider lifts a hand and strokes the little creature's muzzle, and watches a little longer, until Creston's gone. Then he takes the hand off of Mouthy and scratches his own head with it, and after that he makes a little 'huh' noise and restarts his some-time-ago interrupted journey-with-purpose toward the bowl.

Safety First

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 16:57:34 GMT

While de-icing walkways, Creston pauses to discuss ice, snow, and other things with P'draig and his daughter.

The afternoon is drifting towards late, sunlight a little weak through cloudy winter skies, though that isn't deterring the skaters on the lake. P'draig's been among them by the look of things, but is currently perched on a rock, skates on feet, feet dangling off rock. Palia sits on his lap, pointing at passing skaters and uttering the odd meaningful word and a single two 'word' sentence that sounds like it might mean "look Papa" but is a little garbled yet.

The lake is a challenging spot if one is a groundskeeper. A lot of the skating and activity churns the snow and ground up enough that when it settles and hardens, it's ice. Which means a goodly amount of salting and shoveling to keep people from falling. The young man has a pouch of salt and a shovel. Some of the first is sprinkled down and as it begins to soften the ice, the spade is used to break it up and move it out of pathways. He pauses for a breath and a little break, and in doing so, notices a familiar figure with a little girl on his lap. "Oh," Creston says, a touch breathless. "Hey."

P'draig looks up from retying the strings on Palia's warm, woollen cap and smiles. "Hey Creston! Working away to keep us all safe, huh?" One of the weyrlingmaster's hands lifts in a friendly wave towards the groundskeeper. Palia peeks thattaway too and mimics her father's gesture, one tiny mittened hand waving in a hand-open-and-closed gesture.

"Well, keep heads from being broken, anyhow," Creston chuckles. He carries his shovel a few steps closer, offering a wave back to both father and daughter. "She skates with you, or just likes to watch?"

"Speaking as a parent and a person interested in his own head remaining unbroken ... that's a good thing, and thank you." P'draig shifts Palia a little on his knee and he shakes his head. "She's just turned one, she can't skate on her own yet, but I carry her while I do or put her on my feet so she gets the feeling for the motion."

"I think I would have been scared if my father skated with me at her age," Creston muses around a small smile. "She's a brave little sprig."

"She likes flying too. I take her up on Jekzith and he dives. She thinks it's fun!" P'draig exclaims with wide eyes and gives Palia a hug. She in the meantime is squirming a little to be let down and the brownrider bends to set her on her feet carefully. The tot wobbles a little in place, mittens finding purchase on the rock for balance. "Either she's brave or a dare-devil. Guess we'll find out which as she gets older." The Weyrlingmaster's skate-clad feet swing back and forth a little, the metal blades on his boots ringing dully against the rock as he mis-judges a swing. "So, other than shoveling a lot, what've you been up to?"

"You take her -flying-?" Creston asks, his eyes going huge. "But, what if she fell? Shells, that's..." he laughs softly and shakes his head. "She won't be scared on anything by the time she's grown." He crouches down to better study the little girl in question. "Oh, not much. Just being around. You?"

"I have a carrier for her," P'draig replies with a chuckle. "Not any different than safety for any other passenger, safer even, because she's attached to my chest and I'm clipped in too. I put a safety line on her too though. Because ... Palia falling is not an option." The Weyrlingmaster's far more serious as he says that and Palia pat pats at the rock a few times then takes a few tentative scooted steps around the rock, navigating the fluffy snow at its base with a touch of difficulty, oblivious to Creston's scrutiny. "Drills with Skysentry, visits to Ista and the Reaches. Winter's good for visiting."

"Oof, the Reaches? I keep hearing their weather's worse than anywhere in the winter. Why high Reaches?" Creston reaches his own gloved hands down to begin to scoop up handfuls of snow and pack them into balls. These he stacks in a small pile as he looks between Palia and her father.

"That's where I'm from. It's pretty cold yeah, lots of snow. My family's still there, most of it anyway. Got a brother over Telgar way, posted out and a couple of my half-sisters are doing craft things, but my parents aren some of my sibs are still at High Reaches. I go up pretty often, bring Palia to visit. She's had a couple of overnights with my mother, stayed with them while I was at Ista back around turnover." Palia's interest in the rock is diverted at Creston's motions and she stops moving, looks over at the groundskeeper and giggles, pointing at what he's doing and letting out a stream of vowelly babble, then squats down to observe more closely, her own hands patting at the ground, again mimicking, though her efforts just pile up little bits of snow in uneven lines.

He smiles slowly, offering Palia one of his snowballs for her use. Or her mashing. Or whatever a one-turn-old will think to do with a snowball. "Huh," Creston murmurs. "I guess, with riders in the family, you can have folks all over the world, like that."

P'draig reaches down to tip Palia's cap back a little as it starts to slide down into her eyes. "Yep, or well, Crafters too. They get posted. If they're lucky, they've got family to give them dragonrides wherever, if not, have to suck it up and go the slow way." A wink is tendered for the groundskeeper. Palia meanwhile leans forward, reaching with grabby mittens for that snowball and winds up knocking it off-balance at least, if not straight off Creston's palm.

"Whoops," Creston says for the fallen snowball, picking up another to see if the little girl has better luck this time. "The slow way's not so terrible. Plenty of thinking time, if nothing else," he says with a little chuckle. "Still, having a way to get from here to there faster would be useful, if you had folks at this or that hold or weyr."

Palia just giggles delightedly as the snowball falls, apparently not all that fussed about not 'catching' it. She does however try again, with both mittened palms closing around the snowy orb. This time she manages it though her hands dig into the ball too much, starting to deform it. "If you fancy thinking, sure. I like sweeps for that, flying up there, even more thinking time and no one to interrupt either."

Palia just giggles delightedly as the snowball falls, apparently not all that fussed about not 'catching' it. She does however try again, with both mittened palms closing around the snowy orb. This time she manages it though her hands dig into the ball too much, starting to deform it. "If you fancy thinking, sure. I like sweeps for that, flying up there, even more thinking time and no one to interrupt either." P'draig looks out over the lake for a moment, then bends to loosen the skates from his boots and stacks them against the rock, dropping off it to come hunker by Palia.

"There you go," Creston murmurs as as Palia hangs on to the next snowball. "Pretty soon, you'll be flinging them at everybody. You even have a big dragon for height."

"Good job, sweetie!" P'draig praises Palia enthusiastically and her face lifts, cheeks rosy, eyes alight to beam at him. Her hands move a little within the snowball, munging it up further. "Jekzith? Not really, he's a mid-sized brown, but he gets good air, yeah."

"Well, he's taller than people and probably helpful in a snowball fight, even if he's only mid-sized. For a -dragon-." Creston smirks and shakes his head.

"Well yeah, okay." P'draig concedes with a laught. "Good to hide behind. Or flick snow with his tail." Palia's hands squish together and the snowball goes to bits, a bunch of it clinging to her mittens.

"I still stay if you sit on his neck, you can just rain them down on everybody. He wouldn't have to do anything but be there." Creston rolls up another snowball to getting offer it to Palia. "Well, unless other riders did that, too."

"Sure, but ... that's only fun for a little while, right? Not much of a challenge. Though it'd make for interesting drills ..." P'draig's expression goes thoughtful. "Huh. Might be interesting to dry that. Snowballs instead of rope ..." Palia holds out eager hands towards Creston as he makes up that next snowball.

Gently, snowball number three is handed off to Palia, this one with a little smiley face poked into it. "What would be different about it?" Creston asks. "Snowballs versus ropes. I guess it wouldn't be a bad thing for weyrlings, when their dragons aren't flying. Snowball fights. Obstacle courses. Just...being used to thinking fast with things coming at you." He shrugs a little. "Maybe not. I don't know much about it, really."

Grinning, P'draig nods down at the smiley-faced snowball. "Cute," he notes lightly while Palia just makes a delighted "ooo" and grabs a little too hard again, though not so hard that the whole thing goes *poof*. "Well, ropes are long and when you use them in drills, you put paint on them, snow leaves its own marks and it'd be a bit more targeted. Different kind of Fall really. And exactly, different kind of training, different way of being ready."

"Sounds sort of like fun. You could even color the snow, if you wanted to make sure it would leave a good mark. Flying around, it might be hard to tell, otherwise. Especially if it was snowing while you did it." Creston smirks as his smiling face gets a bit squashed between Palia's mittens. "Anyhow, it'd be something to see."

"Yeah, not a bad idea that, though I was thinking it'd be nice /not/ to have to deal with the paint." P'draig nods a couple of times, looking over at Creston like he's at least somewhat impressed with the fact that the young man came up with the idea. "Sure would be, can you imagine? Snowballs raining down everywhere!" Palia draws the snowball closer to her face and sticks out her tongue, testing the surface then mucnhes a bit and promptly screws her face up, eyes going wide at the cold.

Creston laughs. "Pour a little cordial onto it," he tells Palia, "and you'll like the taste much better. Watch this." Peeling off his gloves, he gathers up a small amount of snow and cups it in his palms. Then he opens them again to reveal the melted water it's become. "What do you think of that?" he asks the little girl before looking back up at P'draig. "It'd help with some of the winter doldrums, I bet. People could bet on which team would win or many folks on the ground could have their own competition."

Palia watches all this, still making faces at the chilly stuff on her face and on her tongue. Smoosh. Her hands close on the snowball between them again and then she reaches out with snowy mittens to bat at the meltwater in Creston's hands. "Sure, sounds like fun," P'draig answers Creston, smiling at Palia's explorations. "It's amazing seeing her discover the world y'know."

"Yeah, little kids are great like that," Creston agrees with a lingering smile. "They keep reminding you about all the little things you stopped seeing. It's like you get to discover everything, too."

"Exactly," P'draig bends to brush snow lightly off Palia's mittens and scoops her up into his arms, swinging her up over his head. "Whee!" The little girl laughs and laughs, feet kicking and mittened hands clinging to P'draig's forearms. "All right you, let's go get you something warm to drink and get a little dinner before night night, okay?" He beams up at his daughter then turns to favor Creston with a warm smile. "Thanks for the ideas, Creston. And for playing with Palia." He bends again to scoop his skates up and tucks Palia in on his hip. "See you around!"

"Oh, sure. If it happens, let me know. I'll watch." He lifts his hand in a wave, before bending down to gather up the shovel and return to the task of breaking up ice on the walkway.

Of Eggs And Men

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 19:45:26 GMT

Cold weather and a basket of firelizard eggs bring a few people to warm thmselves by the Inner Caverns fire. Several places and people get discussed; mostly a certain pair of greenriders.

The evening is cold and dark, the sun setting earlier in these bitter months. For some, however, that means shorter workdays. There's little to be done safely in the dark. By the fire sits a slender young man, his figure by mow a familiar sight. Creston, bent over a basket of black sand, gently uncovering the dozen eggs within, turning them, reburying them, and frowning faintly all the while.

Lady precedes P'draig into the caverns, circling Creston's head a couple of times, then dropping down to a spot beside him, crooning for attention. Paddy's not far behind, a basket of clothes on one hip and he steers a course towards Creston with an easy grin on his face. "Hey there Creston, how're the eggs? And how're you?"

"Um, well, not entirely sure," Creston murmurs. "Harder. None cracked. So...okay? Hi Lady." He reaches into his pocket to fish out a small bit of hide with a meatroll broken up into bits. "Saved this in case you stopped by." A bite is held out to the little green as Creston sinks into a chair. "You? Things going all right?"

"Sounds about right yep." P'draig pulls up a chair from beside the hearth and plops himself in it, starts sorting through that basket. It's all clothes. Baby clothes and the Weyrlingmaster seems to be dividing them up according to size. Lady hippity hops up to the basket and noses at an egg, gently rolling it a little and chirrups at Creston peremptorily as if to say: "Here boy, let me do that /I/ know what I'm doing." Then she takes the offered treat. "Yeah, had a lovely time at Ista, back now, and trying to whittle down Palia's collection of stuff."

"Is she outgrown things already?" Creston asks with a small smile. "My brother's kids are always bigger, each time I visit. You blink and they grow." He leans forward to offer Lady a second bite. "Just don't drop any, okay? Or bump them out of the sand."

"Ohhh yeah. Most of this probably doesn't fit actually. She's almost a turn now and growing like a little weed." P'draig sighs softly, picking up a little pink shirt and turning it around in his hands. "She wore this when he was brand new. Hard to believe she used to fit in it!" Paddy gets back to sorting, looking over at Lady with a little grin. The green chirps again and stuffs her face some more, one paw resting delicately on the basket's edge.

Creston peers at the little bit of pink. "Wow," he murmurs. "She was just a handful, wasn't she. Maybe the nursery could use them? I'm sure there's meenie babies or parents that wouldn't mind some extra clothes. Nice thing about busy places. Someone can always use everything."

"Yeah, really tiny. Sickly." P'draig's face creases for a moment, remembered anxiety then he shakes it off and smiles over at the younger man. "Not so much tiny now! And yeah, that's why I'm doin' this. Gonna keep the things she still fits in and the rest is going into circulation in Stores."

"Sickly?" Creston asks with a small frown. "Really? What happened?"

"Y'know how some babies get yellow when they're born? It's called jaundice and most babies they just kinda get over it. Palia wasn't getting over it. Illya was having trouble feeding her. It's like ... I dunno I guess if it gets too bad it's like being poisoned? And parts of your innards shut down. ANyway, it was kinda touch and go there for a bit, but she got better."

"Oh," Creston says very quietly. "I'm glad it's all right, now. Illya...that's her mother?" Another bit of meatroll is offered to Lady.

"Yeah. Coulda lost her." P'draig's voice is very quiet. "They have to eat a lot and get sun to get over it. Palia was lucky." There's the faintest twitch in Paddy's jaw at further mention of Illya. "Yes. Jekzith caught her Azath in a flight. So Palia's a flight-baby." His eyes lift to the younger man thoughtfully, while Lady snatches the tidbit gently from Creston's hand and nibbles some more. "Tried to make it work between the two of us. Failed."

The boy nods a little bit, wiping his fingers on his lap. "Happens, sometimes," he murmurs, his eyes on the fire and the basket settled before it. "I'm sorry for that, too."

"I'm ... really glad it didn't happen to Palia." P'draig's voice sounds tight with emotion and he swallows a couple of times, puts another pair of teeny pants down on the teeny tiny clothes pile. "Yeah. Me too. But it's better this way in the end. Illya ... didn't really want Palia. She tried, but she just ... her heart wasn't in it. So. I'll take care of her. No problem."

Creston smiles very faintly. "No problem?" he asks, looking over at the Weyrlingmaster. "That seems a bit of an oversimplification of things."

"Well okay, there's lots to do and organize to take care of a baby, but ... I mean, if I have to do it without her mother, I will." P'draig looks up and over at Creston seriously. "It's not like I'm doing it /alone/ but I'd rather have had us working together to raise her. In the absence of that, damn straight I'm going to try my best to do a good job by myself."

Creston peers back at P'draig, his own expression calm and interested. "Well, sure," he agrees. "If you're going to do it, better to do it right. Otherwise, here, anyhow, better to have someone else take her on, right?"

There's quiet from P'draig as he keeps right on sorting, getting down to almost the bottom of the basket now. The pile of things that still fit is very small, just a handful. A couple of shirts, a dress, two pairs of leggings. He leaves this pile where it is and takes the rest, puts it back in the basket by degrees. Finally. "Yes. Which is what Illya did. Left her with me." Paddy swallows hard once and sighs softly. "Plenty of people willing to help out in a Weyr." Stick to the positive. "Anyway, other than eggs and shoveling, what've you been up to? And d'you fancy more trips to Ista?"

"Weyrs are different worlds," Creston agrees quietly, studying the little pile of clothes. "Other than eggs and ice, not so much. Sleeping, bathing, eating. Basic stuff. I'm afraid I'm not too exciting, all in all. Ista?" He sets the hide of remaining meatroll bits down on the hearth for Lady to nibble at her leisure. "Sure, I'd go again. But I don't want to intrude or be a bother, or anything."

"Holds and Weyrs really are different worlds and the Crafts something else again and bridging them both," Paddy muses thoughtfully to the fire, getting the last of the little clothes back into the basket and picking up the 'still fits' pile to lay across his lap. "It's winter, there's always this ... doldrums time when there's just not that much to do," agrees the Weyrlingmaster then he slants a look sideways at the younger man. "You're not a bother, Creston. As long as you don't mind Mic drooling a little and hitting on you and you're having fun, you're welcome to come with me any time. Don't have to hang out with Mic either, I've got other friends at Ista."

Creston blinks a few times into the fire, brows lifting a little. "Is that what Mic was doing?" he asks, looking over at P'draig. "Really? Strange. P'draig, can I ask you something?"

"Uh. Yes. T'mic is very very loose," P'draig explains a little bluntly. "I love him dearly, but he can't keep his hands off an attractive body to save his life, unless the other person says no. He can take no for an answer." Both of the Weyrlingmaster's brows lift and he nods. "Sure. Think I told you could, yeah? Go for it." And he smiles over at the younger man encouragingly.

"Attractive body," he repeats with a faint tone of skepticism. But he shrugs it off. "I guess I'm just wondering...not to sound rude. Just, I suppose I don't quite understand. I mean I'm just...I just do groundskeeping. And you've been nice to me ever since I showed up, and you're a Weyrlingmaster. I guess I just...I don't..." he shrugs, a mite helpless to complete his query.

"Myep. Mic sees beauty everywhere too, for that matter. He's ..." P'draig gets a goofy little smile on his face. "Well he's special that's for sure." The Weyrlingmaster's eyes fix on Creston's face and he sits back a little in his chair. "D'you mean am /I/ hitting on you? No." Paddy asks the question and answers it all at once. "Ask just about anyone, I'm just friendly. And you remind me of some of my Weyrlings, all lost in the big bad Weyr. I don't ever turn up my nose at a chance at making a new friend and you've seemed like you could use one."

"Remind you of a -weyrling-?" Creston asks with a shake of his head. "Shells," he mutters wryly, "older than most of them, from what I've seen. I'm really that bad?"

"You're just twenty, right Creston? That's about how old most Weyrlings are. Somewhere between sixteen and twenty. Some are a little younger, some a little older. I like it better when we Search on the older side. Kids under eighteen don't really belong up there fighting Thread." In P'draig's opinion anyway. "Nothing bad about you, seem like a very upstanding, curious young man, but you don't know much about Weyrs. Nothing wrong with that. And better to learn with someone watching your back right?"

"Twenty and change," Creston notes. The change. Very important. He sniffs faintly, primly maybe, and lens back into his chair, stretching his legs out. "Kids grow up fast, sometimes. Sometimes not. You think Palia will stand, when she's older?"

"Ohhh, okay. Yeah, you're not a kid anymore, you're a young man. And you're not that much younger than I am. I'm only twenty-eight," notes P'draig, smile sliding up along one side of his face then retreating. The next question brings a puff of air into his cheeks and eyes widening. "Uhhh ... well if she does, she does, and if she doesn't, she doesn't. If she wants to do something else, it's all good with me so long as she's happy."

"Bah, now you're just humoring me," Creston says with a faint smile and another small shake of his head. "Imagine her impressing and you having to train her," he groans. "Ooof. Not sure I could do it, if it were me."

"Actually I'm not, I'm quite serious," P'draig answers, hands spread across his knees. "And if she Impressed here, I'd ask R'us to handle a lot of her training, so there wouldn't be any talk of favoritism or anything like that. Plus some of it'd be hard to make her do. I'd try my best, but better to have help with that if it comes to pass."

"Mmm," Creston murmurs. "I'm trying to imagine him with Weyrlings. He's so quiet, it's a little hard to envision. What has to be taught, when yo get new riders? Don't the dragons know what they should do?"

"R'us is quiet, but you don't actually need to talk much to teach a person to be a rider. A lot of it is just ... support, helping a Weyrling understand what's going on, or shells, just /listening/ and if anyone listens well, it's R'us," notes P'draig thoughtfully. "Still, he's got opinions and a lot of experience too and he's good about saying what needs to be said without a lot of chatter. We work well together him and I. I'm sort of the softer side and he's more of a disciplinarian. We go hand in glove." The Weyrlingmaster scrubs his hand through newly short hair and grins over at Creston. "They know some things, but not all. They're young and exuberant and overcurious. They need a lot of tempering. And again, it's more about getting rider and dragon used to each other. Imagine having a whole other person inside your head and sharing your feelings with that person. It's big. Way big."

Tenagne comes out of the residents' dormitory, letting the hanging fall back behind her.
Tenagne has arrived.

Tenagne steps just through the threshold of the residents' dormitory, scanning the room as if looking for something. From her expression, it's not clear if she hopes to find or to avoid whatever it is.

Two men are seated in the quiet area, settled by the fire. A small green firelizard nibbles on a meatroll on the hearth and a basket of black sand is perched there as well. The smaller of the two men is nodding, perhaps in response to something said. "Not something I can much wrap my mind around," he agrees. "R'us is a disciplinarian? Really? Huh." Creston shakes his head a little.

"Not like ... crack the whip type. But ... he knows how to get stuff done with a look, y'know?" P'draig smiles over at Creston and reaches over to clap the younger man lightly on the shoulder. "There's also teaching them things like, how to chew firestone. Formations. Between safety. A lot of is training the rider though, not the dragon." He looks up as Tenagne steps through and eyes the girl curiously, then his gaze drops back down to the baby clothes across his lap. "I should get the basket to the Headwoman and bring this stuff back to my weyr. You got any other questions, don't hesitate to ask though, okay?"

Tenagne apparently does not see what it is she seeks, but displays neither obvious distress nor relief. She simply moves past the doorway and starts heading through the inner cavern. As she passes near the quiet fireside nook, she glances over at the two men. "Hello," she offers politely, but not aggressively, as P'draig prepares to depart.

"Sure," Creston agrees with a nod and a faint smile for the shoulder clasp. "See you. Have a good evening." His hand lifts in a wave as one person stands and another one appears. Polite in kind, the raised hand waves again. "Hello," he returns.

"See you Creston. Oh ... and Ista, tomorrow? I'm going over for drinks." P'draig winks over at the younger man, hefts up the basket of clothing, the stuff he's keeping held easily in one hand. "Heya," he says friendly-like to Tenagne as he pushes his chair back and abandons it, perhaps to her use or not. Lady remains behind enjoying the last crumbs of food that Creston provided.

Blink. Blink. "To...oh. Okay. Uh, sure. After dinner, again?" He smiles after P'draig and flops back into his chair with a slow shake of his head. "Craziness," he murmurs, heavily bemused, his attention drifting back to the fire.

Tenagne's eyebrows lift with interest a the mention of Ista, and she watches P'draig retreat before returning her gaze to Creston. She inches closer. "The fire smells good," she comments. "Is it always this cold here?" Her clothing isn't dangerously inadequate, but it definitely isn't as robust as a native's would be.

"After dinner," P'draig confirms and gives the groundskeeper a casual salute, fingers to temple and away then turns to walk back through the caverns.

As the brownrider departs, Creston's attention moves over to the woman still standing nearby. "Does it?" he asks, peering into said fire as if studying it harder might help him smell the same thing. "Been sitting in front of it too long, I guess. I didn't notice. "Well, pretty much. In the winter. Spring and summer, it gets warm."

Tenagne seems relieved to hear it, and scoots closer to the fire as she asks, "How warm?" She glances in the direction of P'draig's retreat, and adds another question. "What's after dinner?"

"Um..." Creston blinks, his brows drawing down in mild confusion, "you know, warm. Wearing short sleeves and sweating and whining about the heat. Good crop weather. In the summer. What's after dinner what?"

Tenagne smiles at that. "Oh good. Well, that sort of makes up for this part, doesn't it." She hops into P'draig's abandoned chair. "You said 'after dinner,' and the other guy said 'after dinner.' Is something going on after dinner?" She swings her legs a little, then tucks one foot tightly behind the other ankle.

"N...uh. That's tomorrow. Um. Going to Ista." Creston shrugs a little, slouching down into his chair. "I'm Creston. Hi. New here?"

Tenagne nods. "Yeah, my mom and I just got here. I'm Tenagne. Living in there right now," she informs him, twisting in her seat to point back toward the resident dorms. "You live here, right? I mean, not in there. What do you do?"

"Yeah," Creston says with a chin tilt towards the barracks, "in there. Bunk off in the corner. Easy to miss. I do groundskeeping. Right now, shoveling walkways and chipping ice and things. Planting and weeding when it's warm enough for plants and weeds. You?"

Tenagne shakes her head. "I don't do anything, not like a job. But I just got here, so I don't know. Why are you going to Ista?" She falls back against the seatback, and drapes her skinny arms out as if she were an old man in a cozy lounge.

"P'draig has friends there. He's going to visit. I guess I'm going to be warm and say hi to them. I'm not sure they let you just stay here without a job. When I first came, the Headwoman got me set up with one. Maybe you and your mom should..." he pauses to yawn and then blink, "oof, should see her. And, speaking of cots and work and things, I think I'd better go find the first so I can be up for the second." He leans forward to push into a stand.

Tenagne's expression twists, a weird combination of embarrassment and distaste and who knows what else. "Well, Mom is, uh, sort of... working on something," she explains a little haltingly, but doesn't offer any elaboration. "I'm sure the headwoman will make sure everything gets done right." She sighs, then her face clears, as if the entire thought has evaporated, leaving only pleasant things behind. "It was very nice to meet you. I hope you have fun in Ista."

Creston only blinks slowly, a hand idly ruffling the hair on his head. "All right," he murmurs, though his tone suggests more confusion than certainty. Well, goodnight." And with a last small smile, he slips into the barracks.

Wax On, Wax Off

Tue, 15 Jan 2008 06:10:54 GMT

Creston learns how to oil a dragon. Jekzith learns how to put up with a Creston.

A couple of hours after their conversation in the caverns, P'draig sets out with Jekzith, a bucket of oil held in one hand, jacketed against the chill of winter. He hums as he walks, then stops after a moment, tilting a look up at the brown. "What? It's /warm/ in there you silly, why don't you want go to the springs?"

It's not where they agreed to meet, but chance has Creston trudging this way, anyhow. His hands are shoved into his pockets, neck scrunched down against the chill and cap pulled low. His nose is red and cheeks flushed. He's gotten into the habit of making a wide berth around those dragons that happen to be along his walking path, but hearing a familiar voice, the holder-boy's head lifts and he sniffs deeply. "Oh," he says mildly surprised, "Hello."

P'draig stands there for a moment more, apparently distracted by his conversation with the brown then he blinks and focuses on Creston. "Oh hey there. I'm sorry but Jekzith seems to want to stay out here for his oiling though I can't fathom why. Sharding cold. But would you mind terribly? If you're still interested of course." And Paddy sets the bucket down, gestures for Creston to come over. "Jekzith, this is Creston, he's going to be helping me out today." Wide aquamarine eyes swing towards the holder lad, fixing on him with an intent gaze.

"I, uh..." Creston sniffs again, dragging the sleeve of his coat under his nose before much gets a chance to leak out. He takes the requested steps forward to peer up at the brown. Who is much larger than Lindith not to mention little Lady who fit on his lap. He swallows. Audibly. "H...hello..."

Jekzith's nose descends slowly and touches lightly against Creston's chest then drops further, eyes peeking up at the lad. "He says you may scratch his headknobs. Same way as with Lady, only you know, his head is bigger than you are." P'draig's got laughter written in his eyes as he sets the bucket down, pulls a couple of rags from his pocket. "Here too, dip it in the oil, spread the stuff around, work it into his hide. Keeps it soft."

Creston clears his throat. "Noticed that," he murmurs about the size of the dragon's head. His hands come free from his pockets and he observes those headknobs a beat before reaches out to rub his fingers along one and itch gently at its base. His other hand is held out for one of those rags. "I should just start up at his head, then?" he asks quietly, as if he doesn't wish to disrupt the brown.

Jekzith is careful, deliberately slow, perhaps used to this, or just taking instructions, unheard from P'draig. He lowers himself into a crouch, folds his tail up around himself, and keeps his head right where Creston can reach. The dragon's rider plops an oily rag into the lad's waiting hand. "Yep. I'll start from the back, you start from the front, meet in the middle." And so it goes, with Paddy heading towards Jekzith's hindquarters. "He says you can rub harder."

Creston smiles just faintly. "He does?" He moves the oily rag to his dominant hand and uses it to wipe over first one headknob, then the other, then down into the space between them. He continues to work over Jekzith's head in silence for a moment, a little unsure what to do about the nose (nostrils!) or how close to get to the eyes, so those spots get a wide berth. "You do this every seven?" he finally asks.

Jekzith nudges gently into Creston's hands and obligingly closes his eyes, lidding them tightly, letting out a soft whuff of pleasure. "Sometimes more often. Especially in winter or if we've had a lot of Threadfalls. Between's cold," he explains in a light tone of voice, "dries his hide out faster." He's working away steadily over Jekzith's rear haunches.

"Wow," the younger man murmurs, gently rubbing along Jekzith's shut eyes and down over his jaw before starting on his neck. "I'd heard that about between," he agrees quietly. "I suppose that's why he doesn't mind being out here."

"It's a lot of work, dragon care. Especially when they're younger." P'draig's hands slide along the dragon with the surety of turns of practice. "And pretty much, yep, they have a much higher tolerance to cold than we do." He pauses for a moment. "You've never traveled a-dragonback or Between before, have you?"

The young man pauses in his oiling to blink and peer over at P'draig. He only shakes his head. "I never had a reason to. I was just...I mean, not much far traveling needed for me and mine." Then he swallows and looks back down, focusing on a spot on Jekzith's neck that needs a good rubbing. "They're smaller when they're younger, though. Less to oil."

"Sometimes it happens, you know conveyance to a Gather or somesuch," says P'draig good-naturedly. "But no I wouldn't expect it, necessarily." A laugh then for Creston's statement. "Generally, you'd think so. But they grow fast and their skin flakes off all the time. They need oiling more than once a day when they're really little." Paddy continues to work, whistling a commonly known tune in between strokes. Jekzith continues to nudge Creston lightly, guiding with little touches of his nose and puffs of breath. "He says you're doing a good job and he likes your touch."

"I'm sure he says that to all the young men," Creston says around a small smile as he slowly works he way down towards Jekzith's shoulders. His nose wrinkles a little at the idea of baby dragons with their skin sloughing off hither and yon. "Ugh," he says with a sake of his head. "That's...kinda..."

"Not really. I don't ask for help with him often. Usually it's the kids, you know? The weyrkids. They're always willing." P'draig chuckles softly, nodding. "Actually, yeah it is. Pretty messy, pretty dirty. Barracks life with young dragons is not a tidy thing." He's drawing closer gradually, reaching up high across Jekzith's midsection now. The brown sets up a low thrumming in his throat and relaxes ever obligingly into those who care for him at this moment.

"Kids like to crawl over anything," Creston supposes as he reaches over to work the other side of Jekzith's neck and then focus on the muscles of his shoulder. "How...um, how do you do this wings?" His shifts hands so he can tuck the one he's been using into his coat pocket to warm it.

"They like to help out too, I mean, they really do. They learn. A lot of them grow up to Impress so it's good ... not so much training as practice." P'draig's just reached a wing joint on the other side as a matter of fact and he crooks a finger over at Creston. "C'mon over, I'll show you. Mostly it's just being careful. Jek?" And the brown obligingly lifts his wing, stretches it wide open and arches it over rider and boy.

Creston has another deep sniff to keep his cold nose from dripping before he moves around to watch P'draig work. "That makes sense," he agrees. "Get them ready for what they might be doing later."

"Mmmyep," P'draig notes agreeably and starts in close to Jekzith's body, smoothing the oil outward from there and from the thicker wing edge towards the paper-thin trailing edges. "See, work it with the bloodflow. There's still enough light ..." and Jekzith lifts his wing a little so the light passes through the translucent membrane. "It's not that different from giving a person a massage really. Work it in to keep the hide supple, along the direction the ichor flows." His fingers trace the light patterning of veins there. "See?"

Watching carefully as P'draig works the brown's wing, he nods silently before moving over to the other wing to try out what he's learned. His hands work slowly and carefully, moving the rag from the middle out and from near the apex of the wingspars down to the edges. He worries his bottom lip a little as he concentrates on the task.

The humming on Paddy's side of things resumes and he finishes the underside of Jekzith's wing within a few minutes, waits until the brown lowers the wing to reach carefully to do the upper side. "After this it's just the one forearm I haven't done yet and his tail." Pause. "So. So far so good?" Jekzith's turned his head to observe Creston's work, eyes whirling placidly.

"I think he'd probably know better than me," Creston says, glancing up with a small smile. "I think it's going all right. His hide's getting a bit shiny where I'm putting the oil and those sounds seem like they're good?"

"I meant you, about him, more than him about you. He's happy, yep. Not that Jekzith's mood shifts that often, but you can tell by the color of their eyes, like with a firelizard. Blue and green are happy colors, contentment, yellow and orange hunger and fear, red shows fear and anger, violet you only usually see during flights. Lust." Paddy finishes up that wing and gives Jek's remaining unoiled bits on that side a once over, then pats the brown lightly on the neck and ducks under his head to come around to join Creston. "Looking good."

Rubbing down the last few places that need to be oiled, Creston takes a step back, the rag hanging by his side. He glances over at P'draig, lips lifting a little. "Well," he says, "not eaten yet. Doing all right, thank you."

"C'mon, tail then," says P'draig with an encouraging grin. "This is also why most dragonriders have soft hands by the by. Oil softens the calluses down, even if you work hard and having to oil a dragon at least once a seven ..." he shrugs lightly and moves on to Jekzith's long tail, now obligingly stretched out on the snowy ground. "Told you he wouldn't eat you," he notes with a chuckle and Jekzith too seems amused, looking around at the lad with his mouth hanging open a little. "Feel up to a ride after we're done then? We'll need to wait a few minutes, let the oil set before I put his straps on."

"...Yet," Creston tacks on again with a grin that's tipping dangerously towards 'playful'. "Tail, then. Anything special need to be done, or just more of the s...." And then the boy stops speaking, mouth still hanging open a bit, as he stares at Jekzith's rider. "A, uhm, a ride? But, that'd be high up, wouldn't it?"

"Yet," Paddy echoes, still grinning. "Nope, just more of same." The mouth hanging, turns P'draig's head back towards the lad. "Very high up. Got a problem with heights?" He asks this casually, without needling the young man at all. Just checking.

"I don't know. I've only been up trees. He...goes a bit higher, I'm thinking." The boy bends down to begin oiling the tail that waits for them. "I was thinking maybe a little bit to warm up, first, at least. Something hot to drink."

"All the way up past the Bowl Rim and higher," notes P'draig pointing up towards the Star Stones. He hunkers down to keep on oiling, heading down to the end of Jekzith's long tail and meeting Creston halfway again. "Sounds like a plan, we're about done here and we can let him settle while we get some klah, then head over to Ista, eh?"

The boy nods and he rag brushes P'draig's. "Good plan. I can't feel my fingers." He straightens, shaking out his hands before stuffing them into his pockets, oily cloth and all. "He can enjoy the weather all he likes. Let's enjoy a fire instead." And with another of those semi-shy smiles, he turns to make his way inside at a pace that will allow P'draig to walk alongside.

Fireside

Mon, 14 Jan 2008 02:40:56 GMT

Creston is having lunch and P'draig stops by to say hello. And other things.

The winter's afternoon has brought with it snow and a blustery wind. For those who tend the Weyr grounds, that means clearing paths, chipping ice and otherwise making well-trafficked areas safe to, well, traffic. Thank goodness, then, for lunch breaks, even if they're late lunch breaks. Creston has found a spot right near the hearth, wet cap and coat stretched out by the fire to dry. He holds a generous bowl of stew in once hand, using the other to spoon the food from pottery to mouth. The motion is methodical and the boy's gaze is on the leaping fire, his mind adrift in thought.

P'draig comes in from the living cavern with a sack slung over his shoulder and approaches the fire, unslinging said sack down to his feet. There's a scarf around his neck and gloves on his hands that the brownrider peels off now and stuffs in his pockets, palms held out towards the flames. "Shells, got cold huh?" He voices this casually over to Creston. "How're you doing, Creston?"

The boy watching the fire blinks as words pop out of thin air nearby. Ah, not out of thin air but out of a Weyrlingmaster. He turns his head to look over at P'draig, one cheek still puffed with a half-chewed spoonful of food. So there is hurried chewing and a discreet swallow before Creston can reply, "It did. Fast. I'm fine, thank you. And yourself?"

"Mm. It can go that way here at Fort. Where're you from again? Hold, right?" P'draig's smile is friendly and the chatter light as he keeps his hands held towards the fire. "Oh I'm good. Just getting my laundry done before I escape to someplace warmer for a few days. Time off y'know."

There's a nod of agreement at the word 'hold' though no specific hold is specified. Instead, Creston takes another bite, chews, swallows and his brows lift. "Oh, yeah? Ah. Weyrlings graduated, didn't they? That must be...nice?" He smiles faintly and shakes his head, perhaps aware that he has no idea what it must be. "Where will you go?"

"Which one?" P'draig's unaware perhaps of any dodging of that particular question. "I'm from the Reaches myself, High Reaches Weyr originally. Got Searched down here though, was at Tillek for a little while, while I was apprenticing. And yep, they're done, moving into the wings. Some of the ones that aren't tapped yet are still drilling with me in the mornings, but they should be done by the end of the seven-day, so I'm of to Ista for a week's vacation."

Chew chew chew chew chew...bother. Must swallow. "Sattle," Creston supplies faintly down to his bowl. The bowl needs stirring, naturally, which is why it gets eyed so. "They're allowed to do that? Search you for one Weyr when you live at another? Wasn't anybody mad?" There's a small nod for P'draig's choice of vacation spots. "I've heard it's very nice there."

"Oh, pretty up there yeah," remarks P'draig conversationally. "So you're used to it being cold at least. We get holderfolk up from more down Boll-way sometimes and it's hard for them getting used to the winters. Even if they're nowhere near as bad as Reaches' snows." He shrugs and shakes his head. "No? Why would they be? It's not like a Weyr owns every person from the lower caverns." The Weyrlingmaster regards Creston briefly. "Want to come with me to see it? Nice thing about dragons, travel's almost instantaneous. And I gather you met T'mic, so you'd actually have someone to visit. There's a decent bar on the beach there, if you fancy a drink. You're old enough to drink, right?" Teasing a little.

Chew chew ch-...Creston simply stops and stares at P'draig rather wide-eyed. He swallows carefully. There is comfort in repetition, perhaps. "Pardon, you'd take me to...that is...." He clears his throat. "Uh, well, yes. I did meet T'mic. He didn't layer his clothes." The spoon pokes around at the meat and tubers in his bowl. "I'd...I mean I'm not sure...I can't afford to get kicked out. Not sure they'd appreciate me up and heading off when I just settled in."

"Of course not, T'mic's from the South and he lives at Ista, he can't take the cold period and doesn't know how to dress for it." P'draig grins casually. "Just for an evening. You don't have to work all the way through after dinner, do you?" One brow lifts a little. "I'd bring you back before I head down there to stay put for my vacation. Like I said, dragons, instant travel." He winks over at the boy. "It's one of the perks of living at a Weyr see. There's always a rider going somewhere, if you ask nicely, they'll often let you tag along and you get to see more of Pern that way." He stops holding his hands out to the fire and tucks them into his pockets. "Looks like you survived the flight all right. Most hold-bred get a little turned around by them."

Creston smiles faintly, his head shaking slowly. "Instant travel," he repeats softly, his tone impressed. "No, no working at night. So I, well, I suppose I could." There's a little nod, confirmation, as he sets his bowl down. "All right." And then the 'warmth of the fire' makes it to the holder-boy's cheeks and he clears his throat. "Survived," he agrees, "and got warned that goldflights are a little more...uh...well, anyhow, congratulations. Since Jekzith...um..."

"Excellent, be happy to take you down there, let you get an eyeful of Ista. It's warm, pretty. Lots of scantily clad ... people." P'draig grins over at the young man again. "Aha, yeah, they are. A lot more intense, especially if you're not used to them. Folks cut loose a lot when a gold goes up. Don't have to, but you can. If you fancy it anyway." His head bobs once for the offered congratulations. "Thanks. I'm happy for him, he likes catching. Good flight all around. For both of us." Again he puts that out there casually.

There is a small, mute nod for this review of the flight and then a hand that lifts to cover Creston's face at the mention of scantily clad Istans. "You do this for fun, don't you?" he asks, his tone muffled. "Just to see how red the new little holder boys can get..."

P'draig hesitates for a moment, then sits down next to said blushing holder boy. "No actually, I don't. But someone did mention you might have some questions. I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable, it's more ... feeling you out and trying to give you an opening," says the Weyrlingmaster straightforwardly. "I just got done helping a bunch of holdbred Weyrlings through all this, it's not much different." And there's a world of compassion in his voice. "Really, I just wanted to make sure you were okay after seeing Lindith's take off. She and Jek were pretty loud and you were close by."

"I'm okay," Creston offers into his hand before remembering to lower it. "I think I understand the basics well enough, now, and mostly...it's just different, you know?" Creston shakes his head and shoots a hand through his hair. "I mean, of course you know. You just said. It's just, I didn't really realize. A lot of things. Not sorry to be here..just...anyhow." The boy's restless hands finally settles into his lap, "I saw R'us that evening and we talked a bit. Filled in the gaps, I think. I'll uh, I suppose if it's all right, I could come see you. If I think of anything else I'm wondering about. Mostly, I still don't entirely know what I don't know until I realize I don't know it."

"Mmmyep, basics, good, different, yep. And I know what you meant." P'draig's steady, reassuring. "And there's lots that you wouldn't know or realize until it smacks you in the face here if you've never been to a Weyr, yep." The Weyrlingmaster grins over at the lad and nods. "Sure, I won't be around for a few days, but you can generally tap on my office door if I'm not out on sweeps or running drills with T'rien's wing. And ah. Good. R'us' my assistant so he knows the drill too. He's a good guy."

"Yeah. I knew that. About that. Uh, about R'us being your assistant, I mean. He seems like a good guy." Creston leans back into his chair, hands curling around his knees. "They don't ever eat people, do they? Dragons? I'm not sure I'm supposed to ask that but, it just seems like they could yawn and suck somebody in. And R'us said that blue Xenoth sort of likes hurting things." He shifts, glancing into the fire and back again. "Sorry."

"Good friend," P'draig supplies further then tilts his head back and laughs. "No, they don't eat people, not even by accident. Xenoth I /would/ b e careful around, he's a little hair trigger, but most dragons are very much aware of their purpose, which is to defend the planet against Thread, and protect the people from it. "No need to apologize, I've gotten that question before. I mean, the truth of the matter is, dragons are big and they eat a lot of meat. That's scary. But they don't eat people. Only time I can think of that a dragon'd threaten another person is if that person was hurting the dragon's rider, or ... well flights can make for tense times."

Creston's smile is a little more genuine at P'draig's first words. "Must've been nice, then," he muses softly. "Everybody says that about flights. That the dragons and the riders aren't so much normal and that the riders are more like their dragons. I don't even...what's that even -mean-? You open your eyes after and find yourself out of your clothes and next to somebody else?"

P'draig tilts a look over at Creston and answers very seriously: "Yes actually, it was. And ... I'm not sure that 'normal' is the right word, I mean, there's flights in Weyrs all the time, so it's not, not normal?" He grins a little sheepishly, then shrugs. "At any rate, that's right, any barriers between rider and dragon tend to come down during flights. Most riders are able to maintain some measure of control throughout, but it's very intense and ... well for me anyway, yeah, Jek and I become one. I don't usually lose myself though, so it's not like I don't know what's happening." He explains all this in a matter-of-fact, light tone that's designed to be reassuring just by being so. "It's not necessarily a loss of self, or loss of consciousness, though it /can/ be. I guess it is more like that for some riders. For me though, it's more like I'm hyper-aware ... and there's times when I'm Jekzith with whatever lady dragon he's caught, instead of on the ground with that dragon's rider, but it's still me and that rider too, throughout." The brownrider pauses for breath and peeks over at the younger man to check on his expression. "It's intense though, no bones about it. And when you're back completely in your own skin, it can be surprising to realize what you just did, what it felt like."

The holder boy listens, fascinated judging by the expression on his face, brows arched high. He's silent at P'draig explains, one foot shifting a little against the floor. "I'm glad," he offers first, with equal solemnity. "That is was. I get the impression that's not always..." He chews silently on his inner cheek, the stew having been discarded. Instead of asking about hyper-awareness or flights he asks instead, "So they're just...people? In their heads? In yours, I mean. Dragons."

"No." Quietly. "It's not." And P'draig for the first time, swallows and looks away, the faint flickering of something crossing his face, but then he just smiles and returns his gaze to the lad. "Jekzith's first catch was awful, to be perfectly blunt and it took ... a while, to get over that." The Weyrlingmaster runs a hand through his hair. "Dragons don't necessarily take your preferences into account when they're mating." A rueful grin there and then he nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. "Oy. That's hard to describe. Yes and no. They're beings in their own right, but their perspective ... it's not /human/ you see. But yes. A voice, more than that, a sense, a presence in your mind. Closest thing that'd tell you what it's like would be Impressing a firelizard, but with a dragon it's a thousand times /more/."

Creston's bottom lip vanishes beneath his teeth and then reappears. "That must have been something," he agrees almost gently. "Firelizards I've seen," he says with a relieved smile. "They couldn't eat anybody even if they tried and there's usually a couple about with someone or other. Cute enough little things. Noisy." A small shrug. "I never thought of them as being much more than little pets. Dragons, I don't know. They were just always those black specks up high going this way or that."

"It was something. Another friend. Didn't expect to win ... never been with another man before. Sort of a recipe for disaster." P'draig's voice stays very, very light through that. "Firelizards? Yeah more like pets, or pals." He concentrates for a moment, then there's a little pop and a green drifts down towards his lap and she sits, looking up at him expectantly. Rummaging in his pocket, P'draig comes up with a leftover end of meatroll to give her. "This is Lady. They don't have to be noisy or pests if you train them right. She carries messages for me mostly, keeps an eye on my daughter when I'm on sweeps. Dragons ... for their riders, it's like more than a weyrmate - partner truly for life, y'know? Share and share alike. For other people, well they know you're there and that protecting you is part of their duty, but other people aren't really their concern unless those people's lives intersect with their riders."

Creston winces a little. "That, I don't imagine would be the best way to start. Um. Being with..." cue that rather vivid flush as he studies his knees as if he might grow a third one. But his head lifts in surprise at that faint pop and he looks over at the tiny green dragon thing. "Lady," he repeats with a small chuckle. "Dainty and all. I was beginning to gather there was something vital. Riders and their dragons. R'us seems, I guess 'smitten' is the best word I can think of in regards to Lindith."

"No. It wasn't. I don't recommend it," notes P'draig, still lightly. "Better all around for it not to happen that way." Lady chirrups brightly at use of her name and cranes her neck Creston's way, curiously eyeing him from head to knees then her eyes fix on his stew bowl, and they whirl with little flickers of red and orange. "She's hungry. If you've got leftovers in that bowl and share with her, she'll probably be your friend forever." Paddy winks over at the lad. "And she likes being scratched under her chin and over her headknobs, like a lot of dragons do." The description of riders and dragons brings out a laugh. "Yeah. That's a good word for it. Though with me and Jek it's more ... like we're brothers. Partners in crime."

"Not sure I want to know what sort of crimes," Creston teases as he bends down to lift up his stew bowl. "Here, then," he says to the little green. "Have at it, but its gone cold by now." He blinks. "Dragons like to be -pet-?"

"Heh. Nothing serious, I assure you." P'draig runs a thumb along his jawline then reaches down to demonstrate firelizard scratching. "Like this." And Lady starts to thrum happily just as Creston lifts the bowl up. Cold doesn't seem to bother her as she leans her muzzle into the bowl to catch up a little clinging bit of meat and sauce in her mouth, then holds it daintily in place as she nibbles neatly. "Sure they do."

Creston watches in silent fascination, his head canting to the side. "I was always told not to pet a canine while it was eating," he muses as he holds the bowl a bit more securely with on hand to free the other. "What do firelizards think of it?"

"Lady is a sensualist. She doesn't care. The more good stuff you heap up, the happier she is, though she might get distracted easily." P'draig demonstrates by scratching again and the Firelizards eyes start to whirl different colors, her lids droop and she forgets to eat, until Paddy stops when she promptly resumes. "Fire lizards are pretty simple creatures compared to dragons, but a lot of their responses are similar. And they broadcast their emotions too, it's just ... on a different scale."

The holder can't quite swallow down a chuckle for this demonstration on how to switch off a firelizard. He waits until she's mostly done with her current tidbit before he reaches over to rub a fingertip lightly under Lady's chin. "Huh," he says quietly. "Soft. I wouldn't have guessed that."

"Very. Dragon hide's the same." Lady droops responsively at Creston's touch, bowl forgotten. After a moment, her head droops and she very prettily drapes herself across his lap. "That ... would be why R'us is smitten. Or well, something along those lines," says P'draig with a laugh. "Say, want to meet Jekzith?"

Creston smiles faintly, sliding his fingers along the green's neck and around her headknobs. "Wanton thing," he chides a little fondly. "This is what Lindith is like?" He lifts a knee to keep his bowl of cold stew from tipping and then looks over at P'draig. "Jekzith? Well, I...I mean, I wouldn't want to disturb him. And you just said, they're not too keen on people anyhow..." he swallows.

"I meant the daintiness. Lindith's got a lot more presence of mind and presence in general than Lady." P'draig grins, watching Lady turn into a little green puddle across Creston's lap. "They just don't pay most people much /mind/ unless their lives cross with their rider's." He echoes his words from earlier. "And you wouldn't be disturbing him. You can help me oil him. It'll have a similar effect to what's happening to my little girl, there," he nods down at Lady. "But I should drop my laundry off first. "You up for it? He won't hurt you. Jek's not like that. More like an energetic puppy sometimes actually."

"You've never had a puppy," Creston says with a laugh, "if you think they don't hurt. Teeth like needles." He looks down at the melted Lady and then at his stew. A final gobbet of meat is fished out and offered. "I should get back out there. I'm only supposed to be having lunch. If he could wait until sundown then I suppose I could help."

"I have, sadly, never had a puppy, but I meant, he's got energy and is outgoing, happy, not ... angry." P'draig nods a couple of times. "Sure, that'll give me time to see to my laundry. He's not exactly jumping up and down asking for oil, it's just time for him to get some this seven." Lady perks at the offering and lifts her head up to eat it. "She'll come to you sometimes I'll bet, to get snacks out of you."

"An easy way to send a message back, then, since I'm starting to gather dragonriders can be hard to find." Creston gives Lady another little rub between those whirling eyes. "After dinner, then? Where can I find you?"

"Mm. They're good for running messages. And riders ... well there's usually someone off-duty. Older riders are especially good to ask for favors, because a lot of them can't fly Fall anymore and can't really drill, since their dragons can't chew stone. So they don't mind as much when non-riders ask them to take them places." P'draig smiles again and reaches over to curl Lady up onto his shoulder. "I can meet you in the Barracks, or come over to the Springs? Warmer for you if I come over."

Creston flushes and shakes his head. "No, no, I didn't mean riders. I just meant, you know, if I want to say hi. I could send the 'hi' with Lady if she stops by." He sets the bowl down, or tries to with the little green still on his lap. "Springs, then."

"Oh, sure," P'draig grins and coaxes Lady back over to his side of things. "Allrighty then, Springs after dinner. And don't freeze out there. See you later Creston."

"Nah, I won't. I'll just whine about it under my breath." The young man stands and reaches for his coat and cap, still damp. One is pulled on and buttoned up. The other is tugged down low over his ears. He offers P'draig a wave and another faint smile before he stuffs his hands into his pockets and heads back out into the snow.

P'draig busts out laughing merrily. "There you go." And he waves back, shifting Lady about a bit more, then propping her up on one forearm as he grabs his laundry to get it taken care of.

Applesauce

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 03:35:40 GMT

A litte while after Lindith's flight, Creston is back in the hot springs to pamper muscles gone sore from working in the weyr garden all day. R'us shows up, possibly also sore but for other reasons.

Hot Springs
The first thing which draws your eye when entering this vast subterranean cavern is the sheer height of it - a massive bubble hollowed out of rock by the pressures of volcanic gases at some time when Fort's volcano still spurted flame. The eye is drawn up and up into the darkness of the ceiling, where occasional flecks of mica reflect the light and catch the eye, flickering like solitary fireflies. Towards the northern end of the cavern, the ceiling disappears and the sky can be seen where the volcano eventually released built up pressure so long ago - now it forms an entrance to the hot springs for dragon and rider, dropping down through the open ceiling to the rocky lake shore or to various ledges high in the walls - from which the more daredevil riders have been known to dive on occasion.

Down at ground level, the warm lake laps the shore gently, never completely still. Steam rises from the surface and ripples stir from the movement of the hot water seeping in from hidden springs. The lakeshore closest to the Weyr entrance is smooth and gently sloping, a safe place to bathe and talk, but further out there are various rocky coves that can be reached by swimming or by dragon. At night, glows set in the walls reflect their glimmer onto the water; by day, the light from the ceiling gives the lake ever changing shades of blue and gold, deepening to soft opal at dusk and dawn, casting shadows that seem to harbor small crevices.
A wide corridor leads off to the southeast, curving back to the Inner Caverns.

It's not very late yet, though the sun is well past setting and the dark sky does little to illuminate the heated water in the large springs. The bits of mica in the ceiling that catch reflected moonlight wink faint and pale, a second rendition of stars settled beneath the first. The glows set into the cavern walls spread greeny-gold pools of color around the perimeter of the water, though none manage to reach out to the middle. The color is an intrusive interruption to what would otherwise be a rippling plane of blacks silvers and darkest blues. And white. One pale and discarded lump of alabaster that lies thoughtlessly at the edge of the water: a dropped towel. Out in the water, the lean holder-boy-turned-groundskeeper is floating stretched out on his back, blinking up at the ceiling. He's drifted partially out of the glowlight, arms stretched out from his sides. The fact that he's in a pair of shorts is a giveaway to his upbringing as well as his sensibilities.

A shadow against the night sky is hard to spot, dark on dark, but were Creston to look toward the cavern's upper entrance and count the stars he'd see how a handful winks out and renews again as a shape of some kind flies past them. That shape grows larger and larger, descending, until it sweeps into the cavern itself and by glowlight is illuminated. She is brilliant still; the extra shine of proddiness has very little to add to the incredible color with which luminescent Lindith is blessed every day. She soars toward the lake's surface, making a slow arc to be certain the water's safe to dive into before she does so. It is not, however, safe: there's someone floating in it. The steam parts in Lindith's wake and cold air streams out behind her, hard to miss; she sails lazily away and makes a splashdown some distance from Creston, ripples ringing out from her landing.

The stars' warning he misses, though the winged green shape hovering above him, he does not. Creston jerks and so sinks and so resurfaces, sputtering and shoving soaked hair out of his face while the dragon lands. He blinks over at the green as he treads water, squinting a little to try and make sure..."Lindith?" the boy asks faintly.

She turns in the water, swimming with a waterfowl grace, arching her neck like a lime green swan until her snout's pointed his way. Her narrow nostrils flare a little, as though she wishes to have a scent of the person who addresses her directly, this person whose mind is empty of draconic links, but once she has had her sniff and a moment to think she lets out a soft thrum, a ladylike equivalent of a bigger dragon's rumble. Then her wings arch out of the lake, streaming waterfalls from their sails and spars, and she uses them to balance a dive deep into the water. She's still submerged when a shambling mound of some kind shambles in from the ground-level entrance. The shape emerges from the steam and in so doing becomes clear enough to seem no longer a monster but some sort of old king, dressed in a heavy and regal robe; a few steps more and the robe turns into a thick fur of the sort that dresses the best beds in winter. Just a bit more shuffling and the figure stops on the shore, shaking back his bangs from his face so he can watch the spot where Lindith went under, as if he knows. And he would, too.

For the green's investigation, Creston keeps as still as he can while continuing to kick enough to keep his shoulders above the water. There's a small puff of relief as he passes the study and Lindith moves on to submersible adventures. Slowly, Creston begins to move backwards, towards the shore, keeping his attention on the place where the dragon vanished. When he can feel the lake's floor beneath his feet he turns and then blinks up at the man made of fur...no. Wrapped in one. This figure is considerably easier to recognize though harder, perhaps, to speak to. Still, Creston offers a small smile and a quiet, "Hi."

So focused was he upon the space where Lindith disappeared - the space where now she resurfaces in a happy fluttering of self-bathing - that R'us is startled to hear Creston's greeting, and looks down with wide eyes of concern, only to seem surprised that there's a human there. "Hi," he responds, and looks at Creston a little longer - and then memory floods his face and his eyes close, his mouth goes thin and grim, and his skin takes on a slightly dusky hue. "Ah, sorry about. Earlier," he tells the backs of his eyelids.

"Oh..." The holder boy turns again as Lindith reappears to watch her a beat before looking back over at her rider. "Don't worry about it. I found out was was going on." His smile is a little sheepish as a hand lifts to ruffle his wet hair for lack of anything better to do. "I'm not really sure what the right etiquette is as far as...I mean...am I supposed to say something? Or not say anything or..."

He found out. Better. The color in the greenrider's face recedes and he half-turns away from the water to shed the fur. He takes care with it, folding it up into a roundish rectangle, and sets it down well out of the chance of splashes. "You can say whatever you want, there's no etiquette," R'us explains, and now his voice has that gruff quality in it, his tone instructive. "You could ask if it went well. You could say nothing. A rider's likely to signal you, if you mention a flight, whether further conversation on the topic is welcome." He's unbuttoning his shirt - there's a couple of buttons near the top missing, so this takes less time than it might - with the same frank indifference that he's talking about postflight conversation: comfortable in the abstract. "They happen. It's no big secret. Can't be, you saw that much."

Creston sets himself down on the floor of the cavern for the moment, letting the steam lifting up off the water help to keep him warm. He draws his legs up to rest his arms loosely across his knees. "All right," is the young man's placid agreement. "Is it, then?"

R'us has the shirt mostly peeled off, pulling his arms out of the sleeves, when Creston's question hits, and with brows dropped in confusion the greenrider turns his head and looks down at the shorts-clad swimmer. "Is it what," he says, drawling a little bit, perplexed, and tugs his shirt off. It gets no reverence; he tosses it down in a heap atop the fur and his jacket. He's got his boots off - no socks - and the front of his trousers open by the time he gets it and says, "Oh, is it welcome?" A glance-over, a trace of a smile. "You got questions, hit me." Nudity follows, and footsteps toward the water.

Nudity makes Creston's eyes look back out at the water or up at the ceiling. Places other than those which are nude. But he does stand to head back into the steamy lake, so at least there's no obvious intent to turn tail and run. "Well, did it go all right?" he asks as the water creeps up around his ankles, then his knees, then his hips.

"Better than most." R'us looks down at the water for a long moment before walking into it, but once he's on the move he strides deeper until he has to push bodily through waves chest-deep, and then let go of the bottom and swim, which he does, seeking out one of the thermal springs in the lake's bottom. A low sigh signals his having found it, and he begins to paddle in place to take advantage of the hot spot. "A good flight's got no hard feelings after, no mishaps along the way. Can't say this one had no mishaps. Xenoth hurt a couple of dragons a bit bad. Nothing that'll stop them flying in a day or two, but he and Q'tar have to get past that tendency somehow."

The other man follows after, flipping onto his back and kicking with his legs to guide him over to where R'us circles. "Better than most flights or better than most of hers?" he asks, turning his head a little so he can observe the rider. "Xenoth...which one was he? The tendency to, um, hurt things?" He frowns a touch as the idea of a beastie a dragon's size with a taste for bloodlust gets pondered.

R'us uprights in the water and treads. "In general, better than most. I believe, anyway; can't say I know personally other greenriders' so much, or golds'." The latter is almost afterthought, but obligatory; he adds it out of some obvious feeling that it would be on oversight not to do so. "Xenoth was the blue. I think - " His eyes twitch, wanting to narrow to investigate either memory or his dragon's mind, but he need do very little of either to have enough information to go on. "You may not have seen him, but his rider was here, for a minute. Q'tar; he walked in, and P'draig told him to come on."

Creston considers for a moment before he nods. "All right, I know who you mean." His arms reach out and his feet stop kicking so that he can float in the vicinity of R'us' underwater vent. "And the, uh, the rider end of the flight?" The boy closes his eyes and clears his throat. "That went okay, too?"

"Yes." R'us said that a rider involved in a flight would signal if further conversation was not welcome. Perhaps this is his signal. The answer is easy and honest, and monosyllabism is not uncommon from the greenrider, but his tone is clipped and he follows the answer by leaving off treading so as to sink beneath the surface. While under he fingercombs his hair, swishing his head so his locks swirl through the water, no doubt refreshing. He surfaces in a moment and lets out a sigh, as though there's tension leaving him. Farther out, Lindith is pursuing much of the same relaxation, rolling in the water, seeking hot spots to soothe tired wings and muscles.

Creston's arms move slowly, his feet kicking down and again to keep nudging his body back towards the same spot, despite the current's attempt to prod it elsewhere. When R'us vanishes, the boy has the stars to watch and the mica and the green dragon lolling in the water further out. He must wait until the rider resurfaces to offer. "Good. Glad to hear it." The topic is politely let go; the current may carry -that- wherever it likes, and the young man straightens so he's upright in the water, legs kicking.

"Something you should know," R'us says after a short term of rubbing hot water over his face, now leaning back in the water to kick out as if he wants just a -bit- more space between himself and the black-haired groundskeeper. "When a queen rises it's a bit more intense. Not just for the riders, but for everyone. You'll know when Fort's next goldflight happens; you'll probably feel it." He leans back more now, letting himself float at a lazy angle in the downcurrent from the thermal. "If you're inclined to act on it, don't feel too worried. Most of the rest of the weyr'll feel the same."

The groundskeeper's brows lower a little bit for that helpful information. "Do, um, do they give any warnings, the queens? before they rise? It doesn't happen a lot, does it? T'mic said only every couple turns or something. Maybe I could just take a long walk far away for a little bit, if there's warning."

"Sometimes the dragonhealers make predictions, especially if it's been a long time or if a queen's getting old." R'us shrugs, a short gesture to accompany one of the longest sentences the young man from Sattle may ever have heard from him. And there's more to come; the greenrider keeps on speaking, his eyes on the stars and the glittering ceiling of the cavern, their edges blurred thanks to the gathering dark. "So if you suspected a couple days in advance you could jump a train or even get someone to fly you outWeyr, sure. I don't think a long walk would keep you out of the effects - but I suppose it could keep you on your own, if that's a concern." He doesn't look over at Creston, but a twitch of a smile does bend the corner of his mouth, a little bit grim with belated irony - he's holdbred; of course it's a concern.

"Mmm," the holder-boy agrees thoughtfully. "Or I guess I could just hole up with someone I actually fancied for a few days. Waking up next to a total stranger just sounds so...so...so not something I'd do if I was in my right mind." But then Creston blinks and laughs and flings a wet hand over his eyes. "'Course, been doing a lot of things I never thought I would, lately, so shard it. Whatever. Let 'em all have flights at once." He flops backwards creating a small splash as he returns to lying on his back.

There's a sudden groan and R'us rights himself in the water, raising his hands to scrub knuckles across his face. He's grinning, but his voice - suddenly very hard drawling, thick with southern sounds - has plenty of rue in it: "F'ranth no. We'd all be applesauce from the ass down." It's softly spoken, perhaps meant more for himself than for the holdbred lad, but not hard to hear even over the little splashings of his face-washing and Lindith's more distant self-adoration. The greenrider rolls in the water, then wipes it from his face and clears his throat. Louder: "Most people have, really, enough impulse control not to go to bed with a stranger so long as it's not their own dragon that flies or catches. Not a rider, like you, easier still. I just meant you shouldn't feel strange about it when a queen rises; it's normal, and everyone else's going through the same thing, so you don't have to walk 'round holding a book in front of your pants."

Whether meant for himself or for Creston, the boy snickers anyhow at this first comment. He cups some water in his hand and lets it splatter on his shoulders and chest. "Oh, I'm not worried about that. I've gotten pretty practiced at hiding that sort of thing, anyhow. But, good thing to know. About golds. And flights. And books." Another smirk, bigger this time. "And pants."

"I guess I'm talking to you like you're a weyrling," R'us observes without a trace of apology, though he does loll again in the water, turn his head and look over at the other man. "You're older than most of 'em. At least in the upper quarter. Don't need lessons from me." A lazy grin, then he starts backstroking idly, knowing the shore's behind him, heading slowly toward it. "Besides having your swims interrupted, you're doing good?"

"Ha!" Creston says with a shake of his head. Of course, shaking your head in water isn't so smart and he coughs a little. "No, no dragon that I've noticed. And I get the impression that's something you tend to notice. What with the being big and being in your head and all. Correct me if I'm wrong." This time when his arm stretches, it flicks a little water R'uswards. "I wouldn't call this interrupted. Just swimming in good company. Settled in, getting to know my way around, so sure." Nodding in water is easier.

"You do tend to notice," R'us agrees after a choked snicker. The flick of water flying his way makes him blink and stop his backstroking toward shore, though; he leans up and looks toward Creston, curiosity obvious on his face. "You don't come here hoping for privacy?" As if that's pretty much his expectation.

"I come here hoping people I don't know won't see me naked," Creston confesses with a small shrug, "or at least where no one'll make fun of the shorts." The hand that flicks water gestures towards that item of clothing that he wears and that most weryfolk do not we going into water. "Not necessarily to be all alone." He turns so that he can look more directly at the greenrider. "Is that why you come here?"

"Oh. You could get used to bathing naked. I understand holdfolk do, just not together." For this, R'us' tone is not flat-blank-educational; it conveys instead a more unusual bemusement, a smirk suggesting teasing, a small and good-natured jest at his swimming companion's expense. "And no. I come here because she loves it."

"I think that officially means you know more about holdfolk than I did about weyrfolk when I showed up here," Creston says around a playful smile. He looks over his shoulder as the green. "She's a regular fish," he muses, more intrigued than anything else.

"I was holdfolk once," R'us notes. "Well, sort of. Hold-kid." He lolls again, ready to backstroke once more, the shore still on his mind. But he turns a tired smile out toward Lindith, who never tires - or who's had more adequate rest - and shakes his head. He's adept enough to keep his mouth closed and his nose out of the drink in doing it. "She's incredible," he says, a little breathily. And from hearing himself sound that way, instantly the green's rider frowns, grumbles a cough in his throat, then begins to stroke back toward shore.

Creston follows after R'us, but slowly, allowing him a few moments of private scowling before he makes his way to shore and stands, dripping water heavily, thanks to those shorts he's so keen on. There must be, surely, some interest in the tale of R'us origins now that they've been revealed to be close to Creston's own. But, instead, the boy seats himself on the shore, glances up at the rider and asks, head tilted a little, "Tell me about her?"

R'us gives Creston an odd look. There's no better name for it; it's curious, sure, but it's a strange way of expressing curiosity - odd. But he's committed now, in water too shallow to turn and swim back out without being even odder, so R'us overturns and gets to his feet and wades out, just as nude as when he went in, though now naturally wet and steaming. "About her," he says, voice rough, walking to his package of clothing and the fur beneath it. The former he shoves off the top of the latter so he can pick the fur up - evidently indifferent to his dampness, he hangs it over his shoulders like a cloak, doing little for drying and even less for modesty-keeping. "She was clutched about ten turns ago, out of Piper's Faldaverth and T'bay's Sarevith - that makes her half Telgari, but there's Igen and Ista in her too. Hatched over nine turns ago. Been my best girl ever since." A pause, and R'us clears his throat. "Why?"

The other man settles his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm as he listens to R'us talk. There are small blinks for all of this lineage but no great fascination. "I meant, tell me about -her-. What's she like? How come she's your best girl?" He shrugs a little, pressing the heel on the foot that won't disrupt the knee-elbow-chin balance into the little stones gathered along the shore. "Because. I don't understand it, but I'd like to."

Now R'us closes the fur more securely around himself, hiding his chest and stomach and so forth on down. He's smiling the kind of smile that's snuck onto one's face and been forgotten there, a sneaking-through-the-back-porch smile. "Um," he says. "Well, you could understand me and Lindith, maybe, but that might not give you perfect insight into any other pair. Every pair's different, some more alike than others. You want to know how a rider's bond with his dragon works, I - have a whole afternoon's talk I could give you, but - maybe not before I pass out."

Creston shakes his head. "I don't want to know about other pairs," he says quietly, but then he ducks his chin down, his smile growing wry. "I don't want you to pass out, either. Well," there's a little straightening and a little reaching for his towel, "maybe next time. You come swim here a lot?"

Good on Creston, ducking his head down. Maybe he'll miss the moment wherein he's being stared widely at, just a snippet of time before R'us turns and bends to gather his clothes, doing so awkwardly with one hand, using the other to hold the fur closed about him. Some signal must be given, for as he does this, Lindith resurfaces from her latest dive out in the lake and begins to paddle toward shore, her wings sleek and streaming against her gloriously bright sides. "She does," he answers. "I come with her some of the time, not all. But you look for her and if she notices you, she might be able to remember you wanted to talk to me. I'm easier to find other places, though. Or I was... I guess now the weyrlings are grown I'll - be doing other things." Blank for a moment. Other things. He'll have to think of some.

"Oh," Creston says quietly as he begins to wipe himself dry. His voice is a bit more subdued, and his eyes remain on his task, rather than on R'us or his verdant lady. "All right," he agrees as he lifts one foot to scrub the bottom. "I didn't mean..." but he doesn't say, either. Instead he stands and wraps the towel around his waist, to offer R'us a wan little smile. "Well, see you around, then. Have a good night. And you, Lindith." He tips a courteous nod to she of that name.

Lindith sweeps up onto shore, taking care not to redrench either of the semidry men. To Creston she offers a pleasant, warm little whuffle, maybe just an answer and maybe more of a comfort meant to ward off whatever offense he might think he's made. R'us, of course, is not so civil, not so social. He only knows what a farewell sounds like, and is a little too weary not to be grateful to receive it. "We'll see you around," he confirms. "Sleep well when you get there." He tucks his clothes under an arm, awkwardly clambers up the green's lowered haunch, and in a few moments more the pair's disappearing into the dark above.

Creston watches them go up to vanish off beyond the cavern's aerial opening, and then runs his hands through his wet hair a few more times. He puffs out a slow sigh, shakes his head and, kicking pebbles from the bottom of his feet, takes the tunnel that will lead him to the resident dorms and, so, to his cot.

Settling In

Thu, 10 Jan 2008 06:40:45 GMT

In which Creston has many questions about the Weyr, and two kindly dragonriders helpfully offer answers.

Inner Caverns
Lower than the Living Cavern above, this room is still a large, bustling place. Hearths heat some of the areas here, allowing elderly and ill residents to rest here rather than mount the steps to the Living Cavern above. Rooms open out to the storerooms, the children's areas, the private rooms of staff members and some of the residents. Laundry rooms and bathing areas down one set of stairs draw near-constant traffic throughout the day.
Two long corridors lead off of here, one to the east and one to the south, going to the 'crafter' and 'staff' hallways respectively. Noise drifts out from the curtain to the northeast that leads to the residents dorms, and a small bubble cavern to the north leads to the 'resident hallway'. A short flight of stairs to the west leads back to the Living Caverns.

T'rien glances at Jaenie, who stands up on her tiptoes just enough to place a kiss on his cheek. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you later." T'rien murmurs a goodbye, watching her waddle out before taking a seat next to the Istan greenrider. "What's up?"

The auntie Mic's been entertaining sets aside her knitting and hobbles after Jaenie with some anecdotes about the first time -she- got pregnant, leaving the two men alone near the hearths. "Just wanted to talk," the greenrider says easily as he retakes his seat. "Get to know you a little better, you know? --That was your... Jaenie, right?"

T'rien raises an eyebrow, but is suitably distracted by mention of Jaenie that he merely smiles and nods. "Yes, that's her. Isn't she beautiful? Only about three more months until the baby is due."

"Lovely," T'mic agrees without any archness, just honest appreciation. The smaller man leans backwards on his arms and gives T'rien a sidelong look. "Your first, right? Am I remembering that right?"

T'rien nods, the happy, bemused smile of a man who has NO idea what lies in store for him after that baby is born. "For both of us," he confirms. "It's been wonderful. Except for the cravings."

Amidst the departure of waddling women and aunties, a young man comes from the opposite direction, politely stepping to the side so the two ladies can depart. He's a little flushed from the autumn chill and though it looks to be somewhat occupied, Creston makes his way over to the fire to hold his hands out and warm them. He chooses a location that's necessarily close tot he pair of riders, though doesn't set him standing between them. Still, the boy feels obliged to offer a nod and a smile to each. "Evening," he offers.

T'mic says "/I/ remember the cravings," with a wry little laugh. "Drove me sharding *between*, they did." As Creston approaches he leans forward to give him a once-over and a brilliant smile. "Evening yourself. I'm T'mic, Aath's my green, and this is T'rien, Cavoth's."

T'rien looks up from his seat and waggles a few fingers in Creston's direction. "Evening," he greets. He gives T'mic an odd look. "You remember the cravings? My father once told me he experienced all the symptoms of my mother's first pregnancy but I thought he was making it up."

Creston blinks a little bit, brows lifting as T'mic's look is more of a /look/, though his head only cants to the side a touch. "T'mic and T'rien," he repeats. "Aath and Cavoth. Hello." He turns his hands so the backs can get toasty next. "Is somebody..." he glances towards the door where the heavily expectant woman departed and then back, "was she...? Pardon me, not to intrude."

T'mic holds up a hand to correct T'rien. "/I/ never got 'em; the mothers did." And let that be a lesson to you, Creston. He continues to grin at the newcomer, shaking his head genially. "That's Jaenie - but I should let T'rien tell you about her. And you're not intruding. What's your name?"

T'rien ahs and nods. "I see. Yeah, well, Jaenie had her fair share of them. They've mostly tapered off now, though, thank Faranth." He rubs at his face with one hand.

Creston blinks again. "Oh. Gosh, sorry. Creston. I'm Creston. Hi." His hands drop and he turns to sit down on the edge of the fireplace, glancing over at the two riders. "Well. Congratulations," he offers to T'rien. "I didn't think riders got married."

T'mic doesn't laugh, he really doesn't, but his lips twitch a lot. Rather than make Creston watch he turns away, ostensibly to look for the abandoned knitting. His voice just a little higher than before he offers, "First three and last three months are the worst. 'Specially the last one. This her, uh, first too?"

T'rien grins at Creston. "We don't. And we're not. Weyrmates, that is. Maybe someday but...not today. For now, we're happy the way things are." He nods in T'mic's direction. "Aye, it is."

"W-..." Creston ducks his head down for a moment to run his fingers through his hair while he studies his boots. It's probably the warmth from the fire that's making his cheeks rather red. One foot tap tap taps against the floor before he lifts his head once more. "Right," he offers with another little nod. "Look, I don't suppose there's a manual hiding around somewhere before I do that again?"

T'mic leans forward, around the brownrider, his smile easy and understanding. "No manual, no, but it's all right. Just means you get pegged as holdbred. --Or craftbred," he adds, leaning back to consider T'rien with a little frown. "Craftbred marry, don't they? S'only riders that weyrmate."

T'rien nods. "Yep, they marry. Weyrmating is essentially the same thing," he points out for Creston's benefit. "So the definition holds true for both. It's a promise to commit yourself to one person. Riders don't marry because, well, sometimes dragons have other ideas about monogamy."

"I've heard the term," the holdbred boy murmurs with another touch of red rushing to his cheeks. "I, uh. I guess I thought it only applied to riders who were...I mean the ones that um..." he coughs, "liked people that were not...the other...gender."

T'mic chokes politely for the brownrider's explanation. Without another word he gets up and hauls the auntie's chair over, plops himself down in it facing the other two with an 'isn't this cozy?' grin. "You lost me there, Creston. You thought weyrmate only applied to riders who what? --You don't have a nickname, do you? Creston's a mouthful. Mostly people call me Mic."

T'rien says "I think he was referring to some of the same sex pairings you see in weyrs. Weyrmating applies equally to both."

"Um," Creston says weakly, "Cres, I suppose. If you really have to. It's sort of a lost cause either way." He lifts one hand to point towards T'rien and nod. "Yes. That." That thing which he doesn't have to repeat since T'rien was so good as to summarize. "What do the dragons have to do with it? No, never mind. I'm not sure I want to know." And then, hurriedly on the heels of that, "Can I ask something?"

T'mic says "/Oh/," like T'rien cleared things up for him too. Then, "Nah, not really. I was weyrmated to his sister for a little bit." A nod for T'rien. "Didn't work out, but we're still good friends. --Course you can."

T'rien stifles a yawn but nods. "Go ahead."

The holder boy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I was down in the hot springs...was told it was a thing to see...and there was this rider there that I know a little. He's got a green like Aath. Well, only that isn't her name of course. And then these other dragons came and they all started playing in the water only sort of..." Creston frowns and shakes his head. "And the riders begin to act all peculiar. Well, the one I know a little did, anyhow and then P'draig came in and I knew him too, so I think he was acting funny. Um. Anyhow, the green one shoots off and the other ones follow and everyone rushes off and..." he blinks, shooting a hand through his hair again. "Any idea what was going on? I mean, being riders, I thought maybe you'd..." shrug.

T'mic listens attentively, his forearms resting on his knees and his wrists dangling. "Flight," he says decisively at the end of this recitation, looking for a moment toward T'rien. "Definitely sounds like a flight to me. And then the greenrider headed out, kinda stumbling, and the other riders went after him, right?"

T'rien listens intently, eyebrows rising slightly at the mention of P'draig. After a moment, he nods, glancing at T'mic as if to confirm something. "There was a greenflight earlier today," he tells the boy. "A female dragon rose and the male dragons flew off to catch her..." He nods with T'mic. "I think Jekzith won, too."

"He was a little," Creston agrees with a small nod. "He sounded like he had a cold but kept insisting he didn't. Oh. A flight then." There is a small pause before the boy asks the inevitable: "What's a flight?"

T'mic unaccountably straightens, looking smug about something. "/Well/." Whatever it is that has him so pleased turns his smile crooked; he looks past the two and through the wall as if he could see the bowl. "Good for him." And then Creston's asking another question; Mic drags his attention back with a blink. "What? Oh, it's..." T'rien gets another glance: help me out, here?

T'rien raises both eyebrows at T'mic and shrugs. "You're the expert. Cavoth's only won one flight." He takes a deep breath, however, and turns toward Creston to say, "A flight is when a female dragon rises to mate."

There is a moment where Creston looks from T'mic to T'rien and back again as if trying to detect if there is some sort of tomfoolery going on here. "You mean she was...and the others were...but...but..." he leans back, his head shaking. "But there were -six- of them. She couldn't possibly..."

T'mic can't help it; he bursts out laughing at Creston's expression. "Shells, no! No, one green - or gold - one male. Depends on who's fastest, strongest, cleverest. Luckiest," he adds, with another nod to T'rien before his cadences slip into those of a teacher. "Greens rise, oh, anywhere from two to four times a turn. Golds depending on, well, lots of things. During a pass, maybe three times every two turns. Middle of an Interval, closer to every four to five turns. Males chase them, they try to get away, and one of the males will get close enough to catch her. They mate, and," there's a careless shrug, "So do their riders. S'why we don't marry."

T'rien clears his throat, glancing at T'mic again. "He'd love it if they could have all six though," he says, getting to his feet. With a stretch and a yawn, he runs his hand over his face again. "You'll have to excuse me. I'm a bit tired and I've got a little bit of record keeping before I can retire. Good night to you both."

T'rien climbs up the stairs to the Living Cavern.
T'rien has left.

The holder boy listens with rapt attention as T'mic speaks, and his wide eyes go a bit wider for that bit about the riders. Then he peers over at T'rien and his brows furrow low and then shoot high again. Cue another round of very red cheeks. He ducks his head down. "Good night," he offers to the departing rider. "Thank you. For the information."

T'mic almost says something but thinks better of it. What he -does- say, finally, is a mild, "Clear skies, Wingleader. Regards to Cavoth," that sends T'rien up the stairs to the living caverns. "You're welcome. I taught a class of weyrlings back at Ista, so you're not asking anything I haven't heard before."

"I think," Creston says with an awkward little laugh, "it's a little different if you're a weyrling." He puffs out a small sigh and shakes his head. "Different, here. I'm still getting used to it, but I expect that's obvious."

"A little, yeah," Mic allows, shifting seats to claim the spot on the hearth T'rien abandoned. "It's sharding cold at Fort," he adds conversationally. "Me, I was raised at Southern and Impressed at Ista."

The boy nods a little. "Sattle," he offers by way of his own origins. "It's cold there, too, though in the mountains up here, it feels sharper, somehow." He settles his chin on his palm glancing over at T'mic.

The name causes Mic to tilt his head but brings no light of awareness to his eyes. "Where's Sattle? And yeah, 'nless I'm here in summer feels like the cold goes right through me." He grasps his wrist in demonstration, pulling in his shoulders for a shiver despite the heat on his back.

"North of here," Creston offers, "sort of near Tillek and Ruatha. A hold." As if that last is necessary. "You should dress in layers. It helps. Riders really...?" He smirks, closes his eyes, shakes his head. "Sorry. Never mind. So what brought you to Fort?"

T'mic's not about to let the question go; he echoes, "Riders really what?" before shaking it off. "Couple things. T'rien - wanted to talk to him. Me and his sister were weyrmated, like I said, but we've never gotten along. I figured I might as well make an effort, right?"

"Really...when their dragons, er, catch. They...?" This seems to be about the level of description Creston is prepared to offer. Then he shrugs a little. "I don't know," he muses. "Maybe, I suppose. If she's a former weyrmate and he's all the way over here..." His lips thin a little and his boots get another long scrutiny before he adds, "Family is important, though."

T'mic says "Have amazing sex?" the greenrider supplies. "Yes, usually. See," and he wriggles around so he can face Creston, one knee coming up sideways to rest on the hearth, "When a green gets proddy - or a gold," though the gold is definitely an afterthought, "and especially when she rises, she affects her rider. In the middle of a flight, they might as well be one... thing. Person. And it affects the male riders too." Another beam. See? Simple."

Creston's face slaps into his palms with a rather audible sound. "Oh," he says against his hands, lifting his head just enough that his dark eyes can peer past his fingertips. "And nobody minds that two men, or two women...it's just okay?"

T'mic drops his chin to give the holder an 'oh, please' look through his lashes. "No one minds. Even if you don't particularly care for men - or women - when a green's caught no one cares for something as... trivial as plumbing. Care -later-, but not in the moment."

There is a soft snicker from behind Creston's fingers. "Plumbing," he repeats before sitting a little straighter. "So I suppose everything about Weyrs being, er, lax in certain....moral elements and riders being...it's just because of flights?"

T'mic reaches out to try and pull that fence of fingers down. "No. --Maybe. Look - I ride a green. Aath's..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and gives the other man a quirk-browed grin. "I dunno if I can explain her to you. But... but people are people, right? And you love your parents, right? And any sibs you might have?"

Those fingers lower slowly and only with T'mic's help. Though his head stays up, Creston's gaze begins to drop at the line of questioning. He offers a weak nod and a small swallow. "Yes," he murmurs. "I...yes."

T'mic's grin is encouraging - Creston's giving the right answers. Perhaps he won't notice (for Mic certainly doesn't) that the greenrider's fingers don't leave his wrist. "OK, so, it doesn't matter if they're male or female, right? So why should it matter about the other people you love?"

"Because," Creston responds faintly and ever so helpfully. "Because you have a duty to those people and to future generations and you can't very well marry someone who..." his mouth quirks, "...who has the wrong plumbing." His hand has settled on the hearth and does nothing to try and wriggle free from T'mic's hold.

Mic says blithely, "What future generations? Nothing to hold in a Weyr. My first duty is to Aath. T'rien's, to Cavoth." His fingers drag lightly up Creston's hand as he retrieves it, bestowing a sunny smile in return. "After that, the Weyr, and after -that-, myself."

The young man from Sattle watches as his fingers are lifted up by something that isn't the motion of his own muscles. "I somehow get the impression," Creston muses, looking from joined hands to smiling greenrider, "that those duties don't much conflict."

"Oh, sometimes they do," the greenrider admits, looking away from their hands and back to the holder's dark eyes. "But I know where my heart lies. Aath has it, for now and for always. Everything else is just... plumbing."

"Strange," Creston says quietly, though the word holds more of wonder than of disapproval. Slowly, his hand lowers, wrist twisting in an attempt to work itself free. Creston clears his throat. "I should go," he murmurs. "Thanks for your help."

T'mic's hand lets the other go without a murmur, a twitch, of protest, fingers stretching open like a benediction. Mic himself could still be all unaware of what it's doing, for his eyes remain fixed on the other man's face. "That's a Weyr. If you ever want to talk, T'rien and P'draig know where to find me. Or Paddy - he'll answer your questions."

"P'draig would?" Creston asks, brows drawing down in mild confusion. Then he laughs. "He have a sister, too?" the slender boy teases as he leans forward to stand. "Okay," he agrees with a bit more sincerity. "I'll keep it in mind. Thank you."

T'mic says "At least two," with another little laugh. "I haven't met any of them." As Creston leans forward he -almost- does the same, but lets the boy escape unhindered instead. "You're welcome, Cres. Welcome to Fort."

The holder lifts his hand in a final wave a small smile touching his lips. "Layers," he says as he begins to step away and towards the resident dorms, "next time." And then he's ducking through the door and out of sight.

Doubleyew Tee Eff

Thu, 10 Jan 2008 06:37:40 GMT

In which Creston stumbles across some dragons and their riders behaving very oddly for no apparent reason. Well, no reason that Creston can figure out.

Hot Springs
The first thing which draws your eye when entering this vast subterranean cavern is the sheer height of it - a massive bubble hollowed out of rock by the pressures of volcanic gases at some time when Fort's volcano still spurted flame. The eye is drawn up and up into the darkness of the ceiling, where occasional flecks of mica reflect the light and catch the eye, flickering like solitary fireflies. Towards the northern end of the cavern, the ceiling disappears and the sky can be seen where the volcano eventually released built up pressure so long ago - now it forms an entrance to the hot springs for dragon and rider, dropping down through the open ceiling to the rocky lake shore or to various ledges high in the walls - from which the more daredevil riders have been known to dive on occasion.
Down at ground level, the warm lake laps the shore gently, never completely still. Steam rises from the surface and ripples stir from the movement of the hot water seeping in from hidden springs. The lakeshore closest to the Weyr entrance is smooth and gently sloping, a safe place to bathe and talk, but further out there are various rocky coves that can be reached by swimming or by dragon. At night, glows set in the walls reflect their glimmer onto the water; by day, the light from the ceiling gives the lake ever changing shades of blue and gold, deepening to soft opal at dusk and dawn, casting shadows that seem to harbor small crevices.

Fort's hot springs are worth a visit, should one be inclined to linger; the cavern's inherent beauty, reflected like a thousand jewels dancing on the water's surface, is worth just a good long stare even if one has no desire for a hot dip. Even locals sometimes use the place for this purpose, and serving as proof today is a bulky-shouldered rider seated on the rocky shore. One arm is thrown over one knee, leather on leather, his jacket shining from steam gathered off the water. He should be overwarm, but perhaps he hasn't been here long. He's staring up at cavern's skyward entrance, where a few clouds left from the gray dawn drift across the late-morning blue. The harsh light makes the walls and water glitter ever more, a worthy dressing of gems for the green lady cavorting in the middle of the spring-warmed lake. Her beachgrass wingsails glisten with water sheeting off every time she raises them; she dives under, and resurfaces in a surge of margarita flood. "Keep looking. I know there's got to be one in there somewhere," murmurs the man on the shore, though it's not the dragon he's watching.

If locals are inclined to visit the subterranean cavern with its heated water and winking gemstone ceiling, certainly new arrivals can't resist. A slender boy, dark-haired, comes walking from the less interesting entrance: the simple tunnel from inner caverns to springs. He has a towel over his shoulder and whistles softly as he arrives, pausing to watch the green figure stream upwards from the bubbly depths. But, he's got to study the man sitting on shore and watching the sky before Creston offers, with a faint smile, "Hullo, Lindith. Afternoon, R'us."

Late-morning blue is marred by shadow as the dark bronze shape of a sleek dragon interrupts a bit of the skyward view. What begins as just a glimpse is quickly expanded as Kevruth slides swiftly downward, angling neatly through the entrance and stretching claws out for purchase on the shore within mere beats. His landing is too quick to be graceful, a jarring bump for his rider - the lean and scowling A'zan whose teeth are gritted as he slips down from his mount's side. "Your own agenda or not, there is no cause for giving me whiplash," he grumbles just audibly, giving his tunic a little tug at the hem to neaten it. "Go have your swim so we can get back already." It is only then that A'zan raises pale grey eyes to take in the wide space, spots the slender youth and the bulky greenrider and offers them each a spare nod. He settles back to rest on his heels, arms crossed, impatient.

R'us pulls his gaze away from the sky just as Kevruth's becoming a shadow against it, turning his bovine eyes toward Creston. Those eyes mark the lad, the towel, and surely the greenrider heard the young man's greeting - but it's some time later, when the Telgari's already down off from the bronze's back and is speaking to his beast, that the bulky Fortian clears his throat and croaks, "Creston," by way of greeting. He sniffs next, so that the overall effect is just like that of a person suffering a mild head cold, foggy-brained from congestion. A'zan's nod is probably entirely missed, so slow the greenrider seems, though it's possible he has -some- awareness thanks to his thoughtful lady out there in the lake. She surfaces, seemingly, for the sole purpose of raising her faceted stare to consider the foreign bronze, which she does for a long moment before sinking into the steam once more.

Jekzith spirals down from the opening overhead.
Jekzith has arrived.

The young man pauses to watch this second dragon sweep in from the sky and land, blinking slowly up at the larger bronzer creature. He swallows faintly, one hand reaching up to check that his towel hasn't slipped from his shoulder. Then a smaller bit, the talking bit, untangles from the rest of the figure, lands and nods. Creston blinks and then nods back before shifting his attention towards more familiar shapes. It's lucky, perhaps, that R'us converses so slowly today. The young man observes the greenrider in time to receive his greeting. "Yes," he agrees for his name. Then, head canting to the side and brows twitching downwards a touch he continues, "Are you all right?"

Lovely though she may be, Lindith isn't enough to draw Kevruth's attention just yet - the warm waters call him first and foremost. Graceful now that it suits him, he slinks into the water until he is nearly submerged, brushes brandy wingsails through the rippling surface and finally sinks down with a contented sigh. Only once he is well settled does he turn an aloof eye onto Lindith, an assessing little glance followed by a faint rumble of grudging greeting. A'zan lets out a sigh of his own, though it lacks any semblance of the contented quality of his 'mate's. All that blinking and no real greeting earns Creston a look that shades toward a glower, then his pale eyes cut toward R'us. And his knot. "Telgar's duties," he finally offers in a low note, should the greenrider even be clearheaded enough to hear it.

Jekzith warbles brightly as he arrives, shadow falling over the water. He bears all the signs of having been recently bathed and oiled and yet, here he is, in the springs and landing lightly where he can easily glide on into the water. << Hello! Hello! >> All exuberance for the other dragons present, though it's Lindith who does draw him and he sticks his head under the water, peering down into the depths as if searching for something.

"Fine." R'us lifts the back of his hand to rub it across his nose, which all the more emphasizes the idea of sickness, and looks away again. This time he does not turn his eyes skyward; unerringly he pegs the circles of water rippling outward from where Lindith most recently dived. Soon the green resurfaces, only a few feet away, her head surging brilliant out of the water. So bright is she normally that the extra brilliance of her hide could, maybe should be attributed to the loveliness of the cavern's hues and the clarity of the light streaming in from above; but the brown and bronze, should they be so inspective, might think better of that assumption. Again Lindith looks at Kevruth, though not so consideringly this time; swiftly, maybe coyly, she looks away, taking refuge of a kind in Jekzith's relatively noisy arrival. She stretches her throat in a soft croon to welcome him, then flips away with a swish of tail through the water to dive again, a being obsessed. Only after she's disappeared again from his eyes does R'us turn his gaze over toward the Telgari and croak back, "And ai... suh... Fort's." A gruff sniffle. "To Telgar. And her queens." Slow blink.

The young man with the towel looks up again. Another one, riderless. One slim hand lifts to ruffle slowly through his hair as Creston studies R'us for a third time and then watches the dynamics between the trio of waterbound dragons. "Um," he murmurs, "you sure?"

P'draig steps out of the wide corridor onto the sandy beach.
P'draig has arrived.

Slipping a bit closer to shore brings Kevruth's long copper-dappled neck out of the water and the march of prominent ridges along his back into view. He cocks his head upward for the sight of Jekzith's nearly rambunctious arrival, snorts and gives a toss of his head for the older brown's lack of couth. He is trying to relax here if you don't mind. With pointed langour, smooth and cloying as molasses in the face of Jekzith's brightness, he turns his head back to eye that bright wash of pale green-gold hide. Another rumble, this one bearing warmer notes as his eyes pick up the speed of their whirl, tones already deepening to navy. A'zan is distracted from observing the shift in his bronze's attention by the sniffling greenrider, one brow arching slowly upward. "You really don't sound terribly well-off," he agrees. A hanky is plucked from a pocket, held out dangling from fingertips in wordless offer as his lip curls a bit.

Some time after Jekzith's arrival, P'draig finally turns up. He's dressed in work-a-day clothes, the kind you'd oil a dragon in, some of the stuff still clinging to the front of his shirt. Rather than move all the way into the area, he leans in the entranceway, observing. The Weyrlingmaster's eyes skip over the others, track right to bright Lindith and one of his hands lifts to rub across his chin, then he gives a little shrug and reaches around to pat-check for something in his back pocket, before diving both hands into the more usual pockets, the side ones.

R'us lifts his hand, elbow on his raised knee, and leans his flushed, sickly forehead into his palm. "Just been trying," he explains to Creston, voice throaty and clogged-sounding, apparently considering this to be a complete enough sentence to stand alone. He wipes slightly damp bangs up off of his brow, shoving them back into the rest of his hair, then hauls himself up to his feet with the slowness bred of a whole-body ache. He does it, evidently, for the main purpose of having a better look at the bronzerider. "Scuse me," he tells Creston, and actually takes a few steps along the shore toward the Telgari, mouth grim, eyes cloudily thoughtful. Only thus does he even notice the hankie, and noticing it gives him pause. From it to its offerer he looks, the thoughts ticking by with almost audible, agonizing, clockwork slowness. "Ain't sick," he informs A'zan, so far unaware that this is a performance presented for an audience made up of his sometime boss.

Creston's brows lower in momentary confusion and he takes several small steps back as the greenrider stands and shuffles his way towards the Telgari. "Oh," the boy says for the 'scuse me', "Sure." The hand on the towel squeezes the cloth just slightly as he watches the increasingly peculiar actions unfold around him, attention flicking from the dragons to their riders, each in turn.

A'zan's eyes fall slowly from damp hair to flushed skin, cloudy eyes to the mouth that offers that cloggy mucousy sounding statement. There's that little lip curl again, fine dark brows dropping into a frown as he pulls the handkerchief back to himself. With neat motions he folds the crisp and bright-white square of cloth and returns it to his pocket. "No?" The single word query is finally offered with eyes that only now slip back up to the greenrider, amusment beginning to glimmer as an uneasy partner to vague disgust for all the appearance of sickness. "What then?" It's a perfect moment for an unheard interjection so of course this is when Kevruth speaks up, though to the onlooker his attention is solely claimed by either the glowing green beauty or the ripples she has left behind - whichever is available for focusing on at the moment. "Oh... shells. You have got to be kidding me." There goes the amusement, here comes the scowl, fully back in place now. "Aren't there enough greens at /Telgar/?" Beat. "Nothing personal," he grudgingly adds, brows knit as he re-crosses his arms. Fantastic.

Q'tar steps out of the wide corridor onto the sandy beach.
Q'tar has arrived.

P'draig continues to lean casually in the entranceway, though A'zan's exclamation draws out amusement on his face and at last an announcement of sorts, of his presence. "Guess not. Fort's duties to Telgar," he tosses over and forwards a nod for R'us and another for Creston. "Hey there. All settled in properly Creston?" Apparently, Fort's Weyrlingmaster seems to think light chit-chat is appropriate here. Jekzith meanwhile is still diving in the spring with Lindith, at times just the tip of his motley tail showing, at others, disappearing entirely.

Lindith is submerged a longer term this time, resurfacing in a spray of held breath let go. She stretches her maw in a yawn, drawing in air to refill her tanks for another dive, but this is the last symptom of the groggy exhaustion that has kept hold of her this morning. That lungful of steam restores her, and with startling suddenness she raises her wings from the water and thunders them back down, driving up great waves, lurching her phosphorescent form higher in the drink. Now she floats like a waterfowl almost, though she must be (like any duck) paddling like mad beneath the surface to keep her composure above.

On shore, R'us stares blackly at A'zan. "No," he confirms, sounding for all the world like someone's stuffed cotton up his nose and a frog down his throat. But A'zan's exclamation, and his fury for his beast, does make the greenrider express a slim trace of a smile, and in slightly better humor he turns away to take witness of P'draig there leaning in the entryway. How the broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man takes -that- might not be quite so clear, but let's begin with the disappearance of the bit of smile the Telgari won so hard. "Sir." That's friendly-like. R'us drags a hand over his flushed, feverish face, pulling at tired eyes and scruffy jawline. The long drawl of his words is only enhanced by the raggedness of his voice. "Think we should start walkin'."

Kevruth is favored by that lingering scowl now, A'zan's pale eyes darting out to where the bronze is slinking toward shore. His head is swiveled to watch the floating green, but he turns just long enough to give his rider a smug little rumble. A slow inhalation is followed by an exhalation of equal measure and A'zan forces his face to smoothness as he replies to P'draig with a dry, "And Telgar's to Fort." In an unconscious mirror of R'us' motion he runs his hand over his face as well, sliding over his now-smooth brow, glinting pale eyes and finally smooth-shaven chin. "Walking. Right." Resigned to his beast's whims he shoves his hands in his pockets, pushes past R'us and the all too casual P'draig and heads for the cavern's entrance. Not like he knows where he's going so if the others don't hurry he'll have to wait just ahead, but he's keen to get this over with it seems. For his part, Kevruth has claimed the shore where takeoff will be made mmore swift.

"P'draig," Creston offers, one hand lifting in a small wave. Or something like. "Pretty settled, thank you." His own words are slow, though that's due more to the general perplexed expression growing on his features than to any sort of malaise. A'zan's quip and then Lindith's sudden desire to swim in place has the boy again staring out at the dragons. He only shakes his head slowly, the hand that waves moving to wreak more mayhem with his already tousled hair.

Xenoth's arrival on the scene is unobtrusive as he wings in to land silently outside before he claws his way up just as quietly to the northern end of the cavern where the sky peeks through and it is there on the lip of that upper entrance to the sky that the dark shadowy blue settles unheralded to watch what is happening underneath him.

Q'tar is on his way down into the depths of the inner caverns, he's in a cheery mood as he enters the springs towels thrown over his shoulder, scrubbing brush and a few other odds and ends of dragon care in the net bag he's carrying. "Hiya." He greets those he knows as he comes to a halt to check around those that are closest.

"Good to hear it, Creston." R'us' proclamation draws his gaze towards the greenrider briefly though, outwardly he's still the model of calm. "Probably," P'draig replies to R'us' ragged statement, tone still mild. Jekzith resurfaces too after a moment and rather than continue to mimic Lindith or join in whatever game it was kept him preoccupied beneath the water's surface, draws back a winglength or so, quietly floating in the thrown up waves, eyes brilliantly bright blue with only the faintest tinge of periwinkle to them as he watches her, the cupping of bright green-gold wingsails agains the water. The brown's intense scrutiny draws only the subtlest of reactions from his rider, a slight bobbing of his adam's apple. As A'zan starts to exit, he pushes away from the wall, turning around to head out through the caverns himself. "Heya Q'tar. Might want to turn right back 'round and come this way." Just the little word of advice for the Weyrling and a little nod for Lindith's color.

Lindith lets out a whispery croon, though to which of the larger males it might be aimed could be called into question, for she gives them each glances in turn: The weyrlingmaster's brown, her companion in the waves; the foreign bronze, all but unknown on the shore. Either she does not know Xenoth has taken up his watchful post above, or else she cares not to alert the others in the springs cavern to the young blue's presence. What she is alerting them to, in her way, is her intent; they have a last, brief split-second opportunity to understand what the coy tilt of her head and the upraised tension of her wings mean. Then those wings cast her up with a great downward thrust and she soars out of the lake, her tail ruddering great splashes this way and that until it clears the surface, the last of her to become airborne. Toward the sky she dives, the mind that has been 'til now held mostly to herself offering pale flickers of thrill and excitement to those males around the Weyr who might give chase.

R'us grunts, then coughs a little on the grunt, as A'zan passes him by to get out into the caverns. Then the greenrider turns on the spot to give Creston a long look that only belatedly starts to droop into something vaguely apologetic. "Later," he manages, the word choked and rough as if the man can hardly breathe, and without further ado he turns away to start for the exit like A'zan did. P'draig's suggestion is overheard and causes R'us to turn a quick glance at Q'tar, who gets a grim nod of agreement; after that, Lindith's rider's main focus is in leading this little pack off toward an empty ground weyr.

Jekzith has been quietly watching, though his tail hasn't been nearly as quiet as the rest of him, surging this way and that, roiling up the water further. Lindith's leap sends up a wave that makes his own take off a little less elegant than it could have been, but in the end, it's good enough for Weyr-work. Not quite as narrow as Lindith herself, Jekzith's streamlined body arrows upward after the green, tail the last thing to leave the water, a long trail of gleaming water drops sparkling in the morning sunlight behind him as he reaches for open air. Her flickering invitation is met with a loud, gleeful, joyousness from the brown and a single word: << Sky! >> And he's gone.

Kevruth is watching, his long slender tail slightly lifted with a tick-tock flick of the tip. He's watching that head tilt, those tense pale-bright wings, and so when Lindith surges upward he is already crouching and ready with muscles bunching at his haunches in expectation. Swift and silent he launches upward after her, the vague roar of the sea washing out from his mind in a broadcast wide enough for the other males to catch in place of any rumble or trumpet or croon for the ear. He rushes to beat Jekzith to the opening of the cavern, lithe and elegant with wide wings that grasp the air and push him upward after the object of his desire.

Xenoth is climging to the rock as he watches from the shadows, his baleful red gaze fixed on the glowing green, utterly entranced for the moment. Until she moves and launches skywards, it's only a few moments of hesitation before the dragons are introduced with a familiar to some, sibilant blast of steam in thier minds as he springs away from the rockface up into the air of the entrance, not caring if anyone gets in his way or not he's got that confident arrogance of youth thats uggests he knows he'll come out best in a fight, before he kicks upwards after the green, the chase is on.

Q'tar looks to Paddy when he speaks. "But I need to scrub Xenoth, he wanted to come down to the hot springs today rather than the lake?" He replies a touch confused for the moment, that is until he spots R'us and notes Lindith. "Oh shards!" He mutters as he grips that little bit tighter onto the handle of the bag as he turns and starts to follow the others, lagging behind the pack.

Creston is suddenly by himself as first the riders and then the dragons make their hurried ways up and out of the large cavern. So he stands there a moment, hand still on his towel, gaze resting on the churning water that froths and twirls after so many winged departures. "Sure," he agrees again to the empty space. "Later." Then he lets his towel slide to the ground and crouches to begin to unlace his boots.

Belonging in the Stores

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 01:56:07 GMT

A few hours after Creston arrives, he finds a place to hide and a bottle to hide with. Unfortunately for him, it's not that good of a hiding place.

It's cool down in the stores, and dark this time of night. And quiet. Well, normally it's all of those things. Tonight it's still cool, but the dark is interrupted by the faint light of a lantern. Beside it, a long lean figure is seated up against a pile of rugs, a cask of wine settled in his lap. The sounds of liquid sloshing, bottle lifting, and generous swallowing interrupt the expected silence.

The silence is interrupted next and additionally by the heavy sounds of footfalls on the stairs. They are boot-enhanced footfalls and echo well out into the aisles of shelves, growing louder as the man who wears those boots and makes those footfalls descends into the lantern-lit dark. He stops on the second to last step. "Ho somebody," he tells the glow visible through the dim. He is himself lit from below, though subtle that lighting is, emanating from glows captured in a pail of the sort normally used (not that the drinker might guess this) for holding oil for baby dragons. His hair falls over his face from above, untidy bangs swept over his brow and one eye, and between the lighting and his frown his appearance gains a couple of decades in the darkness. "Just looking for something," he says, and there might be the faint sense of nerves in that grumpy, gruff voice. He heads toward the lantern light, so what he's looking for must be the person to whom it belongs.

"Ho, somebody else," comes the cheerful and very slightly slurred reply from the vicinity of the lantern light. The figure draped there is a study of contrasts, half of him cast in shadow and half of him turned greeny-gold by glows. Long bangs hide eyes and their shadows do good work hiding the rest of his upper face, but nose and mouth and the side of a throat are visible. What can be made out of the form looks male and the voice, too, is a few octaves too low to belong to a girl. "Already found what I was looking for." There is another one of those swishy-gulping sounds and the glowlight winks against the glass of the cask.

The footfalls come closer, though their maker takes some care to keep them quieter now than he did on the stairs. Less echoing helps. In a few moments he's standing just outside the arc of light the lantern provides, his own little carry full of glow creating a lesser, double shadow on each thing the other man's light source illuminates. "And you're staying right here with it," the scruffy man, who seems incrementally less aged this close, deducts. He folds a fist onto his hip, the other encumbered by the carry, and looks down at the figure with the cask, brow furrowed and large eyes black from lack of light. "Do you belong here?"

"Mmm," the shadow on the floor agrees, lips (or what's visible of them) quirking up into a smile. "Do I -belong- here?" he repeats. "In the stores? Does anybody belong in the stores? Or not belong there, if you really want to get philosophical. I think a better question, really," and here a pause for the figure to indulge in another swallow, "is whether it's really worth bothering to put me anywhere else. Better question yet, though, is 'care for a sip'?" The man leans forward and for a moment, close as he is to his own lantern, his face becomes fully visible. His dark almond eyes beneath the mop of hair, his youth, the general shape and planes of face, throat and shoulders.

Those large eyes stare down at the harshly lit figure. The broad mouth goes slowly slack as the answer increasingly tends toward the study of quantum physics, and the pressure this study places on the man's brain is clear in the consternated expression now making his underlit face even older. When the other man's face comes into the light, that wide mouth loosens further in a dull and thoughtless surprise. The slate is blanked. "Yes," he says, roughly, and bends down on a knee. As he lowers he sets the carry down on the floor before himself, and between that and leaning forward, a hand out to offer receipt of the bottle, his face is likewise brought into better light. Though weathered in places through much time in hard sun and fast wind, his features are brightened by the light like a fountain of youth. "I meant," he rustles up, "do you belong at the Weyr."

The boy smiles brightly as his offer is accepted and the wine his handed off. And then the one it's handed off to becomes much more visible and the boy's smile becomes a sleepy and contented thing. "Well, hi," he says, flopping back into the darkness to lean against the pile of rugs. For the question of whether he belongs in the Weyr there's a small chuckle. "Oh, sure," the boy says with liquor-filled confidence. "Got a cot and everything."

"Hi," agrees R'us, one brow staying down while the other one creeps upward. He looks at the other man for a time before tipping back the bottle and his head in time, taking for himself a swallow of the contents. He lowers the bottle, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and with the other hand offers back the drink to its purloiner. "Cot, huh. You come here recently?" The other knee comes down beside the first one; once freed of the bottle he leans over onto a hand, settling into a rough sit right behind his little carry of glowlight.

The wine is returned to its owner and more of it goes down that owner's gullet with a deep swallow. "You know what's nice about wine?" the boy asks prosaically, "I mean, I don't really like wine all that much, but you know what's nice about it? The more you drink of it, less you taste it. I mean, that's kind of great, don't you think? Recently? No no, I've been here ages." Only the first letter is stretched out so it becomes 'aaaaaaaaages'. He chuckles, leaning his head back, eyes closing. "Five hours at the very least."

"Five hours here, or five at the Weyr?" R'us folds his legs into a weaver's sit, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. He raises his hands so that his chin can go into his palms, neck sunken among his broad, hunched shoulders. "I'm going to go with 'at the Weyr.' You'd have had more time to drink, or a disproportionate amount of trouble finding the wine, if you'd been down here the whole night." He lifts his head only long enough to toss it, throwing his bangs back off of his face. "Probably is the best thing to be said about bad wine. I think you're supposed to enjoy tasting good wine. Why aren't you in that cot?"

There's another shadowed smile and the slosh of wine swishing to and fro as the boy holds out his arm (the one with the bottle) to sort of point at the other man in a got-it-in-one sort of gesture. "You think? You dunno? Well, try some more of this one and maybe you'll figure it out." He again leans forward...to the side...forward...to offer another drink to his guest. "I am not in my cot," he says sagely, "because there is no wine in my cot. Good or bad."

"You could have carried this one," the cask which the scruffy-chinned man collects into his hand a little hastily from the other man's offering, lest he otherwise wobble enough to lose his grip on it. "To your cot. Wouldn't be the first fellow to go drink himself sick in bed." He provides a little help with the cask, so far as emptying it is concerned, tipping it up for a swig. If he's supposed to be tasting it, this effort is probably a failure. He swallows hard and squints at the younger man. "Why not?"

"Why isn't there wine in my cot?" the young man asks. His arms lift and the flop down again with a faint thwap. "I don't know. But I looked. And there wasn't. So I came here. Where there was. And it's so nice and quiet and there are these rugs and...what's your name?"

"Why didn't you - " Take it back to your cot. But the older man's exasperated too quickly to speak his question a second time, or to provide any clarity. He rubs his mouth with his hand, then tips up the cask for another swig. He holds this mouthful, handing out the bottle back to its primary keeper. "R'us," he exhales after swallowing, still sounding exasperated. But he unfolds himself and turns, shifting into place beside the other man, leaving the interrogator's position in favor of the companion's. "You?"

"Russ," the other boy replies, curling his fingers around the neck of the bottle and settling it back into his lap. If R'us has taken up the place of companion, perhaps he did not also mean to take up the job of a pillow, but it seems he'll get that duty as well. The other boy tips sideways, settling his head on R'us' shoulder with a small sigh. "That's a nice name. Better than Creston. That's me. Creston. Don't say it too much, you could cut your mouth."

The rider looks down at the younger man's head on his shoulder, again crooking his brows in separate directions. But he does not protest, exactly. He just glowers, and when he speaks again his voice is very gruff indeed. "Ain't so bad. You saying it sounds sharp? Doesn't." Beat. "Creston," shrugs R'us - one-sidedly, since his shoulder's in use.

"Prickly," Creston offers with a small sigh, keeping his temple settled squarely on R'us' shoulder. "It's a bad name. Or maybe it's a good name and I just made it bad. I can' remember. Mmm, I take back what I said. I think I do like wine."

"I think it's not so much that you come to a point where you can't taste it as that you come to a point where it begins to taste not just sophisticated, but wonderful." R'us is not to that point yet; the twang that underlies his words is for now well-suppressed. He keeps looking down at the dark-topped head on his shoulder, brows held low. "What did you do to make it a bad name?"

"Oh, I can't tell. Then it wouldn't be a secret." Creston lifts that dark head a little to fill the mouth part of it with another swallow. Then the bottle is again held out to R'us. "How about you? Lived here long as me?" he asks with a faintly goofy smile. "I know my way around. I can give you a tour. I think I even remember where the living cavern is from here."

"Oh, I see." He does not bother to suppress the drawl on that, and takes the bottle willingly, apparently glad to indulge in a swallow, a little like he might hope when he tips the wine back down and opens his eyes again, the situation will be more in keeping with his structured life than a black-haired waif leaning drunkenly on his shoulder in a badly lit storeroom. No luck. "As long as five hours? I Impressed Lindith here. Nine turns ago."

"You impressed....that's a pretty long time to remember wooing a girl," Creston opines. But he keeps murmuring said girl's name under his breath. There is a tickle in the back of his thoughts about it that refuses to go away. "Lindith...Lindrith...Lin...dri/th/. Oh. /Oh./ You're one of those."

He needn't have strained so hard. R'us barks a laugh, a short, clipped, shaved sort of a laugh, over the phrase 'wooing a girl.' But then the lad's repeating the name, mangling it a time or two, and patient as stone the rider waits, entertaining himself the while by taking sips from the bottle. "Righto, I'm one of those." As reward for the successful thinking, he passes the wine back over. "I have the kind of girl you don't have to woo to get. I would have, though," and the wine helps his grin on this remark be a little looser than it might be otherwise.

"You would have?" the rather inebriated ex-holder boy asks, brows dipping down in confusion. "You...can? I mean they're so big. And wings. And teeth. Nobody else seems to notice the teeth. But I should tell you, Russ." A pause and a deep swallow that somehow manages to be combined with a sagely nod. "I noticed."

"Maybe my kind has a different definition of 'woo' than yours does," says R'us, though the delay before he provides this chortling comment is long enough to suggest he had to work on it a bit. He chews on the inside of his cheek, tipping his head away from the one leaning on his shoulder to squint off into the dark aisles of shelves. "Yeah, the teeth. Good for eating. What especially did you notice about 'em?"

"Well," the boy says, lifting his head off the rider's shoulder and setting him free of his obligation as a cheek rest, "I didn't measure. But pretty sure. They're bigger than my head. Oh, bugger." This last for the relization that the once-full bottle of booze is now just a bottle. "What's 'your kind'?" he asks, squinting one eye shut and peering down the neck of the cask with the other.

"Lindith's aren't bigger than your head. A bronze's teeth, maybe. The big ones. The fangs." What a reassuring term to use for the rending teeth dragons are blessed with. The rider reaches over for the empty cask, maybe thinking to put it somewhere safer than in the lad's hand, and explains through gruff bemusement, "Dragonrider."

"Oh," Creston murmurs, swallowing down a hiccup. "Thought you meant something else." The bottle leaves his hand easily enough and he leans a little to peer into the darkness beyond their collective lamplight. "Wonder if I can remember which row had those bottles. Do you remember?"

"No," lies R'us, lifting the bottle as if to look over its markings, like he might be able to discern where it came from. And he might, if he weren't actually eyeing Creston sidelong, attention keen on the younger man's movement or lack of it. "What did you think I meant?"

"Oh," the other man murmurs while exhaling a deep and disappointed sigh. The bottle is set down outside of the pools of light so that Creston doesn't have to keep looking at how empty it is. He resettles his cheek on Rus' shoulder with a second sigh, though it's smaller and closer to something contented than something distraught. "What did I think you meant what?"

A little shrug of surprise goes through that shoulder, making it a poor pillow until the rider's self-control wins out and forces his muscles still. "By 'my kind,'" reminds R'us once he's recomposed. "I'd been betting you're holdbred, see."

"Your kind of what?" Creston asks, eyes closing and words slowly a little bit. "Oh. Yeah. Sattle. Took a trader caravan. They're bumpy. My butt's still sore. Been five hours. Wine helps. but now I'm out."

"You're going to be out," mutters R'us, looking away from the other man again, something of a mild disapproval pressed around his wide mouth. "So what happened at Sattle?"

"How should I know what happened at Sattle, I'm here," Creston explains perfectly logically. "Been here for...oh. I said that already. And before that, was on a caravan. Takes a while on wheels and roads and things. Nearly three sevens. Do you go bouncing all over on your Lindith?"

"I do." Drawled very long, with great suspicion, the syllables accompany the sliding back of R'us' gaze toward Creston. Thick brows sink low over his light-deprived eyes. "Pretty sure I meant," and he's drawling still, voice unfettered by any desire to hide aspects it developed temporarily in the south, "what happened at Sattle such as to have you leaving."

"Oh," Creston murmurs. He swallows down another small hiccup. "I don't think that's a thing to ask somebody right when they're at the point of liking wine. Where did you go? Do they talk? People here make it sound like the talk. The dragons, I mean. Not the places."

At the rebuff, the greenrider grunts and bends forward, beginning to slip away from the wall he's leant up against, much like he intends to consider the conversation closed and prowl off into the night he came from. But the lad's next question jerks his attention back, and R'us squints at him for a long time before saying, "I've been a lot of places. Traveled at will before Thread fell, leastaways when there weren't weyrlings too young to leave. Why?" Suspicion loads that one-word question.

The boy thumps back against his pile of rugs as the man beside him seems intent on leaving and taking his light with him. "What do weyrlings have to do with it? Thought P'draig did weyrlings." He lifts a hand to scrub it over his face before letting it thump into his lap. "Cuz I've never done that and never really been further'n Sattle. Well. And here. Just wondered is all."

"I work with P'draig," R'us replies stiffly, his posture one-knee-up and the other on the ground. He hangs an elbow over the high knee and leans into it, making himself as comfortable can be in this state between standing and sitting, and turns his head for better squinting in suspicion at the other man. After a long moment he tosses a bone, maybe: "Went to Boll a while back."

"Oh," Creston replies. "Well. He seems nice." There is a sharp swallow that perhaps wanted to be a hiccup or another burp. Then he smiles a little. "Yeah? Boll? What was it like?"

Or worse. R'us' suspicious eyeing turns to a keener stare, brows furrowed, expression deep. "It was my last chance to stop a friend from leaving me," he replies with a casual mein that can only be false; its falseness is aided by his focus on the younger man's well-being. "Didn't know it at the time. Thought it was a nice walk, a nice talk. Should've done something different, don't know what."

Creston reaches a hand out beyond the puddles of light to paw around. Fingers curl around the bottle of wine, but it turns out that putting an empty bottle into a dark corner will not make it full again. With a small sigh, the boy puts it down again. "Hate moments like that. Always easy to think, later, what you could've should've. Not much help, considering the opportunity's gone. You ever see your friend again, after?"

R'us watches, not quite as keenly as he's considered the young man's face just now, the recollecting and rediscarding of the bottle. "Haven't. Hasn't been long. Could. Maybe. She wanted to." Sentence fragments: a primer. He pushes himself to his feet, though does not make ready quite to walk away; in fact, he comes a little closer, reaching down. Maybe he wants the empty bottle.

Maybe, though what he gets is Creston's hand in his and Creston's legs shifting a little as if he plans on hefting his own self upwards. "Do you?"

"Not sure." That requires no further elaboration to be an answer that perfectly encompasses all of the greenrider's feelings on the matter, so he provides nothing else. Besides, he has the business of attempting to provide stable enough counterweight to help the younger man to his feet to tend to, and tend to it he does.

"Oof," Creston groans, though there is not, in the end, all that much weight to heft really. "Why not. Thank you. I hope I remember who you are in the morning. And that I don't get sick on your shoes." The holder boy wobbles, finds his feet, keeps his hand around R'us' for just a beat too long and then slowly lets go.

"I've had worse on 'em." R'us is reluctant to let go Creston's hand, though possibly not for any reason not connected to the very, very wary expression he's wearing as he watches the young man try to find his feet. "Want me to walk you back to your cot?"

The holder boy swallows and then he nods. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Thank you."

Fresh off the Caravan

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 01:48:52 GMT

Creston comes to Fort Weyr.

Ambling over from the direction of the Feeding Grounds, P'draig's headed towards the lower caverns, hands stuck in pockets, quietly humming a tune to himself as he goes, sunset lingering over the Bowl rim casting long shadows in front of him.

Riordanth backwings to a landing, the little blue standing with his wings spread for a moment as if giving thanks for the safe flight. Mohria slides down his side and gives him a familiar pat as she removes her helmet and also starts for the cavern. Riordanth, rather than taking off, elects to remain in the bowl for the time being, nosing a rock about that's caught his fancy.

There is a small hullabaloo happening near the entrance of the bowl as a group of traders bring their caravans in for the night, presumably with the expectation of selling some wares the following day before traveling on. Most of the figures begin to see to the runners, check the insides of the wagons or start to unload items to be carried to a more secure spot for the night. One slender form slips away, however, and with a small wave, Creston begins heading into the center of the bowl and then towards the opening cut into the stone that seems to be offering the largest amount of light and sound.

"Mohria?" P'draig's humming cuts out as he draws to a halt and catches sight of the bluerider. "What're you doing down Fort way?" Apparently the Weyrlingmaster recognises the woman from somewhere. His eyes track that young man across the Bowl curiously. "Hey there, which wagon train is that that just came in?" he hails Creston with a lifting of his voice.

Mohria spins on a heel and smiles, "P'draig!" she calls, "We just transferred, if you can believe it. It's great to see you!" She moves forward to grasp the man's arm in a rider-hug of sorts. "How are you and Jekzith doing?" The caravan is smiled and waved at, and Riordanth politely moves himself further from the runners lest he spook them.

"Um.." Creston pauses, looking over in surprised to find himself addressed, "From Sattle originally. It sounds like they're trying to cut a path all through Fort's territories, though." He seems, for the first time, to notice the blue dragon and he pauses a moment, simply to watch him...be a dragon. Then he looks back to the pair of riders, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Could I...I mean, do you know...who I should talk to? If I want to stay here? Um, a few sevens. Or, um, a little longer?"

"You too and transferred! Wow. Well, welcome then. Nice to see a familiar face I haven't for a while. Mum's well by the by and Jek and I are just fine." P'draig's gaze shifts back over towards Creston nodding. "Sattle, good long trip that." His mouth twitches with subdued humor and he nods towards the living caverns. "Headwoman'd be who you're looking for. She's got an office in the inner caverns. Fixing to stay a while eh? I'm P'draig, the Weyrlingmaster." And the brownrider holds his hand out towards the younger man.

Mohria smiles, "That's wonderful, P'draig. I'm Mohria," she offers happily, "Riordanth's." The blue warbles with delight as he finds another rock to nose about, wings tucked close to his sides. He looks more like a huge canine puppy than a dragon at the moment.

"Headwoman," Creston repeats, "right. Got it. I'm Creston." He slips his hand out of his pocket to hold it out to the weyrlingmaster. "Are you, really? That's some job, I'll bet. Oh!" He turns a bit to offer Mohria a smile as well. "Creston," he says again. "Your, um, that is. He looks very playful." His attention again darts to the blue before returning to the people.

P'draig shakes the young man's hand and nods. "Yep, I am. Got the big knot and everything." He turns his shoulder a little with a self-deprecating grin. "Well met Creston. Yeah, she can hook you up with a cot to sleep on and a job to do." More mirth on the brownrider's face. "You and Riordanth're looking well too. Transfer to Fort - any particular reason?"

Mohria gives P'draig a wry smile, "Okay, I admit it, I wanted to come here to be closer to my son. He's at Harper Hall, you know. Really enjoying it too! He originally wanted to try all the Crafts, but Harper Hall seems to have stuck." She smiles, "What do you have in those wagons?" she asks Creston, then beams, "He's always been playful. Friendly too. He says hi. He'd come over but he doesn't want to scare the runners."

Creston looks over at the not indicated and gives it a long and thoughtful look. He nods a tiny bit and then smiles. "A cot and a job to do," he agrees. "Guess I need both those things." To Mohria he laughs softly, reaching a hand up to scratch the back of his head. "Oh, well, they're not my wagons, really. I was just getting a ride. I think I was sleeping on some sacks of clothing though. Or something soft, at any rate. And one of the wagons behind me kept making clanking and clunking sounds, so pots and pans and the like, perhaps." Over by the wagons, the traders work to unhitch the last of the runners and guide it off to the stables, keeping a wide berth around the blue who so politely offers to keep his distance.

"Oh, really? Well that's good. My younger brother's a harper too, but he's posted out." P'draig grins over at Mohria and looks Riordanth's way briefly before his gaze shifts back to Creston. "Pots, pans and clothes. All useful things. And it's always interesting when there's traders about. What're you thinking of doing up here at the Weyr, Creston?"

Mohria shrugs, "Pots and pans and clothes, not all that exciting, if important," she agrees with P'draig. When the runners are gone Riordanth walks over with quick steps to say hello, wuffling over the brownrider and the newcomer.

"Well, there was a third wagon," Creston offers, "that I didn't much see the inside of. It's possible there's something more interesting and less practical in th-" And then a blue dragon comes a-snuffling over and Creston goes a-jumping back. "That's...he's...big. Really big."

"Still rearranging people's hair, huh Riordanth?" says P'draig laughingly, brushing at his own, ineffectually with one hand. "Should see a bronze," he notes conversationally to Creston. "Or one of the queens. We've just had a clutch too so there's little dragons. About half-grown."

Mohria grins, "He's actually one of the smallest blues on Pern," she says proudly. Perhaps she's boasting. Riordanth flops down and warbles, studying Creston with bright eyes. "Haven't spent much time around dragons?" she asks. "Oh! What are you doing standing around talking, then?" she teases the Weyrlingmaster.

"I guess I'm used to seeing dragons that are about this big," Creston holds his hands up, leaving about a foot of space between them, "because they're so far overhead. Can't say I've really ever seen one up close. Small's relative, I guess." He offers Riordanth a slightly nervous smile. "I suppose I'd best get used to it, eh?"

"Getting dinner?" hazards P'draig in answer to Mohria's question. "They don't need me breathing down their necks every minute." He winks over at the bluerider then nods for Creston's remark. "If you're staying yeah. Dragons, dragons everywhere." The Weyrlingmaster turns a little and points out one of those half-grown dragons crossing the Bowl with his Weyrling. "See now that's small, relatively and then over yonder is my Jekzith." A brown curled up for a nap outside the gaping maw of a cavern, likely the Barracks.

Mohria smiles, "It is relative," she echoes P'draig. Riordanth warbles again and then promptly falls asleep, curled up there in the bowl. Mohria smiles fondly at him, "Dinner! That's a fine idea. Join us, Creston? We can show you how to elbow your way through the crowds to get the best Fort has to offer."

Creston watches as one of those pint-sized dragons goes trundling across the bowl and then looks over to where Jekzith sleeps. "With the shadows, I thought he was an outcropping." Finally, his attention returns to the now-sleeping blue. "That was...he was just awake, wasn't he? Dinner sounds like a fine idea. Thank you."

P'draig nods a couple of times. "Dinner it is then." The Weyrlingmaster starts to wander that way but gets intercepted by a Weyrling and he steps aside to have that conversation before moving on to the living caverns.

Fort Weyr Living Cavern
Approaching half the size of the Hatching Grounds, this cavern echoes with voices during the day, and the soft patter of feet during the night. Dozens of tables are spaced throughout, each with open space around to provide small amounts of privacy for the discussions carried on at each. The night hearth, with a cluster of pots of stew and klah, is situated near the large entrance to the tunnel. Several other hearths are spaced around the huge chamber, lending light and some heat to the room. The far wall is lined with tables that always hold something edible to feed the throngs of people who come into this immense room in search of a meal, a snack, or something to drink. As with most Weyrs, the Living Cavern is the busiest place with the most activity. It is here that Fortians and visitors alike migrate in an effort to find information, share gossip, and just plain socialize.

Broad marble steps to the southwest lead up to the impressive Fort Weyr kitchen. An almost constant stream of activity centers around this staircase: people coming and going with loads of goods for the stores, fresh food, dirty or clean dishes and utensils, and plenty of folks just going in to do their duty for the day or night. The aromas wafting down the stairs are indicators of which meal is being prepared or served at the moment. The view into the kitchens is clear from the Living Cavern, everything gleaming and clean, and the muffled but bustling noises coming from within just add to the air of comfort, family, and hard work done at Fort Weyr.

To the east, a short flight of stairs leads to the hallway to the inner caverns. A stout door to the north has a healer's emblem on it, marking the Infirmary. To the south is a wide tunnel, leading out of the Weyr, and a wide opening to the west leads to the Weyr bowl.

Creston follows after, keeping relatively close to the bluerider and looking around at the general noise and bustle of the place. His eyes have gone a bit wide and his hands have stuffed back into his pocket as he slips into the line behind Mohria.

Mohria leads the way, taking up a plate and filling it with good things, "Now, don't tell anyone I told you, but Fort has always had the best bakers and cooks. Tradition or something. Call it what you will, here, try some of this wherry - it's delicious. And their bubblie pies, you'll want Nabol apple, right?" She smiles at him, "So, where are you from?"

"Well, I suppose if you've just come from another Weyr, you'd be able to compare," Creston says with a faint chuckle. He takes some wherry as is suggested as well as one of the small pies, some tubers, some greens and a glass to fill with water. "Oh, from Sattle. And you? Did you always live at the Weyr?"

Mohria laughs, "That's right, you said that didn't you." She leads the way to a table and slides onto the seat. "Oh, Seacraft originally. Then High Reaches, then Ista, then here. We've moved around a bit, but I hope to stay here."

"A bit," Creston says with a laugh. "Ista, High Reaches and the Seacraft Hall? That's like saying it gets a little dark at night." Tray fully loaded, he settles across from her. "Must be something, to have lived so many places."

Mohria shrugs a shoulder with a smile, "Sure, I suppose, but when you ride a dragon and can see all of Pern in a few days..." she trails off and smiles, "I suppose I shouldn't take it so much for granted. How long were you traveling?"

"I little over three sevens, I think," Creston says as he picks up a fork and begins to poke at his food. "Can't even imagine what it would be like, to travel around like that. Still, it's not like you've got all that easy a job in exchange."

Mohria smiles, "Well, there are advantages and disadvantages to anything. Listen, if you ever need a ride somewhere just let me know, alright?" she asks between bites.

Kaelyn comes in from the bowl.
Kaelyn has arrived.

Creston blinks, eyes going a little wide. "Um. Really? Well, I'll be sure to remember that. Thank you." he ducks his head down to finally fork up a bite of wherry and pop it into his mouth.

Mohria grins, "Sure! We love taking people up. It helps us get out of the weyr. Now that we're getting older and all that," she teases. Then she stands, looking towards the door and waving.

The young man chuckles again. "When you have wings, you need more of an excuse?"

Kaelyn steps into the room, tucking her gloves into her belt, walking slowly towards the bluerider, a limp evident in her walk. A smile touches her lips, green eyes scanning the area, "Hey there. Saw Riordanth outside." She turns her attention to Creston, "Hello. Reaches duties to Fort and her queens."

Mohria offers the woman a hug and grins at Creston, "Sometimes," she teases. "Creston, this is Kaelyn, my weyrmate at High Reaches." Which makes her sound like she's got a weyrmate in every weyr...but oh well. "Kaelyn, this is Creston. He just arrived."

Creston smiles up and over at the new arrival, inching a bit to the side to allow Kaelyn to join. "Hello," he offers. "Pardon me, but...'weyrmate'? I'm not familiar with the term."

Kaelyn hugs Mohria back with a gentle smile and a soft laugh, "Weyrmate at High Reaches, yes I am that." She winks playfully at the woman, offering her hand, "Nice to meet you Creston. You just arrived? What do you think of Fort so far? Not that I'm an expert here." She glances at the bluerider, chuckling, "Well a weyrmate, if you don't mind my answering, is the same as when a man and woman get married I suppose?" is the best she can answer something that seems so very natural to her being a rider for so long

Mohria nods, "It's a rider's way of making a commitment to another person. Since rider's lives are so hectic and changeable, I suppose the earlier riders didn't think that marriage would work for us."

The young man listens to both of those explanations before looking at Mohria. And then at Kaelyn. And then at Mohria. And then down at his plate. "Ahh," Creston says with a small nod. "I see." And then it's time to eat more of that wherry.

Kaelyn brings her hand up to her mouth to stifle the chuckle, "Well, that seemed to be a good explanation. So do you think I could get some of that wherry the young man seems to be enjoying so much?" she asks. She glances over at the serving tables, "I think I'll just go help myself. Please excuse me a moment."

Mohria nods, "Of course! And when you get back you can tell me where you got that limp," she adds sternly before sitting down again. "Does the thought of two women in a relationship offend you?" she asks, knowing that some people out there on Pern are wary of that sort of thing.

"Offend me?" Creston asks, tucking a bit of wherry into his cheek to do so. He pauses, finishes chewing and swallows, all while shaking his head. "No, ma'am. It's just, at a hold...well. It's different, is all. Please forgive me, thank you so much for dinner and do give my regards to your...to Kaelyn. But I really should find the headwoman and get settled."

Kaelyn makes a plate and pours herself some klah before heading back to the table, hearing Creston's words about heading out, "Oh please don't leave so soon. Its not often I get the chance to meet someone new." She puts the plate down and settles into a chair, pushing the plate nearer to Mohria if she wants something to eat.

Mohria already has a full plate, but grabs something from Kaelyn's anyway. "Well I'm glad for that," she says with a smile to Creston. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Hopefully we run into each other again soon."

Creston rises to a stand. "Well, I'm hoping to be around for a little while, yet. I'm sure we can talk tomorrow or the next day. Have a good evening Mohria. Kaelyn." He offers another smile and carries his plate over to the 'dirty dishes' pile before moving towards the kitchens in an attempt to locate said woman.

Kaelyn nods politely to the young man, "Nice to meet you as well Creston. Have a nice evening." She watches Mohria grab something from her plate and reaches over to take something from hers with a grin. She waves once more before Creston heads off. "He seems nice."