Drip dry weyrlings.
RL Date: 10/5/09
IC Date: 2/19/21
Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr(#262RAJs$)
A tall entryway, large enough that a small green could pass through, but not the larger dragons, boasts double doors that can be closed against the elements, though they often stand open to allow easy in and out by weyrlings and dragonets when a clutch is in residence. Immediately inside along one wall are rows of hooks for jackets, straps and racks for boots, while the other wall boasts a chalkboard for announcements and duty assignments. The rest of the area just inside contains a mess, with enough seating space for thirty to eat at one time and just beyond, a doorway opens onto the classroom, with diagrams and other devices for demonstration, such as straps, oiling paddles, and the like.
There is a curtained off alcove along the southwestern wall that leads to a small bathing area -- just large enough for a few people or a pair of smaller dragons -- while another curtained entry that's approximately in the middle of the westernmost wall leads to a cool, dark cavern where meat is stored. Glow baskets augment the light that slants in from windows carved into the outside wall.
Because the weather sucks to a ridiculous degree... What time might normally be designated for outdoor activity sees a fair few weyrlings actually just coming in from the bowl, splashed with mud, caked with it on their boots, generally looking like they've been having an unhappy time out in the drizzle. M'try among them, shedding his coat, his cap, his scarf and such into a wet plop at his feet next to one of the hooks for that kinda gear, /probably/ meaning to pick it up once he's got his breath. Which he hasn't. Yet.
Dashaya unsurprisingly hasn't missed all the muck and mess from the outside as she comes tromping back into the cavern with a pointed stomp of her boots at the entrance and a little wince as she wrings out her still overly long hair, pulling it back into a managable braid with blind fingers. She moves to one of the hooks and starts shucking out of the wet gear, only to twitch her nose at M'try. "Come /on/. It wasn't /that/ bad." Not that she's too much better than him on the breathing front, but she's making herself calm and lean against the wall to catch it. "..That is a most disgusting sound." The wet flop. "At least get a broom and sweep that mess out."
M'try, with his palm to his chest, dramatizing the wheeze that's really just a little huffing and puffing; "It wasn't /that/ great, either." Peeling off his gloves, he makes sure they land in a puddle by his feet, making another wet plop that's punctuated by a twitch of his eyebrows at the greenrider. "I promise, I won't leave it here to disgust you indefinitely. Though, I have to point out, it's certainly less gross than, say, the sight of fake blood leaking from a person's lip onto the snow." Accusing, yes, and he ruffles his sweat-damp and just damp-damp hair afterward, also still in need of a trim. (They're going to have to hunt them down and hold them down to get these mops under control, ain't they?)
Hunt them down? No. Hold them down? If necessary. Fortunately for both weyrlings, G'dri neither has a barber in tow /or/ shears in hand. Of course, that might merely be because he's as muddy as the rest of the group that's trailed in from outside, the bluerider keeping a careful eye on the last straggler who really does seem to have trouble catching their wind. Quiet words of encouragement and careful coaching as outer gear is removed and hung up properly, before the lad is reminded to 'keep walking, just don't plop down somewhere.' As the assistant surveys the rest of the group, he notes mildly "It's less work if you hang them up straight away rather than dropping them on the floor first, M'try. Don't squabble." That with an eye directed at Dashaya, as well.
They will! No one gets near Dashaya's hair. Not without some real wrangling. Dash lifts her brows when the plopping continues and rather overdramatizes a little shudder, lifting her shoulders with a disgusted sound in her throat. It might just be for effect, but she's shaking her head. "Good! And no, no one can match my trickery." Her voice is pure syrup and spice, amused as ever. "But, at least it wasn't all over the floor, and nor was it real. Mud will cake and be slippery. And then your brown will blare it across all the wing that he wants to roll in it or something." She straightens up sharply at G'dri's voice and beams at him innocently. "We aren't squabbling, promise."
Towing the line between too-clever and carefully deferential, M'try answers with a red-cheeked smile for G'dri, "It is, sir. I agree. But it's not as good for starting conversation, I've noticed." Still, he's bending to start peeling his wet garb off the floor before he's even finished the remark. Looking at the muddy smear at his feet, smile turning a little quirky, he has to agree with Dashaya, done with a shrug. "Likely he will, but I still maintain that yours? Was one of the dirtiest--" He scrapes a muddy boot-heel over the crud on the floor. "--tricks that ever happened."
"Uh huh." Why doesn't G'dri look convinced? Maybe because innocently beaming young women just don't have that much effect on him after surviving a teenaged daughter. Is still surviving. Whatever. His brows lift at M'try, and that is not a suppressed smile deepening the lines around his eyes, really. "I know the mud seems to be everywhere at the moment, but please refrain from adding to it unnecessarily." He doesn't single the former-Harper out, but raises his voice slightly so that the entire group is addressed with the reminder of tidiness. "And don't just dawdle around letting your muscles stiffen up; you'll be less sore tomorrow." Should be becoming a familiar refrain, really.
"Still, not so messy as yours," Dashaya insists and winds her scarf over a hook so it can dry, lifting her brows at G'dri. Well, they -aren't- squabbling persay, so she says nothing other than grants him with a little grin. "It's utterly insane out there. Is there any idea when it'll let up? It would encroach right into here, if the doors weren't closed when it gets bad, I'd bet." Grump, grump, grump. She pushes off her perch on the wall and moves back into prowling around, working off her coat. "Why -does- he blare so, M'try? Jhei doesn't do that."
"Define unnecessarily," M'try mumbles, looking down at boots that, short of being hosed down, probably won't be free of mud any time soon. Granted, the puddle of his clothes could have been avoided, but he's continuing to pick that up, to hang things on the hook in front of him, letting them drip-dry. "I don't know," he begins in honest answer to Dashaya, unfettered by the question. After hearing it umpteen times a day for a month straight. "Why do you complain all the time? Why does G'dri remind us every day that we need to stretch even though we already know it?" Glance to the bluerider, ahem. "It's just something about the way Mohraith is."
Simple answer, M'try: G'dri is a fusspot. "Unless we see as wet a spring as we did this last turn," he turns to answer Dashaya, whether or not the question was actually directed at him, "things should start to dry out again around the fourth month or so." since the same rules apply for the weyrlings living and working areas as the rest of the Weyr, said fussy bluerider shucks his mud-caked boots and changes into clean shoes.
"I do not complain all the time!" Dashaya complains right back at him as if quite stung by the very notion and sniffs. "Not all the time. And apparently you don't remember his constant reminders to stretch, granted your pausing and wheezing." She scowls at something and wrinkles her nose at G'dri. "It should all make for a wonderful season then. When the dragons are big enough, they'll be romping about like dogs and getting lost in the snow, if they aren't already."
Vanissa heads from the Barracks.
Vanissa has arrived.
M'try, with a cheeky grin back at Dashaya after her initial argument; "And I'd argue that Mohraith doesn't 'blare,' as you put it. Semantics." The three of them, Dashaya and G'dri and M'try, all have signs of outdoors mud-and-damp about them, with the brownrider just hanging the last of his gear on a hook so that it drip drip drips at his mud-caked feet. "Don't the damp socks bother you, sir?" he adds, leaning against the wall to support his shoulders while he starts to unlace his own boots, only holding a look on Dashaya for a second or two longer after her 'pausing and wheezing' barb. He's managed to get his breathing back under control, thanks!
"Squabbling," G'dri says mildly, his blue eyes settling on Dashaya as his brows arch. He considers the young woman from Peyton a moment longer, little enough indication towards his puzzlement at her aggressive argumentativeness in his expression save for the rightward tilt of his head. He continues his impromptu lesson on Fortian weather, "Actually Dashaya, with the temperatures warming the snow will be disappearing and it's more mud you have to look forward too. So any romping is likely to result in them becoming unrecognisable, perhaps, but easily found." He might also be slightly amused, but he's doing a damn good job of keeping his signature smile under wraps. "Ah, no M'try. The trick is to double them, and boots properly cared for don't let in as much damp as one might expect."
Among the slower pairs to enter the Weyrling Complex are Vanissa and Liath, which may or may not have to do with Nissa's fitness or lack thereof. Nevertheless, the weyrling is still breathing heavily, one arm slung over a green neck that's oh-so-helpfully lowered to where the girl can sling an arm over it. She pauses to wriggle boots off of her feet and bang them against the wall outside first, then pads over to the rack and stows them before shucking her jacket. Then it's to a cloth and brush, which she waves at the others in silent greeting and she's working on Liath's paws to get the worst of the mud off them. She's simply too out of breath to talk at the moment.
"Jheilinth would say otherwise," Dashaya shakes her head with a smirk beginning to form, but she pushes away from her prowling and hangs up her coat and all, stepping delicately around M'try's big and ever growing mud puddle. "Well, getting a mud-splattered dragon really can't be too much worse than a pair of muddy weyrlings at the moment, though it'll be harder to clean up when they're larger." She's ugnoring the puzzled looks, really, and greeting the other greenrider with a grin. "Hi, Nissa."
"Squabbling," M'try repeats with a combination of amusement and superiority, slopping his soggy boots onto the floor and peeling off his soggy socks promptly afterward. "Good for Jheilinth. I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he adds amiably, collecting up all that sogginess with a mildly disgusted expression. "Pardon me while I go put on two pairs of socks--" With a gratefully enlightened look toward G'dri, thanks for the tip. "--and find a mop." The latter presumably for the mud puddle he's currently plodding through on his way to the barracks proper, passing Vanissa with a quick, "Or maybe two mops," before he's off, getting waylaid by Mohraith's cheerful, << WHY ARE YOU SO WET?! >> Just for Jheilinth~
IC Date: 2/19/21
Weyrling Complex, Fort Weyr(#262RAJs$)
A tall entryway, large enough that a small green could pass through, but not the larger dragons, boasts double doors that can be closed against the elements, though they often stand open to allow easy in and out by weyrlings and dragonets when a clutch is in residence. Immediately inside along one wall are rows of hooks for jackets, straps and racks for boots, while the other wall boasts a chalkboard for announcements and duty assignments. The rest of the area just inside contains a mess, with enough seating space for thirty to eat at one time and just beyond, a doorway opens onto the classroom, with diagrams and other devices for demonstration, such as straps, oiling paddles, and the like.
There is a curtained off alcove along the southwestern wall that leads to a small bathing area -- just large enough for a few people or a pair of smaller dragons -- while another curtained entry that's approximately in the middle of the westernmost wall leads to a cool, dark cavern where meat is stored. Glow baskets augment the light that slants in from windows carved into the outside wall.
Because the weather sucks to a ridiculous degree... What time might normally be designated for outdoor activity sees a fair few weyrlings actually just coming in from the bowl, splashed with mud, caked with it on their boots, generally looking like they've been having an unhappy time out in the drizzle. M'try among them, shedding his coat, his cap, his scarf and such into a wet plop at his feet next to one of the hooks for that kinda gear, /probably/ meaning to pick it up once he's got his breath. Which he hasn't. Yet.
Dashaya unsurprisingly hasn't missed all the muck and mess from the outside as she comes tromping back into the cavern with a pointed stomp of her boots at the entrance and a little wince as she wrings out her still overly long hair, pulling it back into a managable braid with blind fingers. She moves to one of the hooks and starts shucking out of the wet gear, only to twitch her nose at M'try. "Come /on/. It wasn't /that/ bad." Not that she's too much better than him on the breathing front, but she's making herself calm and lean against the wall to catch it. "..That is a most disgusting sound." The wet flop. "At least get a broom and sweep that mess out."
M'try, with his palm to his chest, dramatizing the wheeze that's really just a little huffing and puffing; "It wasn't /that/ great, either." Peeling off his gloves, he makes sure they land in a puddle by his feet, making another wet plop that's punctuated by a twitch of his eyebrows at the greenrider. "I promise, I won't leave it here to disgust you indefinitely. Though, I have to point out, it's certainly less gross than, say, the sight of fake blood leaking from a person's lip onto the snow." Accusing, yes, and he ruffles his sweat-damp and just damp-damp hair afterward, also still in need of a trim. (They're going to have to hunt them down and hold them down to get these mops under control, ain't they?)
Hunt them down? No. Hold them down? If necessary. Fortunately for both weyrlings, G'dri neither has a barber in tow /or/ shears in hand. Of course, that might merely be because he's as muddy as the rest of the group that's trailed in from outside, the bluerider keeping a careful eye on the last straggler who really does seem to have trouble catching their wind. Quiet words of encouragement and careful coaching as outer gear is removed and hung up properly, before the lad is reminded to 'keep walking, just don't plop down somewhere.' As the assistant surveys the rest of the group, he notes mildly "It's less work if you hang them up straight away rather than dropping them on the floor first, M'try. Don't squabble." That with an eye directed at Dashaya, as well.
They will! No one gets near Dashaya's hair. Not without some real wrangling. Dash lifts her brows when the plopping continues and rather overdramatizes a little shudder, lifting her shoulders with a disgusted sound in her throat. It might just be for effect, but she's shaking her head. "Good! And no, no one can match my trickery." Her voice is pure syrup and spice, amused as ever. "But, at least it wasn't all over the floor, and nor was it real. Mud will cake and be slippery. And then your brown will blare it across all the wing that he wants to roll in it or something." She straightens up sharply at G'dri's voice and beams at him innocently. "We aren't squabbling, promise."
Towing the line between too-clever and carefully deferential, M'try answers with a red-cheeked smile for G'dri, "It is, sir. I agree. But it's not as good for starting conversation, I've noticed." Still, he's bending to start peeling his wet garb off the floor before he's even finished the remark. Looking at the muddy smear at his feet, smile turning a little quirky, he has to agree with Dashaya, done with a shrug. "Likely he will, but I still maintain that yours? Was one of the dirtiest--" He scrapes a muddy boot-heel over the crud on the floor. "--tricks that ever happened."
"Uh huh." Why doesn't G'dri look convinced? Maybe because innocently beaming young women just don't have that much effect on him after surviving a teenaged daughter. Is still surviving. Whatever. His brows lift at M'try, and that is not a suppressed smile deepening the lines around his eyes, really. "I know the mud seems to be everywhere at the moment, but please refrain from adding to it unnecessarily." He doesn't single the former-Harper out, but raises his voice slightly so that the entire group is addressed with the reminder of tidiness. "And don't just dawdle around letting your muscles stiffen up; you'll be less sore tomorrow." Should be becoming a familiar refrain, really.
"Still, not so messy as yours," Dashaya insists and winds her scarf over a hook so it can dry, lifting her brows at G'dri. Well, they -aren't- squabbling persay, so she says nothing other than grants him with a little grin. "It's utterly insane out there. Is there any idea when it'll let up? It would encroach right into here, if the doors weren't closed when it gets bad, I'd bet." Grump, grump, grump. She pushes off her perch on the wall and moves back into prowling around, working off her coat. "Why -does- he blare so, M'try? Jhei doesn't do that."
"Define unnecessarily," M'try mumbles, looking down at boots that, short of being hosed down, probably won't be free of mud any time soon. Granted, the puddle of his clothes could have been avoided, but he's continuing to pick that up, to hang things on the hook in front of him, letting them drip-dry. "I don't know," he begins in honest answer to Dashaya, unfettered by the question. After hearing it umpteen times a day for a month straight. "Why do you complain all the time? Why does G'dri remind us every day that we need to stretch even though we already know it?" Glance to the bluerider, ahem. "It's just something about the way Mohraith is."
Simple answer, M'try: G'dri is a fusspot. "Unless we see as wet a spring as we did this last turn," he turns to answer Dashaya, whether or not the question was actually directed at him, "things should start to dry out again around the fourth month or so." since the same rules apply for the weyrlings living and working areas as the rest of the Weyr, said fussy bluerider shucks his mud-caked boots and changes into clean shoes.
"I do not complain all the time!" Dashaya complains right back at him as if quite stung by the very notion and sniffs. "Not all the time. And apparently you don't remember his constant reminders to stretch, granted your pausing and wheezing." She scowls at something and wrinkles her nose at G'dri. "It should all make for a wonderful season then. When the dragons are big enough, they'll be romping about like dogs and getting lost in the snow, if they aren't already."
Vanissa heads from the Barracks.
Vanissa has arrived.
M'try, with a cheeky grin back at Dashaya after her initial argument; "And I'd argue that Mohraith doesn't 'blare,' as you put it. Semantics." The three of them, Dashaya and G'dri and M'try, all have signs of outdoors mud-and-damp about them, with the brownrider just hanging the last of his gear on a hook so that it drip drip drips at his mud-caked feet. "Don't the damp socks bother you, sir?" he adds, leaning against the wall to support his shoulders while he starts to unlace his own boots, only holding a look on Dashaya for a second or two longer after her 'pausing and wheezing' barb. He's managed to get his breathing back under control, thanks!
"Squabbling," G'dri says mildly, his blue eyes settling on Dashaya as his brows arch. He considers the young woman from Peyton a moment longer, little enough indication towards his puzzlement at her aggressive argumentativeness in his expression save for the rightward tilt of his head. He continues his impromptu lesson on Fortian weather, "Actually Dashaya, with the temperatures warming the snow will be disappearing and it's more mud you have to look forward too. So any romping is likely to result in them becoming unrecognisable, perhaps, but easily found." He might also be slightly amused, but he's doing a damn good job of keeping his signature smile under wraps. "Ah, no M'try. The trick is to double them, and boots properly cared for don't let in as much damp as one might expect."
Among the slower pairs to enter the Weyrling Complex are Vanissa and Liath, which may or may not have to do with Nissa's fitness or lack thereof. Nevertheless, the weyrling is still breathing heavily, one arm slung over a green neck that's oh-so-helpfully lowered to where the girl can sling an arm over it. She pauses to wriggle boots off of her feet and bang them against the wall outside first, then pads over to the rack and stows them before shucking her jacket. Then it's to a cloth and brush, which she waves at the others in silent greeting and she's working on Liath's paws to get the worst of the mud off them. She's simply too out of breath to talk at the moment.
"Jheilinth would say otherwise," Dashaya shakes her head with a smirk beginning to form, but she pushes away from her prowling and hangs up her coat and all, stepping delicately around M'try's big and ever growing mud puddle. "Well, getting a mud-splattered dragon really can't be too much worse than a pair of muddy weyrlings at the moment, though it'll be harder to clean up when they're larger." She's ugnoring the puzzled looks, really, and greeting the other greenrider with a grin. "Hi, Nissa."
"Squabbling," M'try repeats with a combination of amusement and superiority, slopping his soggy boots onto the floor and peeling off his soggy socks promptly afterward. "Good for Jheilinth. I'll be sure to keep that in mind," he adds amiably, collecting up all that sogginess with a mildly disgusted expression. "Pardon me while I go put on two pairs of socks--" With a gratefully enlightened look toward G'dri, thanks for the tip. "--and find a mop." The latter presumably for the mud puddle he's currently plodding through on his way to the barracks proper, passing Vanissa with a quick, "Or maybe two mops," before he's off, getting waylaid by Mohraith's cheerful, << WHY ARE YOU SO WET?! >> Just for Jheilinth~