[M'try] Unlikely spelunkers.
RL Date: 7/20/10
IC Date: 4/6/23
Mudslide, Fort Weyr(#1842RJs$)
The rain has done much to wash away the vast amount of mud that slid into the Bowl and down the mountainside, but in places, what used to be a wall of earth, is still knee-deep muck that needs shoveling. Where once dirt nestled, hard-packed along the rocky arms of the Weyr's curve, there's now a gaping open space that leads to a sharp, slick drop off that slopes away into the mountain range that holds the Weyr. A long swathe of mud continues to ooze its way downward as more of the stuff gets washed out of the Bowl by continuing rain.
Odd depressions in the mud speak of uneven surfaces beneath the mucky coating and along the northern side of the mudslide, the strange sight of a set of 'stairs' seemingly leading to nowhere rises up from the flotsam. On the southern side of the bowl wall, half an alcove hangs out high above, presumably the leftovers of a weyr that was drowned in the first mudslide and additional cracks in the wall hint at more to be found below the mud line.
M'try is not, at the moment, digging in the mud. He would undoubtedly call this a step in the right direction. Instead, just now tucking his pencil behind his ear, the brownrider passes by a few people similarly interested in what's been unearthed here, trekking toward the crack with-- instead of his portfolio-- a satchel slung around his shoulders. If one didn't know better, he might almost look intrepid today, but... well, it's M'try, so he is being a bit ginger and cautious about actually going /in/ to the crack.
The sound of heels striking rock is not a sound usually associated with Isandre's approach anywhere - sandals, such as she's wont to wear, tend towards silent walking. However, it is just that particular noise that precedes the healer in to the area of the mudslide. Gingerly sidestepping mud and muddy puddles, she tugs the hood of her cloak further over her face and pauses several paces away from the main workside, eyes flickering between those industriously scurrying about and the big heap of - well, dirt. "Ugh. Mud."
Straightening up from the way he'd been peering down into that darkness, M'try looks up and around for the source of those steps, eyes finally piercing the mist to light on Isandre. And, if he looks a touch amused for her response, well, who can blame him? "I'm having a hard time deciding whether I'm more mystified or entertained by the fact that you're out her, Healer. Did curiosity get the better of you?" His steps drift her way long that he can offer a hand to help her hop over the runnel of water between where he stands and she stands, if she's feeling ambitious.
"They do say that curiosity killed the feline," Isandre mutters, even as she accepts the hand and the help, somehow managing to make it over the runnel and sidestep so as not to crowd too close to the brownrider. Withdrawing her fingers, she slides them into her pockets, peering down at the ground. "Y'know, I'd half decided this morn t' go back t' skirts and sandals - trousers and boots just make me feel all kinds o' half-naked, however, I'm startin' to really see the use o' such clothing." Snorting inelegantly, she lifts her head again, eyeing the rider curiously. "I don't see no shovel in yer hands, boyo. Why be ye out here, in such dirty surroundings?"
It's just a little help to give her the momentum to get over the channel, then M'try's chuckling while he waves with his one hand to indicate the crevice that had his attention, answering, "Do you think you're the only suicidal feline out and about today, Isandre? Curiosity." Squishing his way through the mud, he gives the trousers in question a quick glance, says nothing, though amusement tricks the corners of his mouth. "Nissa and I fell down some steps the other day, and I thought I might do a little proper exploring, now that I'm all healed up from that venture. Are you feeling courageous enough to see how deep the rabbit hole goes?" Or the Pernese equivalent of the idiom.
"Does it mean getting out of this mist?" Isandre inquires, eyes flicking upwards beneath the hood of her cloak towards the barely falling rain. "I should know better than t' listen t' my curiosity - it always nags me when I'm sure t' get dirty or soaked." Still, despite her clear unease at all the dirt surrounding her, there's no incipient breakdown hovering. "Well." Eyes flicker, briefly, to the crack in question, pale brows drawing together as she frowns at it. Still, the implication of cowardice should she refuse - from M'try, no less! - does stiffen her spine, and she sniffs at him. "Can't be much worse'n being out here, or trapped in th' Weyr with all them muddy footprints. Lead the way," she adds, decisiveness and doubt warring in her voice.
Like he's one to tease, the brownrider quips around a grin, "There's a brave girl." Having no better way to accomplish it, he rummages in his knapsack to find a couple of good-sized glows and tosses them into the crevice, providing enough light to get the lay of the land while he says, "There's a bit of a cliff just inside, so I'll go down and give you a hand after me, right?" M'try's already seating himself on the edge of that short-cliff now, starting to drop down into the poorly lit space below; thankfully, the dark will make it impossible to see how much mud he's got on his butt now, go him.
Crack, Fort Weyr
Clearing away enough mud reveals a dank, dark crack in the bowl wall that a person could just squeeze into if he or she dares. The brave are rewarded by finding a dusty and slightly crumbled flight of stairs that leads downward into deeper darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs, with plenty of glowlight or torches a spacious cavern opens up, glittering with minerals in the walls. Shelving is carved along one whole wall and some benches. The sound of running water can be heard through a carved and linteled opening on the far side of the cavern. Were these once bathing caverns that were buried?
There's the faintest hesitation as Isandre watches M'try descend - for one brief moment, it seems the healer might just abandon her companion to the jaws of the crack. It might be his quip that decides her, or some internal nagging, but either way, she pauses only to unclasp her cloak, leaving it off to the side, before she follows his example - and him - with his help. No doubt she'll eventually notice the mud on her own clothing, but with luck, it won't happen until she's safely tucked into her room.
'Safely' on the ground in that darkness, hands raised to help lower Isandre down after him-- it's only a short drop, a little more than five feet-- M'try points out, "The ground's a bit more slippery than it was the other day. I think the mist must be causing a trickle down these steps, such as they are." Long shadows, bluish and eerie in the light from the few glows scattered down the steps, give everything a surreal quality that will have him tending to stick close to the Healer instead of just delving off headlong; one wonders what he really would have accomplished solo, huh?
Don't worry. Isandre will protect him. Hah. "I shoulda brought my kit," muses the healer, patting her hands at the pockets of her trousers thoughtfully. "Just in case." Still, she doesn't seem inclined to go collect it now, instead hovering at the brownrider's shoulder, sea-green eyes flickering off every which way to get a general lay of the land. Poking thoughtfully at the ground with the toe of her boot, she grunts softly. "Well. Shall we see what we can see then?" she asks, tipping her head back to study the rider's profile with thoughtfully pursed lips.
"I'm not entirely sure I care for the idea of you using that kit here, in this particular gloom." Though it's not terribly bright outside, M'try still mumbles something about letting his eyes adjust-- letting his courage bolster, likely-- before he starts descending the steps into said gloom, glancing back with a quick, sketchy smile at the Healer. "Down toward the bottom, there's the sound of water, I'm fairly sure. Vanissa and I fell all the way to the base of the stairs, but I know I heard it." Though not explicit, he does leave his hand hovering in such a way that Isandre's welcome to snag it if she's feeling inclined, probably as much for his own comfort as helping brace her steps.
"It would depend on what was needed," Isandre replies, unruffled by his words. "I imagine ye'd rather me use my kit than leave ye t' bleed out, yes?" Mean healer is mean. She does, however, chuckle softly - if a touch uneasily - reaching out to briefly touch his arm in apology before dropping her hand away, sliding her fingers into her pocket. Clearing her throat, she blinks off after him, pacing close enough that she could easily reach out and snag that hand, and not so close that she might impede his steps. "Running water?" she asks, before clarifying, "or just the sound of water lapping at stone, such as th' lake might make."
With eyes exceptionally round in this darkness, M'try looks back to answer, "As snippy as that answer was, Healer? Bleeding out isn't really sounding too bad at the moment." His fingers flex a few times, balled into a fist and then splayed before dropping to his side; he'll just have to brave it without a hand to hold, poor little coward. "It wasn't waves, it was trickling. Flowing, not slapping. Listen." He shuffles to a stop at the edge of a step, his head lifted so that, if Isandre's quiet, the sound of water running can be heard coming from an adjacent cavern, muted by stone but still echoing in the empty space surrounding them. In a careful whisper, "Can you hear it?"
Peering up into M'try's face, Isandre looks back, startled by his comment. Biting the inside of her lip, she drops her head away, eyes focused on the darkness even as her hand comes out to touch his arm again - lingering, this time, in comfort. As he stops, she does as well, hovering quietly at his shoulder as she frowns, straining to hear. It comes to her, slowly, that faint, muffled rush of water. Her first answer to his question is a nod, the second, as she realizes he may not be able to see that particular movement, is a softly murmured, "Aye." Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she offers him a slight nudge with her hip, forebaring to say anything when gesture and touch can convey the message just as well.
M'try likely didn't mean to sound snide in response, but the combination of being just a touch afraid and wanting to sound amused have conspired to make it read that way. "What's going to be fantastic," he begins in a light whisper, glancing back at Isandre in response to that nudge, "is finding out there are a dozen weyrs on this level with bathtubs, while I continue living up on high like a tubless pariah." Tilting his head into a step, he offers, "Shall we go to the bottom?"
It's not like M'try's the only one who's a touch nervous down here - Isandre may put up a brave fascade, but that doesn't stop her from following quickly, fingers hesitant to slide away from his arm as she stays at his shoulder. "If they get this all cleared out," she murmurs in reply, voice pitched low enough even he may have to strain to hear, "ye can always request a new weyr, wot?" She doesn't quite chuckle, though there is a thread of amusement in her voice as she adds, "an' then mayhap ye'll be the one invaded next time someone decides th' gels of the Weyr need pamperin'."
"If you had ever been to my weyr, you'd understand why that's not a very good-- wait. What?" M'try actually makes it to the bottom step, even darker down here where his glows haven't managed to rattle all the way down, and he turns back to Isandre with an expression of priceless cluelessness. "There were girls invading...? When was this?" And why did no one tell him about it?!
Grateful of the chance to laugh - though it's kept low, out of caution, Isandre grins broadly at M'try, her own eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh aye," she replies, trying - and failing - to keep the laughter from her voice. "Jaeyi, Vanissa and I all invaded poor T'rev's weyr t' make use of his bath. Had a nice bit of talk, a nice bit of pampering. Quite pleasant, though I dare say it's not something I, personally, would indulge in often. A bit decadent, ye ken." Easier to remember the good parts, for her, anyway. Another nudge of her hip, and she jerks her chin towards the cavern, one eyebrow raised.
M'try repeats, shortly after he scrapes his jaw off the floor, "You and Jaeyi and Vanissa?" See, he's not related to any of them, so-- for him-- he can totally go there. "In T'rev's bath?" While Isandre may be all ready to keep on exploring, he waves aside the suggestion of her jerked chin, instead putting his hand behind him while he lowers himself to the edge of that bottom step, saying, "I'm sorry. I think I need to sit down." No more nudging hips for a while for him, thanks.
Eyebrows coming together in a faint frown, Isandre kneels next to M'try, hands cupped on her knee as she tilts her head, peering carefully at him. "Somethin' the matter, M'try?" she asks gently. "If ye be feelin' dizzy, I can go back up, get some water. Or find someone t' help us out of here," she adds, nearly reaching out to touch his shoulder before she clasps her hand firmly to her knee again. She can't possibly fathom how the news of three women in a bathtub could possibly have such an adverse effect on the poor brownrider.
"Yes. No. I'm fine." And very happy that it's dark in here, so at least he doesn't have to go to all the extra trouble of crossing his legs. M'try waves a hand again before it shifts to pulls his knapsack on around to his lap, explaining as tactfully as he can manage, "Though, in the future, I recommend you perhaps keep that story to yourself? I know part of the Healer's oath is 'do no harm,' and I have to posit that causing a complete lack of bloodflow to the brain is marginally harmful." Ahem.
"I don- oh. Oh!" Manfully, Isandre doesn't burst out laughing into his face, though she does stagger abruptly to her feet, stepping off a few paces as she lifts one hand to bite down on the edge of it. "I- I'm dreadfully sorry, M'try," she replies in a rather choked voice - in the dark, it might be difficult to tell if it's laughter or tears. "I wasn't thinking." Lowering her hand to tuck it, with the other, behind her back, she stares off down the darkened tunnel, giving both of them a bit of time to compose themselves.
M'try waits for it... waits... ah, there. She got it. His smile flashes over-brightly, dimmed only when he rubs his nose with his index finger and assures, "It's all right, I assure you. "If it had been a story about three ugly girls, we wouldn't have a problem at all. But that's an image that will stay with a person for a while. Can you see anything?" He means down the tunnel.
"Darkness," Isandre replies laconically, though there's still an edge to her voice - laughter or tears, it all sounds the same. She takes a deep breath. "Smells damp - could just be th' rain from above, yes?" Shaking her head, she lifts one hand away from her back, tucking strands shaken free from her braid firmly behind one ear. "Try t' think of something else, hmm? Like - oh... " and here she trails off, trying to decide what could best ease this particular tangle. "A bluerider with a harelip?" It worked for Nissa, after all.
Darkness, she says. "Descriptive," he answers, letting her have her snicker in peace for a spell while he collects himself. Finally, dusting his hands over his knees, M'try uses that to push himself to his feet, wearing an expression just odd enough that Isandre might even be able to pick out its confusion even in this dimness. "A bluerider with a-- no, I don't even think I want to know." He'll just head toward the wall where the water-sound is the most pronounced, sparing a last, jokingly accusing glance at the Healer; see what she did?
"Ye be the writer here, M'try, not I," Isandre points out, shrugging a shoulder as she waits for him to join her where she stands, hands once more tucked safely behind her back. "I can try for descriptive, though. Lesee... I see a blackness darker than th' deepest night, when neither moons nor stars shine t' offer even th' dimmest o' light. Better?" Snorting again, she shakes her head, not missing that confused look - though all she does is say, "Nae, ye really don't." As he moves off, she follows, still shaking her head with amusement.
Fingers threading through his hair at the word 'writer,' M'try scratches at his head for a second with both hands, pulling that hair back almost roughly while he comments, "Quite an inspired one at the moment, no less." Her further descriptions have him tossing his head back for a second and laughing, the sound coming sharp and bouncing around the cavern in its abruptness. "Perhaps we'd best stick to exploring and leave the describing for another time, come to think of it. --I don't think it's rain-water. I think there's water running on the other side of this wall." His knuckles knock experimentally, but it's stone, so there's not much chance of ascertaining its thickness like that, nope.
More than willing to follow him back into business, Isandre does allow a brief flicker of amusemnt to flash over her face before she sobers, sniffing at the air again. "Smells fresh enough," she muses, reaching out to flatten her hand against the wall, brow furrowing slightly. "Th' wall, M'try. 'Tis not nature as made this smooth." Frowning, she steps away from him, fingers gliding lightly along the wall as she follows it deeper into the darkness, head tilted in the direction of running water. "Can't be all that thick if we can hear th' water - or there might be an openin'. Did ye two see nothing when ye fell down here before?"
"It wasn't really a planned venture," M'try points out, following suit so that his fingers find their way along the wall, palm flat, leaning so that his ear comes as close as he can get without smashing his cheek to it. "The abridged version is just that we fell and then climbed back out." He's in his own zone for a time so that, when he looks up, Isandre's gone some distance into that darkness, and he suggests, "Wait and I'll fetch the glows? If you take a bad step and hurt yourself, I'm sure I'll get blamed for breaking the Healer."
"So I was told," Isandre replies. "And a right mess ye two made of yerselves, as well." Chuckling, she adds, "I'm not sure if it's blame ye'd be in for," but obediently comes to a halt, still resting her hand against the wall as her eyes flicker off into the darkness thoughtfully. "I'll wait, though," she adds, half-turning to glance at him over her shoulder before she turns away again, absorbed in studying the gloom again, brow furrowed thoughtfully.
M'try back-tracks far enough to collect two of his three glows, leaving one on the steps as a beacon of sorts to find their way back. Returning with the pair of them in one hand, he makes a mute offer to give one to Isandre, holding it out wordlessly while he nods along the track she was already starting to follow. "If nothing else," he begins with a smile that looks really manic when lit from below like that, "we'll be buried alive together, which is better than buried alive alone?"
"Such comfort." Isandre is not alone when M'try returns, though she makes no mention of the tiny green firelizard perched atop her head, talons tangled in her pale blonde braid. "I can think of worse t' be buried alive with, all told, though I'm certain ye'll forgive me if I say I hope it doesn't come t' that." Reaching out to take the glow, she cups it in her palm, studying it thoughtfully for a moment before pulling her other hand from the wall, making a gesture that can easily be interpreted as 'after you'.
Eyes lifted for a moment to spot that firelizard-- hard thing to hide in the dark, what with the glowing facets-- M'try issues an irritable sniff before starting up his feet again. "You took the words right out of my mouth," he suggests to her 'hope it doesn't come to that,' gallantly taking the lead. "Does it remind you of something? Like it's on the tip of my tongue..." he muses, holding his glow out ahead of him so those long, bluish shadows start slicing across the open space.
Eyes dazzled as the glow-light reflects off the minerals in the wall, Isandre narrows her eyes to slits, bringing up one hand to shield them as they slowly adjust to the faint illumination. "Don't ye be mean t' her," she remarks idly of the sniff. "I know ye don't like them, but she's got better senses'n ye and I, and will be able t' tell if the air goes bad afore we can. I'll protect ye from th' big bad firelizard," she adds, with teasing mockery, as she comes up to his shoulder again. "Ah - hmm. Perhaps?"
As testy as one could ever expect to find M'try, the brownrider remarks, "It's not a matter of like, Isandre. It's a matter of functionality. I find firelizards to be superfluous. Between drums and messengers, I cannot fathom the lure of mindless-- bathing caverns, I think?" Brows knitted, changing gears mid-sentence, he looks curiously over his shoulder to the Healer, perhaps having solved his own riddle. "All the benches. Imagine it with actual water, bright, filled with steam?"
"Since when does everythin' have t' be functional? She's sweet - she's a pet," Isandre adds, a bit tetchy herself - though she breaks off into a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed a moment. "I like her. She makes me happy. She won't bother ye, M'try, I promise." Not quite shaking her head, so as not to startle the still unnamed creature currently gnawing at her hair, she instead turns her attention to the caverns, lips pursed. "I think ye hit it on the head," is softly agreed. "Which means th' water source can't be far - mayhap blocked off?"
M'try stops picking on the firelizard, instead taking a few steps away from Isandre for the moment to stand nearer to the middle of the room, leaving the relative safety of the wall. "So it must have been buried long enough ago that no one even remembered it existed to go looking for it. This is certainly going to necessitate the updating of my map..." Busy, curious eyes dart around what can be seen of the space, the glow raised high so he can get some sense of the scale of the surroundings. "Can you tell where it's coming from?" The source of the water, that is.
"Maybe," Isandre replies dubiously, continuing to make her way along the wall as he steps away, eyes narrowed as she holds the glow before her, allowing it to illuminate her path. "M'try," she calls, voice echoing in the chamber, "I think there be an openin' on the far side there, see?" She points towards where her glow has picked up faint traces of minerals in the distant curve of the chamber - and the blank space where no reflective prisms seem to exist to throw it back at her. Halting in her tracks, she glances over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised inquiringly at the brownrider.
M'try, pacing out some distance to try to get a sense of scope, looks up and back at the sound of his name, distracted from his self-appointed purpose. "Isandre," he answers, starting back her way, finding a pitch similar to her own for replying her name. "I think you're on to something. Shall we see what we can see, intrepid Healer?" Evidently, curiosity trumps cowardice at the end of the day.
Eyes bright with ill-suppressed excitement, Isandre wrinkles her nose at him for the mockery, but lets it slide past without verbal comment. "Aye, I think we shall," she agrees, holding the glow ahead of her as she shifts her path, moving away from the wall to pace carefully towards the gaping spot of blackness in the increasing glitter of the far wall. "I wonder what they'll do with this place," she muses softly.
"Perhaps get it working again?" M'try suggests, following a partial step behind and beside Isandre, his attention often distracted to the surroundings rather than the destination. After a few more steps shuffled in silence, the grin that accompanies his words is audible even if she fails to glance his way; "Perhaps set it aside as a place for... how was it you put it? Decadence?"
Isandre's soft snort is barely audible as she continues to keep her gaze trained on the ground, watching for potential pitfalls rather than the distraction masquerading as a brownrider. "Another bathing cavern might be nice," she muses thoughtfully. "And, to be fair, though I mightn't use it for such, a place for people t' enjoy themselves as ain't filled with alcohol might not go over too badly. People need their entertainments, 'specially in this Weyr," she adds, perhaps just a touch grumpily - though a look at her face would show only a bland expression.
However he means it, M'try makes it /sound/ like he doesn't know anything special while he muses, "Ohh, I'm sure the people of Fort have ample avenues of entertainment open to them, with and without alcohol involved." His approach of the wall is slow, often punctuated by pauses while he tilts his head to consider the sparks set off in the minerals when the glowlight shines this way or that one, a mumbled, "Remarkable, remarkable," until he's near enough that the opening is best described as 'looming' before him. "But why especially in this Weyr, Isandre? Do you have a bone you need to pick?"
"A bone?" Startled, Isandre lifts her glow to illuminate the brownrider, her sea-green eyes wide. "Nae, not at all. Compared t' the Hall, and Nerat afore, the entertainments o' the Weyr are a bit on the - ah, elaborate side." Esoteric, but she's not going there at all. "I'm - sorry? I didna mean t' offend ye, or malign yer home." Though she manages to suppress a blush, her face grows stiff with embarassment, and she turns away again, reaching out to run a curious hand over the lintel of the opening. Distraction. "Th' water is definately louder through here."
"You're confusing me," M'try says frankly, his eyes following Isandre's hand to the lintel, the keenness of his attention brief but notable-- whether his interest is in the hand or what's under it is what's impossible to discern. "So let me put it this way: why would you say the people of the Weyr, especially, need their entertainments?" With what starts out as resolve, he steps toward the Healer and the opening as one, causing a bizarre show of light when he bounces the glow in his palm a touch in a nervous gesture. Then; "Perhaps we ought to not go any deeper? If things are structurally compromised..." See? He's a big chicken.
"I'm confusing myself," Isandre retorts, with a strangled chuckle as she skims her finger over the carved stone, her expression thoughtful. "Ain't you curious t' see what's beyond, M'try?" she challanges lightly, glancing over her shoulder and tilting her head up to meet his eyes with her own. "What's life without a bit o' risk, eh?" Her lips curve slightly, mockingly, before she bounces her own glow before reaching out past the opening to see if she can illuminate anything beyond their immediate area. Note - she does not actually take a step. Perhaps its her own brand of nervousness, perhaps it's simply her way of seeing if he plans to turn tail and run or not.
What's life without a bit of risk? "Longer." His lips work soundlessly for a moment like he might have more to say on the subject, but M'try tucks away the rest of his quip before it's uttered, watching Isandre with a sigh at her baiting. "Curious, yes, though I'm not sure that it's /wise/ for a Healer and a former Harper to be delving into such darknesses alone. I'm certainly willing to stand here and wait for you to take a survey, though?" With a be-my-guest nod into that darkness, though-- considering that he has closed the distance between the two of them to no more than a couple of steps-- he probably would actually just stand there and let Isandre disappear into the shadows without him. Chivalry's not wholly dead.
"Boring," Isandre murmurs, shoulders twitching back as she peers off into the opening, taking a shuffling step closer, though she doesn't actually step forward into the darkness beyond. "Sometimes, it's boring t' be /wise/. T' be cautious." Another irritable twitch of her shoulders, and her fingers tighten along the lintel, knuckles whitening slightly before she relaxes, dropping her head and sighing. The movement dislodges the green, and she slides down to the healer's shoulder, chittering furiously. "Hush, ye," is absently remarked, before the healer turns her head, looking across the bare distance to the brownrider. "Would ye rather go back and tell them what we've found, then?" she asks, disappointment mingling with just the barest hint of relief in the question. Torn - that's the best word to describe her expression.
"Yes?" Because he's not sure what answer she's looking for, M'try seems loathe to give one at all, like it's pulling teeth to get a response from him right now. The chittering doesn't help, though all he does is regard the nameless firelizard flatly for a few seconds before returning his questioning look to Isandre. "Even if we find the source of the water, we're not really equipped to do anything about it except gawk." Finding a twitchy grin, he adds, "And I did warn you that I'm a tremendous coward, remember?"
A deep sigh - complete with utterly faked disappointment, then Isandre pulls her hand away from the carvings, reaching out as if to catch at his. "Very well," she replies, on another sigh - though her eyes dance with suppressed laughter, "I'll lead ye home, li'l boy, and we kin tell the big lads all about the nifty hole in a wall you found." Lifting her glow up, she grins at him, a flash of pale teeth in pale face, before she moves off, returning the way they came. "Mayhap I'll come back down wi' 'em," she muses. "Wi' me kit, feel like I'm actually of some use t' this whole big opperation, aye? An' for the record, M'try," she adds, peering over her shoulder at him, "I still don't think of ye as a coward. Too prudent, perhaps, but that's never been a failin' in my eyes."
M'try will take that hand this time, clasping it in both of his and following along after Isandre like a little boy being lead off to get chastised, even sniffling a touch for effect. "Thank you, Healer," he answers in a mopey-sounding way, his feet intentionally dragging across the stone for those retraced steps. "Though, in all seriousness, with or without your kit? You're certainly of more practical use than I am, so I'm sure they'd be happy to have you along." His only answer to her further words and the look back she gives him is to make a face; clearly, she has her opinion on the matter, and he has his.
Chuckling again, Isandre's fingers squeeze lightly about his own, and she glances once more over her shoulder, winking. "You're welcome, brownrider," she replies with mock seriousness before dropping her gaze back to the floor before them, making certain of her path as she traces it across the cavern, towards the stairway. "Be that as it may," she replies, "'twould be nice t' do more than just hear the stories as ye all come into my Infirmary, all scraped and scratched and bruised." Boring, she'd said before - from her tone and words, it sounds like she'd meant just that.
"You would rather tumble down the steps and be the recipient of said scratches and bruises? Because I'm sure, given long enough, I'll manage to locate a depression or a step or something over which I can trip and drag us both down." M'try swings held hands idly back and forth while he looks around for something befouling, steps sending a stone skittering across the floor and ricocheting hollowly into the shadows. "Though, again, I do think I'll get in trouble if we return and you're all in shambles."
"And who would give ye trouble over that?" Isandre's lips curve in a smirk as she shakes her head. "Nah - I'd prefer t' stay whole, thankee, but perhaps if I'd not been hiding away like some coward," see, she knows the meaning of the word, "in my Infirmary, scared of all th' dirt and grime, perhaps I'd have less work for me on me own turf - an' less cleaning to do," she adds dryly. She bounces the glow on her palm, watching as the light illumines their path, picking the best way to cross the floor - relatively free of visible obstructions or pitfalls.
In a 'take your pick' way, M'try answers, "The Headwoman? The Weyrwoman? The Masterhealer? Vanissa?" An odd mix for a greenrider to be tossed into, true, and his brief chuckle seems to address that fact, though he's soon unlacing hands to pat-pat her on the shoulder sympathetically. "Don't worry, Isandre. It only takes a decade or two before you get comfortable with your cowardice, and you almost find yourself missing it when it abandons you." There's a telling glance back over his shoulder the way they came: did he really just voluntarily go exploring dark, abandoned, crumbled caves?!
Sliding her hand into her pocket once it's free, Isandre shakes her head slowly. "Ye're one odd cookie," is all she remarks, before she simply shuts her lips and continues to make her way to the stairway, absently kicking at the first of the risers as she peers up towards the opening to the mudslide outside. "Well, as I'm so new to my cowardice, an' yer so comfortable with yours, ye can lead the rest of the way out - just in case." Smirking at him, she offers her glow to him, one eyebrow arched invitingly.
Absolutely no arguments-- "And you don't even know the half of it, Isandre." M'try plucks the glow from her palm, tucking it into his hand along with the other one, lifting them both a little higher to provide a nice puddle of light in which he walks back toward those steps, following the lure of the glow he left there as a beacon. "I'm glad you came along when you did," he adds in a very casual-aside tone, authentically meant but also not to make a great-big-deal out of the adventure.
"As am I." Isandre shrugs a shoulder, as casual as he, as she trails along in his wake. Lifting one hand - ignoring the grime she knows is there by the simple expidient of believing if you can't see it, it doesn't exist - she nibbles absently at her thumbnail, her gaze fixed on the brownrider's back. As the adventure has all but come to a close, she'll focus now on trying not to think about just what state the light of day will reveal she's in.
M'try catches up that third glow along the way, dropping a pair into his knapsack absently, without breaking stride, finding his way up the steps with no mishaps. For the first time in a while, he may actually emerge from the mud without being all banged and scraped, yay for him! Though, he may yet get punched; "Do you want a leg up? Or shall I just step back and promise not to snicker while you climb back out on your own?" At the shelf that leads out of the crack, time yet for Isandre to get even /more/ dirty before facing the wide world again, lucky her.
It's a good thing that Isandre takes that vow of 'first, do no harm' to heart - she might very well have pinched him for his sauce. "A leg up would be very kind," she replies, primly, before wrinkling her nose at him. "And even more glad am I, now, that I decided t' start wearin' trousers instead of skirts." A glance at the crack - and the mud surrounding it - has her swallowing, but despite earlier protestations of cowardice, she takes a deep breath and nods to herself, before looking back expectantly to the brownrider.
Putting the remaining glow away now that there's enough light, near enough to the surface, M'try permits himself a grin that he aims toward the daylight instead of the Healer. "Even more disappointed am I, now..." Trailing off, he steps nearer to lace his hands together into a basket, suggesting, "Knee, perhaps? I'm afraid the tread on your boots will injure my delicate fingers," as girlishly as possible.
Snorting, Isandre makes as if to put her boot in his hands, but switches to her knee at the last minute. "Disappointed, my ass," she replies succinctly. "Mind my nose, I'm not in th' mood t' scrape it," she adds, as she smirks at him, one hand going automatically to his shoulder to steady herself as she reaches up towards the top of the ledge, ready to grab when he boosts her.
M'try, tilting his head in a hemming-and-hawing way, mumbles, "My disappointment and your ass are somewhat connected, yes." But enough about that. Bracing her knee, he makes damn sure he's looking /up/ and not at her neckline so that, with one good heft, he can get Isandre up to where she can scrabble out on her own, hopefully. Either that, or she's going to wind up banging into the shelf and they'll both go home with scrapes today. Hopefully the former but-- well, it's M'try, so it's always kind of a coin-toss.
She might have ended up face-first under the shelf, but despite her own brief fascination with his face - okay, so he can still distract her, deal - Isandre manages to get first one hand, then the other onto the ledge. With the help of that boosting hand, she manages to scramble up, ignoring the mud that collects on hands and knees as she half-turns, peering over the edge. "Need a hand?" she asks curiously, prepared to offer just that. Just because he doesn't share her often embarassing lack of height doesn't mean he might not need the help.
M'try would, were he not under a strain he's trying not to show (do some push-ups or something, kid, seriously), probably make a quip about knowing he needs a shower and a shave. As it is... once she's done being distracted and safely deposited, he waves his hand up to dismiss Isandre's offer, trying to salvage some shreds of masculinity in the hop-and-heft he manages for himself, eventually swinging his leg up and over without kicking the Healer on the way. "Now then," with a big puff to catch his breath. "Enough adventure for one day, I think?"
"Indeed. I'm for a bath," Isandre adds, glancing down at herself with acute distaste, trying to dust the mud and grime from her hands without getting any more on her clothing than absolutely necessary. "And I have t' debate whether these clothes kin be salvaged, or I'm gonta make the weavers very rich again by havin' t' order yet another set." Shaking her head, she brushes free wisps behind her ears, glancing at M'try briefly. "Thanks." Just that - well, and a backwards wave, before she pauses to pick up her cloak, then start picking her way out of the mudslide.
IC Date: 4/6/23
Mudslide, Fort Weyr(#1842RJs$)
The rain has done much to wash away the vast amount of mud that slid into the Bowl and down the mountainside, but in places, what used to be a wall of earth, is still knee-deep muck that needs shoveling. Where once dirt nestled, hard-packed along the rocky arms of the Weyr's curve, there's now a gaping open space that leads to a sharp, slick drop off that slopes away into the mountain range that holds the Weyr. A long swathe of mud continues to ooze its way downward as more of the stuff gets washed out of the Bowl by continuing rain.
Odd depressions in the mud speak of uneven surfaces beneath the mucky coating and along the northern side of the mudslide, the strange sight of a set of 'stairs' seemingly leading to nowhere rises up from the flotsam. On the southern side of the bowl wall, half an alcove hangs out high above, presumably the leftovers of a weyr that was drowned in the first mudslide and additional cracks in the wall hint at more to be found below the mud line.
M'try is not, at the moment, digging in the mud. He would undoubtedly call this a step in the right direction. Instead, just now tucking his pencil behind his ear, the brownrider passes by a few people similarly interested in what's been unearthed here, trekking toward the crack with-- instead of his portfolio-- a satchel slung around his shoulders. If one didn't know better, he might almost look intrepid today, but... well, it's M'try, so he is being a bit ginger and cautious about actually going /in/ to the crack.
The sound of heels striking rock is not a sound usually associated with Isandre's approach anywhere - sandals, such as she's wont to wear, tend towards silent walking. However, it is just that particular noise that precedes the healer in to the area of the mudslide. Gingerly sidestepping mud and muddy puddles, she tugs the hood of her cloak further over her face and pauses several paces away from the main workside, eyes flickering between those industriously scurrying about and the big heap of - well, dirt. "Ugh. Mud."
Straightening up from the way he'd been peering down into that darkness, M'try looks up and around for the source of those steps, eyes finally piercing the mist to light on Isandre. And, if he looks a touch amused for her response, well, who can blame him? "I'm having a hard time deciding whether I'm more mystified or entertained by the fact that you're out her, Healer. Did curiosity get the better of you?" His steps drift her way long that he can offer a hand to help her hop over the runnel of water between where he stands and she stands, if she's feeling ambitious.
"They do say that curiosity killed the feline," Isandre mutters, even as she accepts the hand and the help, somehow managing to make it over the runnel and sidestep so as not to crowd too close to the brownrider. Withdrawing her fingers, she slides them into her pockets, peering down at the ground. "Y'know, I'd half decided this morn t' go back t' skirts and sandals - trousers and boots just make me feel all kinds o' half-naked, however, I'm startin' to really see the use o' such clothing." Snorting inelegantly, she lifts her head again, eyeing the rider curiously. "I don't see no shovel in yer hands, boyo. Why be ye out here, in such dirty surroundings?"
It's just a little help to give her the momentum to get over the channel, then M'try's chuckling while he waves with his one hand to indicate the crevice that had his attention, answering, "Do you think you're the only suicidal feline out and about today, Isandre? Curiosity." Squishing his way through the mud, he gives the trousers in question a quick glance, says nothing, though amusement tricks the corners of his mouth. "Nissa and I fell down some steps the other day, and I thought I might do a little proper exploring, now that I'm all healed up from that venture. Are you feeling courageous enough to see how deep the rabbit hole goes?" Or the Pernese equivalent of the idiom.
"Does it mean getting out of this mist?" Isandre inquires, eyes flicking upwards beneath the hood of her cloak towards the barely falling rain. "I should know better than t' listen t' my curiosity - it always nags me when I'm sure t' get dirty or soaked." Still, despite her clear unease at all the dirt surrounding her, there's no incipient breakdown hovering. "Well." Eyes flicker, briefly, to the crack in question, pale brows drawing together as she frowns at it. Still, the implication of cowardice should she refuse - from M'try, no less! - does stiffen her spine, and she sniffs at him. "Can't be much worse'n being out here, or trapped in th' Weyr with all them muddy footprints. Lead the way," she adds, decisiveness and doubt warring in her voice.
Like he's one to tease, the brownrider quips around a grin, "There's a brave girl." Having no better way to accomplish it, he rummages in his knapsack to find a couple of good-sized glows and tosses them into the crevice, providing enough light to get the lay of the land while he says, "There's a bit of a cliff just inside, so I'll go down and give you a hand after me, right?" M'try's already seating himself on the edge of that short-cliff now, starting to drop down into the poorly lit space below; thankfully, the dark will make it impossible to see how much mud he's got on his butt now, go him.
Crack, Fort Weyr
Clearing away enough mud reveals a dank, dark crack in the bowl wall that a person could just squeeze into if he or she dares. The brave are rewarded by finding a dusty and slightly crumbled flight of stairs that leads downward into deeper darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs, with plenty of glowlight or torches a spacious cavern opens up, glittering with minerals in the walls. Shelving is carved along one whole wall and some benches. The sound of running water can be heard through a carved and linteled opening on the far side of the cavern. Were these once bathing caverns that were buried?
There's the faintest hesitation as Isandre watches M'try descend - for one brief moment, it seems the healer might just abandon her companion to the jaws of the crack. It might be his quip that decides her, or some internal nagging, but either way, she pauses only to unclasp her cloak, leaving it off to the side, before she follows his example - and him - with his help. No doubt she'll eventually notice the mud on her own clothing, but with luck, it won't happen until she's safely tucked into her room.
'Safely' on the ground in that darkness, hands raised to help lower Isandre down after him-- it's only a short drop, a little more than five feet-- M'try points out, "The ground's a bit more slippery than it was the other day. I think the mist must be causing a trickle down these steps, such as they are." Long shadows, bluish and eerie in the light from the few glows scattered down the steps, give everything a surreal quality that will have him tending to stick close to the Healer instead of just delving off headlong; one wonders what he really would have accomplished solo, huh?
Don't worry. Isandre will protect him. Hah. "I shoulda brought my kit," muses the healer, patting her hands at the pockets of her trousers thoughtfully. "Just in case." Still, she doesn't seem inclined to go collect it now, instead hovering at the brownrider's shoulder, sea-green eyes flickering off every which way to get a general lay of the land. Poking thoughtfully at the ground with the toe of her boot, she grunts softly. "Well. Shall we see what we can see then?" she asks, tipping her head back to study the rider's profile with thoughtfully pursed lips.
"I'm not entirely sure I care for the idea of you using that kit here, in this particular gloom." Though it's not terribly bright outside, M'try still mumbles something about letting his eyes adjust-- letting his courage bolster, likely-- before he starts descending the steps into said gloom, glancing back with a quick, sketchy smile at the Healer. "Down toward the bottom, there's the sound of water, I'm fairly sure. Vanissa and I fell all the way to the base of the stairs, but I know I heard it." Though not explicit, he does leave his hand hovering in such a way that Isandre's welcome to snag it if she's feeling inclined, probably as much for his own comfort as helping brace her steps.
"It would depend on what was needed," Isandre replies, unruffled by his words. "I imagine ye'd rather me use my kit than leave ye t' bleed out, yes?" Mean healer is mean. She does, however, chuckle softly - if a touch uneasily - reaching out to briefly touch his arm in apology before dropping her hand away, sliding her fingers into her pocket. Clearing her throat, she blinks off after him, pacing close enough that she could easily reach out and snag that hand, and not so close that she might impede his steps. "Running water?" she asks, before clarifying, "or just the sound of water lapping at stone, such as th' lake might make."
With eyes exceptionally round in this darkness, M'try looks back to answer, "As snippy as that answer was, Healer? Bleeding out isn't really sounding too bad at the moment." His fingers flex a few times, balled into a fist and then splayed before dropping to his side; he'll just have to brave it without a hand to hold, poor little coward. "It wasn't waves, it was trickling. Flowing, not slapping. Listen." He shuffles to a stop at the edge of a step, his head lifted so that, if Isandre's quiet, the sound of water running can be heard coming from an adjacent cavern, muted by stone but still echoing in the empty space surrounding them. In a careful whisper, "Can you hear it?"
Peering up into M'try's face, Isandre looks back, startled by his comment. Biting the inside of her lip, she drops her head away, eyes focused on the darkness even as her hand comes out to touch his arm again - lingering, this time, in comfort. As he stops, she does as well, hovering quietly at his shoulder as she frowns, straining to hear. It comes to her, slowly, that faint, muffled rush of water. Her first answer to his question is a nod, the second, as she realizes he may not be able to see that particular movement, is a softly murmured, "Aye." Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she offers him a slight nudge with her hip, forebaring to say anything when gesture and touch can convey the message just as well.
M'try likely didn't mean to sound snide in response, but the combination of being just a touch afraid and wanting to sound amused have conspired to make it read that way. "What's going to be fantastic," he begins in a light whisper, glancing back at Isandre in response to that nudge, "is finding out there are a dozen weyrs on this level with bathtubs, while I continue living up on high like a tubless pariah." Tilting his head into a step, he offers, "Shall we go to the bottom?"
It's not like M'try's the only one who's a touch nervous down here - Isandre may put up a brave fascade, but that doesn't stop her from following quickly, fingers hesitant to slide away from his arm as she stays at his shoulder. "If they get this all cleared out," she murmurs in reply, voice pitched low enough even he may have to strain to hear, "ye can always request a new weyr, wot?" She doesn't quite chuckle, though there is a thread of amusement in her voice as she adds, "an' then mayhap ye'll be the one invaded next time someone decides th' gels of the Weyr need pamperin'."
"If you had ever been to my weyr, you'd understand why that's not a very good-- wait. What?" M'try actually makes it to the bottom step, even darker down here where his glows haven't managed to rattle all the way down, and he turns back to Isandre with an expression of priceless cluelessness. "There were girls invading...? When was this?" And why did no one tell him about it?!
Grateful of the chance to laugh - though it's kept low, out of caution, Isandre grins broadly at M'try, her own eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh aye," she replies, trying - and failing - to keep the laughter from her voice. "Jaeyi, Vanissa and I all invaded poor T'rev's weyr t' make use of his bath. Had a nice bit of talk, a nice bit of pampering. Quite pleasant, though I dare say it's not something I, personally, would indulge in often. A bit decadent, ye ken." Easier to remember the good parts, for her, anyway. Another nudge of her hip, and she jerks her chin towards the cavern, one eyebrow raised.
M'try repeats, shortly after he scrapes his jaw off the floor, "You and Jaeyi and Vanissa?" See, he's not related to any of them, so-- for him-- he can totally go there. "In T'rev's bath?" While Isandre may be all ready to keep on exploring, he waves aside the suggestion of her jerked chin, instead putting his hand behind him while he lowers himself to the edge of that bottom step, saying, "I'm sorry. I think I need to sit down." No more nudging hips for a while for him, thanks.
Eyebrows coming together in a faint frown, Isandre kneels next to M'try, hands cupped on her knee as she tilts her head, peering carefully at him. "Somethin' the matter, M'try?" she asks gently. "If ye be feelin' dizzy, I can go back up, get some water. Or find someone t' help us out of here," she adds, nearly reaching out to touch his shoulder before she clasps her hand firmly to her knee again. She can't possibly fathom how the news of three women in a bathtub could possibly have such an adverse effect on the poor brownrider.
"Yes. No. I'm fine." And very happy that it's dark in here, so at least he doesn't have to go to all the extra trouble of crossing his legs. M'try waves a hand again before it shifts to pulls his knapsack on around to his lap, explaining as tactfully as he can manage, "Though, in the future, I recommend you perhaps keep that story to yourself? I know part of the Healer's oath is 'do no harm,' and I have to posit that causing a complete lack of bloodflow to the brain is marginally harmful." Ahem.
"I don- oh. Oh!" Manfully, Isandre doesn't burst out laughing into his face, though she does stagger abruptly to her feet, stepping off a few paces as she lifts one hand to bite down on the edge of it. "I- I'm dreadfully sorry, M'try," she replies in a rather choked voice - in the dark, it might be difficult to tell if it's laughter or tears. "I wasn't thinking." Lowering her hand to tuck it, with the other, behind her back, she stares off down the darkened tunnel, giving both of them a bit of time to compose themselves.
M'try waits for it... waits... ah, there. She got it. His smile flashes over-brightly, dimmed only when he rubs his nose with his index finger and assures, "It's all right, I assure you. "If it had been a story about three ugly girls, we wouldn't have a problem at all. But that's an image that will stay with a person for a while. Can you see anything?" He means down the tunnel.
"Darkness," Isandre replies laconically, though there's still an edge to her voice - laughter or tears, it all sounds the same. She takes a deep breath. "Smells damp - could just be th' rain from above, yes?" Shaking her head, she lifts one hand away from her back, tucking strands shaken free from her braid firmly behind one ear. "Try t' think of something else, hmm? Like - oh... " and here she trails off, trying to decide what could best ease this particular tangle. "A bluerider with a harelip?" It worked for Nissa, after all.
Darkness, she says. "Descriptive," he answers, letting her have her snicker in peace for a spell while he collects himself. Finally, dusting his hands over his knees, M'try uses that to push himself to his feet, wearing an expression just odd enough that Isandre might even be able to pick out its confusion even in this dimness. "A bluerider with a-- no, I don't even think I want to know." He'll just head toward the wall where the water-sound is the most pronounced, sparing a last, jokingly accusing glance at the Healer; see what she did?
"Ye be the writer here, M'try, not I," Isandre points out, shrugging a shoulder as she waits for him to join her where she stands, hands once more tucked safely behind her back. "I can try for descriptive, though. Lesee... I see a blackness darker than th' deepest night, when neither moons nor stars shine t' offer even th' dimmest o' light. Better?" Snorting again, she shakes her head, not missing that confused look - though all she does is say, "Nae, ye really don't." As he moves off, she follows, still shaking her head with amusement.
Fingers threading through his hair at the word 'writer,' M'try scratches at his head for a second with both hands, pulling that hair back almost roughly while he comments, "Quite an inspired one at the moment, no less." Her further descriptions have him tossing his head back for a second and laughing, the sound coming sharp and bouncing around the cavern in its abruptness. "Perhaps we'd best stick to exploring and leave the describing for another time, come to think of it. --I don't think it's rain-water. I think there's water running on the other side of this wall." His knuckles knock experimentally, but it's stone, so there's not much chance of ascertaining its thickness like that, nope.
More than willing to follow him back into business, Isandre does allow a brief flicker of amusemnt to flash over her face before she sobers, sniffing at the air again. "Smells fresh enough," she muses, reaching out to flatten her hand against the wall, brow furrowing slightly. "Th' wall, M'try. 'Tis not nature as made this smooth." Frowning, she steps away from him, fingers gliding lightly along the wall as she follows it deeper into the darkness, head tilted in the direction of running water. "Can't be all that thick if we can hear th' water - or there might be an openin'. Did ye two see nothing when ye fell down here before?"
"It wasn't really a planned venture," M'try points out, following suit so that his fingers find their way along the wall, palm flat, leaning so that his ear comes as close as he can get without smashing his cheek to it. "The abridged version is just that we fell and then climbed back out." He's in his own zone for a time so that, when he looks up, Isandre's gone some distance into that darkness, and he suggests, "Wait and I'll fetch the glows? If you take a bad step and hurt yourself, I'm sure I'll get blamed for breaking the Healer."
"So I was told," Isandre replies. "And a right mess ye two made of yerselves, as well." Chuckling, she adds, "I'm not sure if it's blame ye'd be in for," but obediently comes to a halt, still resting her hand against the wall as her eyes flicker off into the darkness thoughtfully. "I'll wait, though," she adds, half-turning to glance at him over her shoulder before she turns away again, absorbed in studying the gloom again, brow furrowed thoughtfully.
M'try back-tracks far enough to collect two of his three glows, leaving one on the steps as a beacon of sorts to find their way back. Returning with the pair of them in one hand, he makes a mute offer to give one to Isandre, holding it out wordlessly while he nods along the track she was already starting to follow. "If nothing else," he begins with a smile that looks really manic when lit from below like that, "we'll be buried alive together, which is better than buried alive alone?"
"Such comfort." Isandre is not alone when M'try returns, though she makes no mention of the tiny green firelizard perched atop her head, talons tangled in her pale blonde braid. "I can think of worse t' be buried alive with, all told, though I'm certain ye'll forgive me if I say I hope it doesn't come t' that." Reaching out to take the glow, she cups it in her palm, studying it thoughtfully for a moment before pulling her other hand from the wall, making a gesture that can easily be interpreted as 'after you'.
Eyes lifted for a moment to spot that firelizard-- hard thing to hide in the dark, what with the glowing facets-- M'try issues an irritable sniff before starting up his feet again. "You took the words right out of my mouth," he suggests to her 'hope it doesn't come to that,' gallantly taking the lead. "Does it remind you of something? Like it's on the tip of my tongue..." he muses, holding his glow out ahead of him so those long, bluish shadows start slicing across the open space.
Eyes dazzled as the glow-light reflects off the minerals in the wall, Isandre narrows her eyes to slits, bringing up one hand to shield them as they slowly adjust to the faint illumination. "Don't ye be mean t' her," she remarks idly of the sniff. "I know ye don't like them, but she's got better senses'n ye and I, and will be able t' tell if the air goes bad afore we can. I'll protect ye from th' big bad firelizard," she adds, with teasing mockery, as she comes up to his shoulder again. "Ah - hmm. Perhaps?"
As testy as one could ever expect to find M'try, the brownrider remarks, "It's not a matter of like, Isandre. It's a matter of functionality. I find firelizards to be superfluous. Between drums and messengers, I cannot fathom the lure of mindless-- bathing caverns, I think?" Brows knitted, changing gears mid-sentence, he looks curiously over his shoulder to the Healer, perhaps having solved his own riddle. "All the benches. Imagine it with actual water, bright, filled with steam?"
"Since when does everythin' have t' be functional? She's sweet - she's a pet," Isandre adds, a bit tetchy herself - though she breaks off into a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed a moment. "I like her. She makes me happy. She won't bother ye, M'try, I promise." Not quite shaking her head, so as not to startle the still unnamed creature currently gnawing at her hair, she instead turns her attention to the caverns, lips pursed. "I think ye hit it on the head," is softly agreed. "Which means th' water source can't be far - mayhap blocked off?"
M'try stops picking on the firelizard, instead taking a few steps away from Isandre for the moment to stand nearer to the middle of the room, leaving the relative safety of the wall. "So it must have been buried long enough ago that no one even remembered it existed to go looking for it. This is certainly going to necessitate the updating of my map..." Busy, curious eyes dart around what can be seen of the space, the glow raised high so he can get some sense of the scale of the surroundings. "Can you tell where it's coming from?" The source of the water, that is.
"Maybe," Isandre replies dubiously, continuing to make her way along the wall as he steps away, eyes narrowed as she holds the glow before her, allowing it to illuminate her path. "M'try," she calls, voice echoing in the chamber, "I think there be an openin' on the far side there, see?" She points towards where her glow has picked up faint traces of minerals in the distant curve of the chamber - and the blank space where no reflective prisms seem to exist to throw it back at her. Halting in her tracks, she glances over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised inquiringly at the brownrider.
M'try, pacing out some distance to try to get a sense of scope, looks up and back at the sound of his name, distracted from his self-appointed purpose. "Isandre," he answers, starting back her way, finding a pitch similar to her own for replying her name. "I think you're on to something. Shall we see what we can see, intrepid Healer?" Evidently, curiosity trumps cowardice at the end of the day.
Eyes bright with ill-suppressed excitement, Isandre wrinkles her nose at him for the mockery, but lets it slide past without verbal comment. "Aye, I think we shall," she agrees, holding the glow ahead of her as she shifts her path, moving away from the wall to pace carefully towards the gaping spot of blackness in the increasing glitter of the far wall. "I wonder what they'll do with this place," she muses softly.
"Perhaps get it working again?" M'try suggests, following a partial step behind and beside Isandre, his attention often distracted to the surroundings rather than the destination. After a few more steps shuffled in silence, the grin that accompanies his words is audible even if she fails to glance his way; "Perhaps set it aside as a place for... how was it you put it? Decadence?"
Isandre's soft snort is barely audible as she continues to keep her gaze trained on the ground, watching for potential pitfalls rather than the distraction masquerading as a brownrider. "Another bathing cavern might be nice," she muses thoughtfully. "And, to be fair, though I mightn't use it for such, a place for people t' enjoy themselves as ain't filled with alcohol might not go over too badly. People need their entertainments, 'specially in this Weyr," she adds, perhaps just a touch grumpily - though a look at her face would show only a bland expression.
However he means it, M'try makes it /sound/ like he doesn't know anything special while he muses, "Ohh, I'm sure the people of Fort have ample avenues of entertainment open to them, with and without alcohol involved." His approach of the wall is slow, often punctuated by pauses while he tilts his head to consider the sparks set off in the minerals when the glowlight shines this way or that one, a mumbled, "Remarkable, remarkable," until he's near enough that the opening is best described as 'looming' before him. "But why especially in this Weyr, Isandre? Do you have a bone you need to pick?"
"A bone?" Startled, Isandre lifts her glow to illuminate the brownrider, her sea-green eyes wide. "Nae, not at all. Compared t' the Hall, and Nerat afore, the entertainments o' the Weyr are a bit on the - ah, elaborate side." Esoteric, but she's not going there at all. "I'm - sorry? I didna mean t' offend ye, or malign yer home." Though she manages to suppress a blush, her face grows stiff with embarassment, and she turns away again, reaching out to run a curious hand over the lintel of the opening. Distraction. "Th' water is definately louder through here."
"You're confusing me," M'try says frankly, his eyes following Isandre's hand to the lintel, the keenness of his attention brief but notable-- whether his interest is in the hand or what's under it is what's impossible to discern. "So let me put it this way: why would you say the people of the Weyr, especially, need their entertainments?" With what starts out as resolve, he steps toward the Healer and the opening as one, causing a bizarre show of light when he bounces the glow in his palm a touch in a nervous gesture. Then; "Perhaps we ought to not go any deeper? If things are structurally compromised..." See? He's a big chicken.
"I'm confusing myself," Isandre retorts, with a strangled chuckle as she skims her finger over the carved stone, her expression thoughtful. "Ain't you curious t' see what's beyond, M'try?" she challanges lightly, glancing over her shoulder and tilting her head up to meet his eyes with her own. "What's life without a bit o' risk, eh?" Her lips curve slightly, mockingly, before she bounces her own glow before reaching out past the opening to see if she can illuminate anything beyond their immediate area. Note - she does not actually take a step. Perhaps its her own brand of nervousness, perhaps it's simply her way of seeing if he plans to turn tail and run or not.
What's life without a bit of risk? "Longer." His lips work soundlessly for a moment like he might have more to say on the subject, but M'try tucks away the rest of his quip before it's uttered, watching Isandre with a sigh at her baiting. "Curious, yes, though I'm not sure that it's /wise/ for a Healer and a former Harper to be delving into such darknesses alone. I'm certainly willing to stand here and wait for you to take a survey, though?" With a be-my-guest nod into that darkness, though-- considering that he has closed the distance between the two of them to no more than a couple of steps-- he probably would actually just stand there and let Isandre disappear into the shadows without him. Chivalry's not wholly dead.
"Boring," Isandre murmurs, shoulders twitching back as she peers off into the opening, taking a shuffling step closer, though she doesn't actually step forward into the darkness beyond. "Sometimes, it's boring t' be /wise/. T' be cautious." Another irritable twitch of her shoulders, and her fingers tighten along the lintel, knuckles whitening slightly before she relaxes, dropping her head and sighing. The movement dislodges the green, and she slides down to the healer's shoulder, chittering furiously. "Hush, ye," is absently remarked, before the healer turns her head, looking across the bare distance to the brownrider. "Would ye rather go back and tell them what we've found, then?" she asks, disappointment mingling with just the barest hint of relief in the question. Torn - that's the best word to describe her expression.
"Yes?" Because he's not sure what answer she's looking for, M'try seems loathe to give one at all, like it's pulling teeth to get a response from him right now. The chittering doesn't help, though all he does is regard the nameless firelizard flatly for a few seconds before returning his questioning look to Isandre. "Even if we find the source of the water, we're not really equipped to do anything about it except gawk." Finding a twitchy grin, he adds, "And I did warn you that I'm a tremendous coward, remember?"
A deep sigh - complete with utterly faked disappointment, then Isandre pulls her hand away from the carvings, reaching out as if to catch at his. "Very well," she replies, on another sigh - though her eyes dance with suppressed laughter, "I'll lead ye home, li'l boy, and we kin tell the big lads all about the nifty hole in a wall you found." Lifting her glow up, she grins at him, a flash of pale teeth in pale face, before she moves off, returning the way they came. "Mayhap I'll come back down wi' 'em," she muses. "Wi' me kit, feel like I'm actually of some use t' this whole big opperation, aye? An' for the record, M'try," she adds, peering over her shoulder at him, "I still don't think of ye as a coward. Too prudent, perhaps, but that's never been a failin' in my eyes."
M'try will take that hand this time, clasping it in both of his and following along after Isandre like a little boy being lead off to get chastised, even sniffling a touch for effect. "Thank you, Healer," he answers in a mopey-sounding way, his feet intentionally dragging across the stone for those retraced steps. "Though, in all seriousness, with or without your kit? You're certainly of more practical use than I am, so I'm sure they'd be happy to have you along." His only answer to her further words and the look back she gives him is to make a face; clearly, she has her opinion on the matter, and he has his.
Chuckling again, Isandre's fingers squeeze lightly about his own, and she glances once more over her shoulder, winking. "You're welcome, brownrider," she replies with mock seriousness before dropping her gaze back to the floor before them, making certain of her path as she traces it across the cavern, towards the stairway. "Be that as it may," she replies, "'twould be nice t' do more than just hear the stories as ye all come into my Infirmary, all scraped and scratched and bruised." Boring, she'd said before - from her tone and words, it sounds like she'd meant just that.
"You would rather tumble down the steps and be the recipient of said scratches and bruises? Because I'm sure, given long enough, I'll manage to locate a depression or a step or something over which I can trip and drag us both down." M'try swings held hands idly back and forth while he looks around for something befouling, steps sending a stone skittering across the floor and ricocheting hollowly into the shadows. "Though, again, I do think I'll get in trouble if we return and you're all in shambles."
"And who would give ye trouble over that?" Isandre's lips curve in a smirk as she shakes her head. "Nah - I'd prefer t' stay whole, thankee, but perhaps if I'd not been hiding away like some coward," see, she knows the meaning of the word, "in my Infirmary, scared of all th' dirt and grime, perhaps I'd have less work for me on me own turf - an' less cleaning to do," she adds dryly. She bounces the glow on her palm, watching as the light illumines their path, picking the best way to cross the floor - relatively free of visible obstructions or pitfalls.
In a 'take your pick' way, M'try answers, "The Headwoman? The Weyrwoman? The Masterhealer? Vanissa?" An odd mix for a greenrider to be tossed into, true, and his brief chuckle seems to address that fact, though he's soon unlacing hands to pat-pat her on the shoulder sympathetically. "Don't worry, Isandre. It only takes a decade or two before you get comfortable with your cowardice, and you almost find yourself missing it when it abandons you." There's a telling glance back over his shoulder the way they came: did he really just voluntarily go exploring dark, abandoned, crumbled caves?!
Sliding her hand into her pocket once it's free, Isandre shakes her head slowly. "Ye're one odd cookie," is all she remarks, before she simply shuts her lips and continues to make her way to the stairway, absently kicking at the first of the risers as she peers up towards the opening to the mudslide outside. "Well, as I'm so new to my cowardice, an' yer so comfortable with yours, ye can lead the rest of the way out - just in case." Smirking at him, she offers her glow to him, one eyebrow arched invitingly.
Absolutely no arguments-- "And you don't even know the half of it, Isandre." M'try plucks the glow from her palm, tucking it into his hand along with the other one, lifting them both a little higher to provide a nice puddle of light in which he walks back toward those steps, following the lure of the glow he left there as a beacon. "I'm glad you came along when you did," he adds in a very casual-aside tone, authentically meant but also not to make a great-big-deal out of the adventure.
"As am I." Isandre shrugs a shoulder, as casual as he, as she trails along in his wake. Lifting one hand - ignoring the grime she knows is there by the simple expidient of believing if you can't see it, it doesn't exist - she nibbles absently at her thumbnail, her gaze fixed on the brownrider's back. As the adventure has all but come to a close, she'll focus now on trying not to think about just what state the light of day will reveal she's in.
M'try catches up that third glow along the way, dropping a pair into his knapsack absently, without breaking stride, finding his way up the steps with no mishaps. For the first time in a while, he may actually emerge from the mud without being all banged and scraped, yay for him! Though, he may yet get punched; "Do you want a leg up? Or shall I just step back and promise not to snicker while you climb back out on your own?" At the shelf that leads out of the crack, time yet for Isandre to get even /more/ dirty before facing the wide world again, lucky her.
It's a good thing that Isandre takes that vow of 'first, do no harm' to heart - she might very well have pinched him for his sauce. "A leg up would be very kind," she replies, primly, before wrinkling her nose at him. "And even more glad am I, now, that I decided t' start wearin' trousers instead of skirts." A glance at the crack - and the mud surrounding it - has her swallowing, but despite earlier protestations of cowardice, she takes a deep breath and nods to herself, before looking back expectantly to the brownrider.
Putting the remaining glow away now that there's enough light, near enough to the surface, M'try permits himself a grin that he aims toward the daylight instead of the Healer. "Even more disappointed am I, now..." Trailing off, he steps nearer to lace his hands together into a basket, suggesting, "Knee, perhaps? I'm afraid the tread on your boots will injure my delicate fingers," as girlishly as possible.
Snorting, Isandre makes as if to put her boot in his hands, but switches to her knee at the last minute. "Disappointed, my ass," she replies succinctly. "Mind my nose, I'm not in th' mood t' scrape it," she adds, as she smirks at him, one hand going automatically to his shoulder to steady herself as she reaches up towards the top of the ledge, ready to grab when he boosts her.
M'try, tilting his head in a hemming-and-hawing way, mumbles, "My disappointment and your ass are somewhat connected, yes." But enough about that. Bracing her knee, he makes damn sure he's looking /up/ and not at her neckline so that, with one good heft, he can get Isandre up to where she can scrabble out on her own, hopefully. Either that, or she's going to wind up banging into the shelf and they'll both go home with scrapes today. Hopefully the former but-- well, it's M'try, so it's always kind of a coin-toss.
She might have ended up face-first under the shelf, but despite her own brief fascination with his face - okay, so he can still distract her, deal - Isandre manages to get first one hand, then the other onto the ledge. With the help of that boosting hand, she manages to scramble up, ignoring the mud that collects on hands and knees as she half-turns, peering over the edge. "Need a hand?" she asks curiously, prepared to offer just that. Just because he doesn't share her often embarassing lack of height doesn't mean he might not need the help.
M'try would, were he not under a strain he's trying not to show (do some push-ups or something, kid, seriously), probably make a quip about knowing he needs a shower and a shave. As it is... once she's done being distracted and safely deposited, he waves his hand up to dismiss Isandre's offer, trying to salvage some shreds of masculinity in the hop-and-heft he manages for himself, eventually swinging his leg up and over without kicking the Healer on the way. "Now then," with a big puff to catch his breath. "Enough adventure for one day, I think?"
"Indeed. I'm for a bath," Isandre adds, glancing down at herself with acute distaste, trying to dust the mud and grime from her hands without getting any more on her clothing than absolutely necessary. "And I have t' debate whether these clothes kin be salvaged, or I'm gonta make the weavers very rich again by havin' t' order yet another set." Shaking her head, she brushes free wisps behind her ears, glancing at M'try briefly. "Thanks." Just that - well, and a backwards wave, before she pauses to pick up her cloak, then start picking her way out of the mudslide.