Mentor to mentee.
RL Date: 8/3/07
IC Date: 12/26/12
Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr(#430RAIJs$)
This is a large, high ceilinged cavern cut from the rock. There are rows of depressions on the floor, couches for the young dragons; the weyrlings sleep with their dragons. The floor is stone, which helps ease the inevitable task of cleaning up the muck left by the dragonets.
The cavern has been decorated with old dragon tapestries hung on the walls, their colors slightly faded. A threadbare rug in the middle of the room bears the emblem of High Reaches Weyr, a mountain range in black on a dark blue field. A few low tables, chairs, and pillows have been scattered about the room, and baskets of glows placed strategically throughout the room keep the place well-lit. An opening in the southwest leads out into the Bowl.
C'len walks in from the bowl.
C'len has arrived.
Sprawled on his back, reading what look like letters held out at arm's length on scraps of much-handled hide, N'thei is one of the only weyrlings in the barracks at this hour. Most of them are off having supper, trying to relax, and so forth, so it's not hard to spot the big fellow with the snoring dragon at the foot of his cot. All is otherwise quiet and calm in the barracks, a rare treat.
C'len steps in from the bowl, squinting a moment as his eyes adjust to the difference in light. He draws in a long breath, a twinle in his eye, as if he might bellow something--but then, seeing the small number of weyrlings, he instead lets it out slowly. Light brown eyes scan the barracks, spotting the leathery, snoring bronze, and he makes the connection with help from his lifemate. Long strides carry him over to the rider's cot, "N'thei?" Asked, curiously.
twinle = twinkle
J'ome, the seemingly ever-present weyrling, scoots nervously back along his cot as an authority figure crosses the barracks, his big eyes glued to C'len's progress. It's the scooting more than C'len's arrival that alerts N'thei, has him putting away his hide and rolling off his cot with a top notch salute once he's straightened to his full height. "Sir." The slumbering Wyaeth stirs in his sleep, opens an eye to peer at C'len, then nods off with a hrumph and a new cadence for his snores.
<< Who's he? >>
<< C'len. Vildaeth's. He's a Wingleader, so behave yourself. >>
<< Don't I always? >>
<< ... >>
The wingleader's response is a bit awkward, not sure how to approach the situation. "Uh, congratulations on impressing," and he makes a vague gesture toward Wyaeth, having confirmed further that he's reached the right pair by N'thei's response. "How is training going?" As if C'len's curiosity might bring questions, the rider clarifies, "I'm supposed to help you if you have questions and such, or any problems." The man's arms slip into his pockets, trying to look more casual.
<< Congratulations to you? I'm the one who did the damn Impressing. >>
"Ah. Yes. Thank you. It was hardly my doing, sir, but thank you nonetheless." N'thei gestures open-handed to the sleeping bronze, a chuckle hiding somewhere in the back of his throat. The bit about helping and all is met with a rise in amusement, and the weyrling looks around uncertainly. "I'd like to seem hospitable, but I don't really have much to offer for rest and refreshment. You can have a seat, if you'd like? Only don't let Talien catch you sitting on her cot. She's a terror."
C'len eyes the cot for a moment, as if by doing so its owner might spring from somewhere unexpectedly. "Nah, that's okay. I've been sitting in the records room a while, it'll be good to stand." He takes a look around, before his attention settles again on N'thei. "Oh, I'm C'len," he says, suddenly remembering his manners, then clarifies further, "Vildaeth's. So you haven't had any trouble with your duties yet?"
N'thei had been ready to sit back down himself after his offer was made, but social mores leave him standing instead, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "I think we met once, although I can't recall if we were properly introduced. You're Shanlee's Wingleader, aren't you?" His hand waves away C'len's question with a casual negative, no trouble.
"We did?" The wingleader asks, brows lifting slightly, and then he ahhs. "Maybe at that clean-up thing," remembering. "I am Shanlee's wingleader, yes. You, uh, enjoying yourself?" C'len seems to manage to pull out largely useless questions to ask of the tall weyrling. "Well, as much as you can enjoy mucking and cleaning up after something that makes such big messes," he says, a grin twisting his mouth.
<< I ain't liking him to any great extent. Tell him to scram. >>
<< Just behave, will you? He's supposed to be my mentor, and it won't do either of us any good to start a fight with him, all right? >>
Feigning sleep or no, Wyaeth clicks his talons against the stone floor, an audible tick tick tick, the snores ceased. N'thei pulls at his collar with his index finger; "To be quite frank, I find it mostly tedious. The parts that aren't tedious are generally repulsive. Were it not for Wyaeth and necessity, I would have found some place better to spend my time and something better to do with it." Then his smile is practically radiant. "I suppose that's true for most of us though. The dragon makes it tolerable."
C'len nods. "It'll get better," he says, "once they can go between. But there's always work to do." He casts a look outside, but doesn't find Vildaeth there. "Especially when they are full grown." A roll of his eyes, though there's amusement on his face, "Too bad they can't wash and oil themselves, huh?"
N'thei manages a wry, light smile, laughing eyes lit on the tapping of gunmetal gray talons on cold stone. "I don't mind the oil and wash routine so very much." That said, he clears his throat and assumes a more businesslike tone, a more professional polish to his mentor; "Really, sir, there's nothing just yet I've faced that I can't figure out on my own. It seems very cut and dried, though I do appreciate the sentiment behind a mentor."
"It gets easier as they get older," the rider muses, as if it's just occurred to him, "but it gets harder, too. Easier to deal with their physical needs - harder to learn the things you need to learn." C'len nods once, agreeing with himself, before grinning again for N'thei. "I'm glad to hear you've settled in, then. If you need any help, just have Wyaeth contact Vil?"
"Rest assured." N'thei sounds serious behind his smile. "Should we need anything, you will be among the first to know, sir." It's all very polite, but there doesn't seem to be much likelihood to his tone.
Dragon> Wyaeth senses that Vildaeth's rumbling touch, from just outside in the bowl, is bright with color and threaded through with spicy heat, like cayenne-doused food. Its warmth and color are welcoming, as he sends a greeting.
Wyaeth> Vildaeth senses that Wyaeth maintains the ruse that he's been drowsing, all lazy, siesta-heat in his voice; << Much obliged. >>
"Mmm," C'len says noncommittally. "Back to the records room, for me. Have a nice evening." The rider lifts his hand to wave, both for N'thei and Wyaeth, even if the dragon continues to feign sleep. The rider adjusts the scarf around his neck, tucking it in better, before ducking out to the cold of the bowl.
C'len wanders out to the bowl.
C'len has left.
IC Date: 12/26/12
Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr(#430RAIJs$)
This is a large, high ceilinged cavern cut from the rock. There are rows of depressions on the floor, couches for the young dragons; the weyrlings sleep with their dragons. The floor is stone, which helps ease the inevitable task of cleaning up the muck left by the dragonets.
The cavern has been decorated with old dragon tapestries hung on the walls, their colors slightly faded. A threadbare rug in the middle of the room bears the emblem of High Reaches Weyr, a mountain range in black on a dark blue field. A few low tables, chairs, and pillows have been scattered about the room, and baskets of glows placed strategically throughout the room keep the place well-lit. An opening in the southwest leads out into the Bowl.
C'len walks in from the bowl.
C'len has arrived.
Sprawled on his back, reading what look like letters held out at arm's length on scraps of much-handled hide, N'thei is one of the only weyrlings in the barracks at this hour. Most of them are off having supper, trying to relax, and so forth, so it's not hard to spot the big fellow with the snoring dragon at the foot of his cot. All is otherwise quiet and calm in the barracks, a rare treat.
C'len steps in from the bowl, squinting a moment as his eyes adjust to the difference in light. He draws in a long breath, a twinle in his eye, as if he might bellow something--but then, seeing the small number of weyrlings, he instead lets it out slowly. Light brown eyes scan the barracks, spotting the leathery, snoring bronze, and he makes the connection with help from his lifemate. Long strides carry him over to the rider's cot, "N'thei?" Asked, curiously.
twinle = twinkle
J'ome, the seemingly ever-present weyrling, scoots nervously back along his cot as an authority figure crosses the barracks, his big eyes glued to C'len's progress. It's the scooting more than C'len's arrival that alerts N'thei, has him putting away his hide and rolling off his cot with a top notch salute once he's straightened to his full height. "Sir." The slumbering Wyaeth stirs in his sleep, opens an eye to peer at C'len, then nods off with a hrumph and a new cadence for his snores.
<< Who's he? >>
<< C'len. Vildaeth's. He's a Wingleader, so behave yourself. >>
<< Don't I always? >>
<< ... >>
The wingleader's response is a bit awkward, not sure how to approach the situation. "Uh, congratulations on impressing," and he makes a vague gesture toward Wyaeth, having confirmed further that he's reached the right pair by N'thei's response. "How is training going?" As if C'len's curiosity might bring questions, the rider clarifies, "I'm supposed to help you if you have questions and such, or any problems." The man's arms slip into his pockets, trying to look more casual.
<< Congratulations to you? I'm the one who did the damn Impressing. >>
"Ah. Yes. Thank you. It was hardly my doing, sir, but thank you nonetheless." N'thei gestures open-handed to the sleeping bronze, a chuckle hiding somewhere in the back of his throat. The bit about helping and all is met with a rise in amusement, and the weyrling looks around uncertainly. "I'd like to seem hospitable, but I don't really have much to offer for rest and refreshment. You can have a seat, if you'd like? Only don't let Talien catch you sitting on her cot. She's a terror."
C'len eyes the cot for a moment, as if by doing so its owner might spring from somewhere unexpectedly. "Nah, that's okay. I've been sitting in the records room a while, it'll be good to stand." He takes a look around, before his attention settles again on N'thei. "Oh, I'm C'len," he says, suddenly remembering his manners, then clarifies further, "Vildaeth's. So you haven't had any trouble with your duties yet?"
N'thei had been ready to sit back down himself after his offer was made, but social mores leave him standing instead, hands clasped loosely behind his back. "I think we met once, although I can't recall if we were properly introduced. You're Shanlee's Wingleader, aren't you?" His hand waves away C'len's question with a casual negative, no trouble.
"We did?" The wingleader asks, brows lifting slightly, and then he ahhs. "Maybe at that clean-up thing," remembering. "I am Shanlee's wingleader, yes. You, uh, enjoying yourself?" C'len seems to manage to pull out largely useless questions to ask of the tall weyrling. "Well, as much as you can enjoy mucking and cleaning up after something that makes such big messes," he says, a grin twisting his mouth.
<< I ain't liking him to any great extent. Tell him to scram. >>
<< Just behave, will you? He's supposed to be my mentor, and it won't do either of us any good to start a fight with him, all right? >>
Feigning sleep or no, Wyaeth clicks his talons against the stone floor, an audible tick tick tick, the snores ceased. N'thei pulls at his collar with his index finger; "To be quite frank, I find it mostly tedious. The parts that aren't tedious are generally repulsive. Were it not for Wyaeth and necessity, I would have found some place better to spend my time and something better to do with it." Then his smile is practically radiant. "I suppose that's true for most of us though. The dragon makes it tolerable."
C'len nods. "It'll get better," he says, "once they can go between. But there's always work to do." He casts a look outside, but doesn't find Vildaeth there. "Especially when they are full grown." A roll of his eyes, though there's amusement on his face, "Too bad they can't wash and oil themselves, huh?"
N'thei manages a wry, light smile, laughing eyes lit on the tapping of gunmetal gray talons on cold stone. "I don't mind the oil and wash routine so very much." That said, he clears his throat and assumes a more businesslike tone, a more professional polish to his mentor; "Really, sir, there's nothing just yet I've faced that I can't figure out on my own. It seems very cut and dried, though I do appreciate the sentiment behind a mentor."
"It gets easier as they get older," the rider muses, as if it's just occurred to him, "but it gets harder, too. Easier to deal with their physical needs - harder to learn the things you need to learn." C'len nods once, agreeing with himself, before grinning again for N'thei. "I'm glad to hear you've settled in, then. If you need any help, just have Wyaeth contact Vil?"
"Rest assured." N'thei sounds serious behind his smile. "Should we need anything, you will be among the first to know, sir." It's all very polite, but there doesn't seem to be much likelihood to his tone.
Dragon> Wyaeth senses that Vildaeth's rumbling touch, from just outside in the bowl, is bright with color and threaded through with spicy heat, like cayenne-doused food. Its warmth and color are welcoming, as he sends a greeting.
Wyaeth> Vildaeth senses that Wyaeth maintains the ruse that he's been drowsing, all lazy, siesta-heat in his voice; << Much obliged. >>
"Mmm," C'len says noncommittally. "Back to the records room, for me. Have a nice evening." The rider lifts his hand to wave, both for N'thei and Wyaeth, even if the dragon continues to feign sleep. The rider adjusts the scarf around his neck, tucking it in better, before ducking out to the cold of the bowl.
C'len wanders out to the bowl.
C'len has left.