The new guy.
RL Date: 8/20/08
IC Date: 9/7/17
Center of the Bowl, Fort Weyr(#227RIJMas$)
Sandy soil and a few particularly resilient tufts of grass fill the otherwise empty plain that creates the heart of Fort Weyr's bowl. Mountain walls curve protectively to all sides, dotted with the dark entrances of the resident riders' weyrs. The bowl itself is a narrow oval, oriented northeast to southwest, with a couple of larger entrances that lead to various places that reside within the bowl's walls.
The most easily accessible from here would be the weyrling barracks, which are to the west, with the infirmary off to the east. Distantly viewable to the northeast would be the Weyrleader complex, the hatching complex, and the living cavern; to the southwest, the lake and the feeding grounds can be seen.
Nice summer afternoon sees the Weyrlingmaster taking a little break, perched on a rock by the Barracks whittling away at a piece of wood. There's weyrlings out in the Bowl, some are doing a bit of ground drill under the watchful eyes of an assistant. Others engaging in the endless and thankless task of sorting and bagging firestone even if so much is no longer needed as the Interval gets into full swing. Paddy watches the activity with a casual eye, wood shavings collecting at his feet.
Tired-looking, first; unfamiliar, second. Jefrym comes out along the northeastern wall of the bowl, stuck to the shade as long as it's available, taking a long trek from the living caverns toward-- nothing in particular, based on the aimlessness of his direction. His hands are stuck in his pockets while he strolls, though one jumps out long enough to cover a yawn that ends with him vigorously shaking his head to clear it. The industry he approaches pauses him, has him squinting against the sun to watch these people sorting rocks like it's a perfectly normal occupation. "Next is herding cats?" he voices absently.
P'draig looks up from his whittling, knife paused at the end of a stroke and gray-blue eyes settle on Jefrym. "Cats? Nah. They're about done. Just another month or two and they tap up into the wings." Beat. "Also, good afternoon. P'draig, Weyrlingmaster." And he shifts his knife into his wood-holding hand, extends the newly freed one towards the other man.
Probably, considering he reacts with a sudden blink, Jefrym gave no thought to the fact that someone might be listening, let alone that someone would be listening and would actually respond. He's slow to recuperate from that momentary shock, rubs his fingers along the outside frame of his lips and chin, abruptly realizes that P'draig means to shake hands. "Ah, yeah. Sorry about that; it just seems a little mindless? How much firestone can a Weyr really use nowadays?" His chuckle is on the lax side while he approaches, gives a quick shake to the hand of P'draig, Weyrlingmaster. "Jefrym, Weaver. H'lo."
"Jefrym. Well met," P'draig replies with a ready smile. "And the answer to that is not all that much, but the Weyr's staying at the ready. Just in case. And there's always the usefulness of just being able to flame a bunch of dead tunnelsnakes into ash," he points out with a wink. "Dragonfire is hot."
Rubbing the end of his nose once he has his hand back, he delays returning it to his pocket for as long as it takes to turn slightly to face the weyrlings at their work. Jefrym's eyebrows climb, settle into an arch that furrows his forehead, the smile that comes to his lips a little slow in materializing; "I'm sorry. Did you just say--" Looking sideways at P'draig. "Dragonfire is hot?"
P'draig just grins. "Uh huh," P'draig replies, shifting knife back into right hand and resuming the motions of the blade along what looks like a curving shape. "You know. Not the kind of thing you want to stand in front of." Deadpan, though he sneaks a look up and over at the Weaver.
Jefrym, still slow to process, holds his head at a confused-looking angle while that bemused expression really takes root. Then he dashes his eyebrows upward hastily to try and dispel the problem; "Thank you. I would never have guessed that on my own, I suppose." Fidgety, he scratches his eyebrow with his index finger and swings on his toes facing the working weyrlings. "Can I ask-- what's the lesson in this particular occupation?"
Another quiet chuckle from P'draig who apparently thinks the Weaver's playing along with the joke. Then he's looking up, thumb brushing along the edge of the piece of wood feeling for irregularities. "Two things going on. Sorting the 'stone and the ones moving around are doing ground drills. The dragons can already fly and flame and have been training Between jumps, but we keep up the ground drills. It's a good exercise for them. Helps to remember air formations."
"Which they're going to use... for?" Jefrym's still having trouble correlating all this training to an Interval Weyr-- obviously. Factor in that he looks like he hasn't seen a good night's sleep in Turns and maybe that accounts for his obtuseness? "The Between part seems relevant, but isn't the comet gone?"
"Training exercises so they all know how to do it. And just in case Thread decides to make another reappearance. I don't quite trust that it's fully gone," P'draig says lightly. "It's also, they need to know it so they can pass it on to the next generation and the next so when the next Pass comes, they're ready."
In that particular way that really denotes exactly the opposite, Jefrym says, "I see." His brows crease just a little extra, and then he's scratching the side of his nose, watching the firestone going into bags, the bags going this way and that, hrmmmn. "And your job is to sit here and watch them do this?" With a new smile, he asks that question-- where can he get a job like that?
P'draig laughs and sends another curl of wood flying. "Nope. My job is to make sure they get through their training alive and in one piece, ready to be a part of a wing. I like to let the assistants run with some things later on in the training program so they get used to it. The ones who haven't done it before especially. You know, so one of them can step up. Just in case." Snick goes knife on wood. "It's not a bad gig though, training Weyrlings. Especially in an Interval. Plenty of downtime between clutches. The first months are pretty crazy though. Hardly any sleep, dragon dung everywhere in the barracks. Almost worse than having a newborn."
"It..." Jefrym starts to say something, thinks the wiser of it, settles for a smile that accompanies his eyes shooting upwards. "It doesn't look like so bad a gig." He agrees with the borrowed terminology, sleepy eyes dropped sidelong toward P'draig on a rock whittling while the weyrlings do all the apparent work. "Dull though?"
"Fine during an Interval. Not so much in a Pass," P'draig says quietly. "You train 'em and send them up to die in more cases than I like to think about." Snick. Snick. Snick. "Not dull at all."
Jefrym blinks a few times right around send-them-up-to-die, something more than just his customary wash of bemusement edging the turn of his frown, no comment to clarify that though. "Must be difficult on morale."
"Kind of the day to day at the Weyr during a Pass." P'draig agrees, turning the wood this way and that, flipping it over, starting to whittle out on the other side, looks like a handle maybe.
Idle clarification; "I used to live at Southern Weyr." But Jefrym still watches the weyrlings like they're a novelty, though he might watch grass grow with the same intensity given how little enthusiasm he exudes. "I couldn't tell you who their weyrlingmaster is though, never seemed to have use for a weaver and vice versa."
"Oh yeah, Southern? Hm. My former weyrmates've both gone down there," P'draig notes with a wry pull of his mouth to the side, knife still sliding along wood then he stops suddenly, squints towards the Bowl. His expression goes vague for a moment then one of the assistants looks his way, nods. And the formation on the ground tightens up. "Haven't used one much myself. A weaver."
Jefrym, sideways-looking smile, goofy really; "That's okay, sir, I've never used a weyrlingmaster at all. --Excuse me? I was just trying to get myself a little unlost before the day's done. My daughter is expecting me. She's three and hasn't yet figured out what running-late means." A shrug of narrow shoulders concludes his departure excuse.
That remark earns an actual laugh and P'draig runs his thumb over his jaw lightly. "Sure. Got a three-turn old daughter myself. Palia in the nursery. 'Late' is always a tough one to explain," he agrees and lifts a hand in farewell. "Clear skies, Jefrym."
"I'll look for her. Nice to meet you, P'draig." Jefrym takes a last survey of P'draig, like that will help him identify the man's daughter, then swings around on one heel with his hands still jammed in his pockets. Even with a target in mind-- living cavern-- he still looks more like he's wandering aimlessly than actually going anywhere.
IC Date: 9/7/17
Center of the Bowl, Fort Weyr(#227RIJMas$)
Sandy soil and a few particularly resilient tufts of grass fill the otherwise empty plain that creates the heart of Fort Weyr's bowl. Mountain walls curve protectively to all sides, dotted with the dark entrances of the resident riders' weyrs. The bowl itself is a narrow oval, oriented northeast to southwest, with a couple of larger entrances that lead to various places that reside within the bowl's walls.
The most easily accessible from here would be the weyrling barracks, which are to the west, with the infirmary off to the east. Distantly viewable to the northeast would be the Weyrleader complex, the hatching complex, and the living cavern; to the southwest, the lake and the feeding grounds can be seen.
Nice summer afternoon sees the Weyrlingmaster taking a little break, perched on a rock by the Barracks whittling away at a piece of wood. There's weyrlings out in the Bowl, some are doing a bit of ground drill under the watchful eyes of an assistant. Others engaging in the endless and thankless task of sorting and bagging firestone even if so much is no longer needed as the Interval gets into full swing. Paddy watches the activity with a casual eye, wood shavings collecting at his feet.
Tired-looking, first; unfamiliar, second. Jefrym comes out along the northeastern wall of the bowl, stuck to the shade as long as it's available, taking a long trek from the living caverns toward-- nothing in particular, based on the aimlessness of his direction. His hands are stuck in his pockets while he strolls, though one jumps out long enough to cover a yawn that ends with him vigorously shaking his head to clear it. The industry he approaches pauses him, has him squinting against the sun to watch these people sorting rocks like it's a perfectly normal occupation. "Next is herding cats?" he voices absently.
P'draig looks up from his whittling, knife paused at the end of a stroke and gray-blue eyes settle on Jefrym. "Cats? Nah. They're about done. Just another month or two and they tap up into the wings." Beat. "Also, good afternoon. P'draig, Weyrlingmaster." And he shifts his knife into his wood-holding hand, extends the newly freed one towards the other man.
Probably, considering he reacts with a sudden blink, Jefrym gave no thought to the fact that someone might be listening, let alone that someone would be listening and would actually respond. He's slow to recuperate from that momentary shock, rubs his fingers along the outside frame of his lips and chin, abruptly realizes that P'draig means to shake hands. "Ah, yeah. Sorry about that; it just seems a little mindless? How much firestone can a Weyr really use nowadays?" His chuckle is on the lax side while he approaches, gives a quick shake to the hand of P'draig, Weyrlingmaster. "Jefrym, Weaver. H'lo."
"Jefrym. Well met," P'draig replies with a ready smile. "And the answer to that is not all that much, but the Weyr's staying at the ready. Just in case. And there's always the usefulness of just being able to flame a bunch of dead tunnelsnakes into ash," he points out with a wink. "Dragonfire is hot."
Rubbing the end of his nose once he has his hand back, he delays returning it to his pocket for as long as it takes to turn slightly to face the weyrlings at their work. Jefrym's eyebrows climb, settle into an arch that furrows his forehead, the smile that comes to his lips a little slow in materializing; "I'm sorry. Did you just say--" Looking sideways at P'draig. "Dragonfire is hot?"
P'draig just grins. "Uh huh," P'draig replies, shifting knife back into right hand and resuming the motions of the blade along what looks like a curving shape. "You know. Not the kind of thing you want to stand in front of." Deadpan, though he sneaks a look up and over at the Weaver.
Jefrym, still slow to process, holds his head at a confused-looking angle while that bemused expression really takes root. Then he dashes his eyebrows upward hastily to try and dispel the problem; "Thank you. I would never have guessed that on my own, I suppose." Fidgety, he scratches his eyebrow with his index finger and swings on his toes facing the working weyrlings. "Can I ask-- what's the lesson in this particular occupation?"
Another quiet chuckle from P'draig who apparently thinks the Weaver's playing along with the joke. Then he's looking up, thumb brushing along the edge of the piece of wood feeling for irregularities. "Two things going on. Sorting the 'stone and the ones moving around are doing ground drills. The dragons can already fly and flame and have been training Between jumps, but we keep up the ground drills. It's a good exercise for them. Helps to remember air formations."
"Which they're going to use... for?" Jefrym's still having trouble correlating all this training to an Interval Weyr-- obviously. Factor in that he looks like he hasn't seen a good night's sleep in Turns and maybe that accounts for his obtuseness? "The Between part seems relevant, but isn't the comet gone?"
"Training exercises so they all know how to do it. And just in case Thread decides to make another reappearance. I don't quite trust that it's fully gone," P'draig says lightly. "It's also, they need to know it so they can pass it on to the next generation and the next so when the next Pass comes, they're ready."
In that particular way that really denotes exactly the opposite, Jefrym says, "I see." His brows crease just a little extra, and then he's scratching the side of his nose, watching the firestone going into bags, the bags going this way and that, hrmmmn. "And your job is to sit here and watch them do this?" With a new smile, he asks that question-- where can he get a job like that?
P'draig laughs and sends another curl of wood flying. "Nope. My job is to make sure they get through their training alive and in one piece, ready to be a part of a wing. I like to let the assistants run with some things later on in the training program so they get used to it. The ones who haven't done it before especially. You know, so one of them can step up. Just in case." Snick goes knife on wood. "It's not a bad gig though, training Weyrlings. Especially in an Interval. Plenty of downtime between clutches. The first months are pretty crazy though. Hardly any sleep, dragon dung everywhere in the barracks. Almost worse than having a newborn."
"It..." Jefrym starts to say something, thinks the wiser of it, settles for a smile that accompanies his eyes shooting upwards. "It doesn't look like so bad a gig." He agrees with the borrowed terminology, sleepy eyes dropped sidelong toward P'draig on a rock whittling while the weyrlings do all the apparent work. "Dull though?"
"Fine during an Interval. Not so much in a Pass," P'draig says quietly. "You train 'em and send them up to die in more cases than I like to think about." Snick. Snick. Snick. "Not dull at all."
Jefrym blinks a few times right around send-them-up-to-die, something more than just his customary wash of bemusement edging the turn of his frown, no comment to clarify that though. "Must be difficult on morale."
"Kind of the day to day at the Weyr during a Pass." P'draig agrees, turning the wood this way and that, flipping it over, starting to whittle out on the other side, looks like a handle maybe.
Idle clarification; "I used to live at Southern Weyr." But Jefrym still watches the weyrlings like they're a novelty, though he might watch grass grow with the same intensity given how little enthusiasm he exudes. "I couldn't tell you who their weyrlingmaster is though, never seemed to have use for a weaver and vice versa."
"Oh yeah, Southern? Hm. My former weyrmates've both gone down there," P'draig notes with a wry pull of his mouth to the side, knife still sliding along wood then he stops suddenly, squints towards the Bowl. His expression goes vague for a moment then one of the assistants looks his way, nods. And the formation on the ground tightens up. "Haven't used one much myself. A weaver."
Jefrym, sideways-looking smile, goofy really; "That's okay, sir, I've never used a weyrlingmaster at all. --Excuse me? I was just trying to get myself a little unlost before the day's done. My daughter is expecting me. She's three and hasn't yet figured out what running-late means." A shrug of narrow shoulders concludes his departure excuse.
That remark earns an actual laugh and P'draig runs his thumb over his jaw lightly. "Sure. Got a three-turn old daughter myself. Palia in the nursery. 'Late' is always a tough one to explain," he agrees and lifts a hand in farewell. "Clear skies, Jefrym."
"I'll look for her. Nice to meet you, P'draig." Jefrym takes a last survey of P'draig, like that will help him identify the man's daughter, then swings around on one heel with his hands still jammed in his pockets. Even with a target in mind-- living cavern-- he still looks more like he's wandering aimlessly than actually going anywhere.