[Log] Purple People, Not Dead Yet
Who: Claret, Lekzanne, R'dur, Sorren, Yselle
When: Day 11, Month 3, Turn 8
Where: Central Bowl, Telgar Weyr
What: Nobody's purple /or/ dead.
Central Bowl
A stony field is the center of this great caldera, the size of which is unmatched at any other Weyr--for the whole complement of all the wings at Telgar could rest comfortably within its towering cliffs. Shaped in a perfect oval, the rock walls seem ideal for keeping the usual chill winds stirring about. The ground is mostly made of pebbles and rocks, some hued the milky shades of old quartz, though there are patches where softer dirt and even trees sprout up from the ground. To the south, the bowl opens onto the living caverns and the Weyrleaders' quarters; the immense entrance to the Hatching Grounds lies to the northwest. Heading southwest will lead one back out into the rocky mountain ranges around Telgar's protective walls. Dragons may be seen, relaxing or fresh from feeding, to the north, as well as the soft lapping sounds of Telgar's lake touching the sandy shore. The Weyrling Barracks, always aflutter with activity, are to the direct west. If you're looking for the 'dutypair' to take you to an outweyr destination, they can be found here. The meadow near the lake is strewn with wild flowers, like little stars of pink, yellow, and white. The ground by the the barracks is quite muddy.
Contents:
DRAGONS: Avrieth
PLAYERS: R'dur Claret
Obvious Exits:
Weyrling Barracks Southern Bowl Lake Shore Hatching Cavern Feeding Grounds Runner Pasture Weyr Entrance
Finally, things at Telgar are starting to warm up, and out in the bowl, R'dur and Alidaeth are taking advantage of that fact. The brown dragon is sprawled out, enjoying the warm evening sunlight, while his rider sits next to him, going over a couple of hides.
Avrieth seems to have the same idea as R'dur and Alidaeth, for once she has landed on the bowl's floor, she's quick to choose a spot--relatively near the brown--on which to sprawl herself. Claret, for her part, slides off the green muttering mutinously, "I'm going, I'm going. Sheesh." She rounds Avrieth's side with a grimace, putting her in good sight of the other pair, and she calls over a cheery, "Hullo!"
R'dur glances up, blinking at the greeting. "Oh, hi," he greets Claret then, a slow smile spreading across his face. Alidaeth's greeting is equally warm as he croons to Avrieth and the woman. "How are you, Claret? It's, ah, it's nice out here, isn't it? Spring again. You must be thrilled--your... your ears have survived another winter," he offers mildly.
Claret takes a few paces along Avrieth's length, stopping just shy of the tip of her tail, now within much easier chatting distance of R'dur. "I'm swell," she offers, the grin she gives the brownrider offset by Avrieth's high-pitched rumble of greeting. She extends one bare hand, nodding sagely. "Another winter survived with all of my extremities intact. I'm always very grateful. And how about you? You look as though you've survived in one piece."
"I have, I have," answers R'dur, setting aside his paper with another smile. He gestures to himself, indicating his whole state. "I think I'm quite as grateful. It's, ah. Well, it's good to enjoy the sun again, without having melting snow everywhere. It's all right when it's still frozen, but when things start warming some, it's so messy. Avrieth seems well. How is wingleader T'bay? I've not spoken to him outside of drills in some time," admits the rider wryly.
Claret plops down on the ground, crossing her legs and scooting right up against the green's tail, which curls around her. Monitoring, probably. "And just think, many more months until we've got to worry about ears and fingers and toes falling off. Well. Unless you've got a particular fondness for knives, or something." She takes up a nod, bobbing her head in general agreement for a few moments. "He's go-od," she answers, breaking up the word into two syllables, pausing before tacking on matter-of-factly, "He might be dying. If so, however, me and Sorren are done for too. So maybe I won't be able to let you know."
"Uh, no," answers R'dur, shaking his head. "I don't think so, really. I avoid them when possible." He smiles, shakes his head, and opens his mouth to say something else. Just as quickly, he shuts it again, staring wide-eyed and aghast at Claret as she notes their impending demises. "What?!""
"Me too," Claret agrees cheerfully. "I think I'd be like to chop of something each turn, if I spent too much time with them. Although I suppose that doesn't allow for gaining experience. I never did like..." She trails off, blinking as she takes not of R'dur's wide-eyed stare. "Well, we're not dead yet. I don't think you need to be alarmed. Who knows? You could be infected too. You see, we were sitting at the Thunderbolt table a couple sevendays ago, and T'bay said the underneath," she gestures in description, "Was covered with a diseased and mysterious substance. So we all touched it. I think he ate some?"
R'dur groans, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He seems mildly relieved, at least. "Not that stuff. I thought /everybody/ knew not to touch the underside of that table. It's absolutey disgusting--I really should clean it some time, I think. It really needs it. But, ah," he pauses. "I think--I hope, anyway--that you'll be okay. I mean, I think most of us have brushed a hand across it accidentally, if nothing else--there's a couple of riders who think it's a good form of initiation. Though--" he frowns, shaking his head "--only T'bay would try to eat it."
Claret regards R'dur speculatively, venturing an observation. "People always seem to get alarmed when I say these things. I think, perhaps, that you should never take me seriously. It might be better for your constitution." She shrugs off her shoulders, offering the wingsecond a helpful smile. "I didn't know. Neither did Sorren. She offered to clean it. You could get the candidates to do it!" She tugs her ear, reflecting, "I think I encouraged him to do it? I'm not sure. It's always so difficult to tell who it is that prompts foolishness."
R'dur peers at Claret, nodding after a moment. "I'll--I'll try that, maybe," he tells her, smiling. "But. Well, I /could/, but... It wouldn't really be fair, I don't think. I mean, it's the Thunderbolt table, and they're only candidates--they shouldn't have to take care of our messes, I don't think. But--I see," is his response to the latter admission. "I suppose I understand. I'll keep an eye on him, I suppose, and if he starts acting or feeling weird, I'll know what to tell the healers."
"Excellent," Claret concludes with a satisfied nod. "I'd hate to be the cause of any undue stress. Well, that wasn't drills related. Which isn't applicable to you. And there are always exceptions, but that's besides--Oh, of course you can tell them to do it!" She jumps from one topic to the next, words piling on top of each other. "I mean, isn't it their job to clean up our messes? It teaches them fortitude and all that. Although... I don't suppose it would be so good to get them all killed. Really unfortunate, that." She shrugs off this melancholy idea quite readily, though, giving R'dur a cheery smile. "That makes two of us. Greatly decreases the likelihood of impending doom, don't you think?"
R'dur shrugs, hiding a smile behind his hand. "I--well, yes, perhaps. But I'd feel terrible giving them more work to do--most of them have already been complaining about the chores enough that I dread assigning them in the morning," he admits, shaking his head once. "But, ah. Well, yes, I suppose it does. With both of us, he should be all right--I'm right there in drills, and you're there the rest of the time. And you seem all right yourself, and--Sorren, you said? I saw her the other day and she didn't seem any worse for wear, either."
Claret twitches her mouth into a thoughtful expression. "Hmm. I suppose you're right. It wouldn't do to add chores, unless you had it out for one of the candidates. Which I think would be terribly interesting, but really much more interesting when nobody's actually -upset-. Which wouldn't happen, so I guess you'll have to do it yourself. Then we'd have to put a sick-watch on you, too." She looks down at herself and puts a hand to her forehead, apparently assessing her health. "Mm, I feel just fine. Sorren! Was she purple?"
R'dur nods. "Right, I understand. I don't, so, well. I'll just do it myself. You'll, ah, keep good watch on me, too? Perhaps I'll wear an old pair of gloves or something. Then I can throw them away later and not have to worry about how disgusting they are," he says, thoughtful. Though, he peers blankly at Claret at her question. "Ah, no? Should she have been?" he wonders delicately.
Yselle has arrived.
Claret rests her elbows on her knees, leaning forward and away from Avrieth, with whom she sits. She sends R'dur a little beam of assent, agreeing, "Oh, yes, I'll keep both my eyes peeled. And I'll tell T'bay to have a lookout too, which I expect will be much more useful." She pauses for a moment, suggesting with enthusiasm, "Maybe you should bury the gloves once you're through. Then they'd be no danger to anyone." At his last remark, Claret's enthusiasm fades slightly, and she shakes her head in disappointment. "No. But I keep hoping she will turn purple, although I doubt she'd agree."
"Except the grass," observes R'dur, shaking his head. "I suspect we'd find a bare patch in the middle of the bowl if I did that. Better to burn them--or maybe I can drop them /between/ afterward," suggests the man. And, somewhat befuddled: "Ah, I see. So... Is this just you hoping she'll spontaneously change colors, or is there some reason she might?" he wonders.
"Maybe she's proddy?" Yselle suggests cheerfully, appearing out of the weyrling barracks, without any warning. "Wingleader, wingsecond," her eyes are sparkling. "Dianneth always changes colour when she's proddy. Hm, must go see how her colour is now," she arcs a quick glance over at R'dur to see if she can catch a reaction to that. So, we have dangerous, marauding gloves on the loose? I'd better alert K'ran."
Claret looks fairly enthusiastic about the idea of the gloves wreaking this kind of havoc. "I expect you're right. Between is the place for them. Only, you know, if they can kill grass, they could, well, injure us." As Yselle's voice reaches her ears, Claret looks up, responding to the cheer with a grin of her own, and a wave. "No, no, a person. Candidate. Sorren. Avrieth thought perhaps she might be turning purple. So I keep hoping. Because wouldn't that be interesting?"
R'dur, blinking, peers up at Yselle. "Ah. I really doubt any of my candidates are going to start glowing because they're proddy," he remarks delicately. Pause. "At least, I hope not," he mutters under his breath. Glancing between the two greenriders again, he adds, "As for the gloves, well. We were discussing wearing them to clean under Thunderbolt's table."
Sorren walks here from the south.
Sorren has arrived.
Sorren walks in from the cavern, dusting what looks like firestone soot from her clothing in a futile fashion.
"Weeeeeeeeeell," Yselle stretches out that syllable, leaning nonchalantly on against the wall of the barracks, almost like she owned it, "If Sorren turned purple, it might be because she was choking to death, which would be interesting, I suppose, from one point of view, but..." she pauses, frowns, repeats under her breath, "Candidate, got it," louder, "...her family /might/ object, and really let's not kill any of them off before the dragonets have a chance to do it," her tone is not the slightest bit sincere. Still, R'dur's comment arrests her attention. "Clean under Thunderbolt's table?" she looks horrified. "Are you /insane/? Don't you realise T'bay runs that wing? There are lifeforms evolving under that table."
Keshketh lumbers here from the south.
Keshketh has arrived.
Lekzanne slides down Keshketh's side to the ground.
Lekzanne has arrived.
Sorren groans as she hears the purple thing again, hiding her head in her sooty hands.
"Or because she was freezing to death," Claret adds helpfully. "In some respects, of course, that would be interesting, but all things considered, I think a nice, healthy purple is to be preferred." She nods knowledgeably, adding in, "We were just discussing that. How unfortunate it would be if we killed all the candidates. Accidentally. Well and say!" She takes note of Sorren approaching, and wiggles her fingers in a wave. "Speak of the girl herself. I think he ate some," Claret informs Yselle. "We're keeping a lookout on him, to see if he dies."
"I thought that was blue," muses R'dur idly. "I've, uh, never actually seen anyone choke, and, well. I'd really rather not, so--oh, um. Sorren. Hi," he says, blushing as he notes the talked-about candidate passing nearby. He ducks his head in embarrassment, though he can't stop a cough that's more laugh than anything else at Yselle's comments. "Ah, well. It, ah, it can't be that bad?" he ventures optismistically.
"But it'd be okay to kill them on purpose?" Yselle suggests merrily. "I still think we ought to give the dragonets dibs on that. - Oh hello, you're Sorren, are you?" she glances over at the candidate. "Welcome to Telgar. I really must meet everyone. I'm Yselle, Dianneth's rider." - "Now, Claret, whose death are we expecting? T'bay's? You know Sarevith might be a little upset about that." She winks ostentatiously at R'dur. "It's worse. Tel used to have more toes before he was transferred to Thunderbolt. Something under that table..." she pauses dramatically, "...ate them."
Keshketh appears from Between, high above the Weyrbowl. He circles down quickly, his greeny-brown hide slowly coming more and more into focuse, the depth of color being revealed. When he finally lands, it's with a precise and practiced move, his haunches lowered as he hits the bowl floor. His wings are folded, and he crouches, allowing his rider to dismount easily.
Sorren tries her best to put on a happy smile, wiping her face as best she can of sooty mess. "Hello, Miss Yselle" she says, deciding to pretend like she didn't hear anyone talking about her. "Yes'm. I am Sorren, and it's nice to meet you." She gives a warm smile and a wave to Claret and R'dure too.
Claret's brows knit, and she gives her chin a slight negative jerk. "Killing the candidates on purpose would be rather reprehensible. But what if it was in the line of duty? Like cleaning that table." She waves Sorren further over, pointing out, "If you rub soot on your face, then you really -will- turn another color. As for R'dur's mused correction, Claret allows, "Oh, well, yes. But blue can often be mistaken for a shade of purple, wouldn't you say?" And she has a nod of assent for Yselle, too. "T'bay's imminent death. And maybe me and Sorren. And then R'dur. I'd be rather upset, too." She concludes by echoing in fascination, "Ate him?"
"I'd really rather they all survive, thank you very much," says R'dur, frowning up at Yselle. "Otherwise the Weyrleader might take it out on /me/." He shakes his head. Though, he glances downward to hide a smile and the mouthing of 'miss Yselle.' Only when he's regained composure does he glance upward again to the women. "I don't--I'm not /that/ gullible," R'dur protests Yselle's words. "T'van has seemed quite whole every time I've encountered him."
"Ah, but have you seen his /toes/?" Yselle asks sepulchrally. "His /toes/, R'dur. Have you noticed he's wearing /shoes/ all the time now, when he'd usually be happy to strip for any occasion? He's devestated about the loss of those toes. You ought to pay him a visit. Bring him a cheer-up present," she's not pretending seriousness at all, in fact, she winks at Lekzanne as she dismounts. "Well, if you really /want/ to kill off the candidates, make them clean under the table?" she suggests to Claret. "Especially that one... what's her name? Sab-something? She'd probably die if she had to do it. We can't afford to lose you and T'bay, Claret. Think of all the trouble we'd have to go to to get new wingleaders." She grins at Sorren, drawing her into the joke. "Just Yselle, or Weyrsecond if you /must/. Miss Yselle makes me sound like a holder or something."
Sorren blinks upon coming into this morbid, yet strangely humorous discussion. "Err, are we all suddenly in danger of dying?" the candidate asks, her tanned brow wrinkling in concern, before getting that look from Yselle, and almost comically mouthing a silent /oooh/ as she understands the joking, and smiles more congenial at her. "Thank you Yselle, then." she says with a chuckle.
Lekzanne snorts, pulling her helmet off of her head and running her fingers through her hair. Static electricity sends her long silver locks into a frizzy halo around her head, but she mostly ignores it. "Killing candidates? Doesn't sound like much sport - we know where they sleep." Sorren is eyed, and given a somewhat polite nod of her head. "Hi. I don't know you. I'm Lekzanne." She rubs at her nose, still pink from Between. "Oh, I think I know who you're talking about. I ran into that one a few days ago in the Lower Caverns... don't remember her name, however."
"Well," Claret concludes, granting R'dur a nod, "Matters of interest aside, I quite prefer that nobody dies. It's only a hypothetical concern, after all. And it'd be no fun, killing them in their sleep. You don't feel like you're about to die, do you?" she inquires of Sorren, and probably not for the first time. She flicks a wave at Lekzanne, too, as she comes over. "Sorren -offered- to clean under the tables. Hopefully the really helpful ones won't get themselves diseased behind our backs."
"Oh, noooo," says R'dur at once. "I'm not having anything to do with him. He still hasn't forgiven me for /last/ time. Or the time before that." He shakes his head with unusual determination. Then: "Sabi?" he ventures toward Yselle and Lekzanne. "I... I'm not sure I could make her do it. She'd probably, I don't know, persuade one of the nicer boys to do it for her, like Iestyn or Aethe. Or worse yet, /me/," he says bleakly.
Arrowing a glance at R'dur, Yselle says firmly, and without a trace of her earlier humour, "Then you don't do it. /You/ are the candidate coordinator," her tone says 'get some backbone'. She does settle back into joviality, however, "Lekzanne, you'd definitely remember T'van if you met him. He would have tried to talk himself into your bed, and been none to subtle about it. He's very cute, red-headed, drives T'bay and R'dur insane. He says," she corners her eyes at R'dur again, quite unsuccessful in concealing a smile, "that that's what they're paid for. - No, see, candidate killing should be reserved for dragonets. It's /tradition/, you understand," she pauses, frowns and says, "I must've caught something from I'sai last time I saw him. I wonder if the healers have anything for that." - "Anyway, my advice is, Sorren, that if you /do/ clean under the tables, wear gloves and use redwort if you go near Thunderbolt's. It's never been the same since Kassima left."
Sorren smirks at Claret's question. "Nono, I still feel quite healthy, I assure you." she says. And then to her own defense, and with the same smirk for Yselle "Well, if something /needs/ cleaning, it should be done." She gives a shrug. "Won't be the first time I cleaned under an icky table. Try a fish-gutting station sometime. You get immune after a while, I suppose."
Lekzanne slaps her hands against her legs, knocking a bit of imaginary dust off before she removes her gloves as well. "Hmm, yes, tradition. Besides, if we killed them all ourselves... who would the dragonets maul?" Her tone is light, and only the twinkle in her grey eyes would say she's teasing. One innocent finger is placed against the side of her mouth, and she wounders aloud, "How old did you say he is?" is asked of T'van. Sorren is given another once over, and hmmed about thoughtfully. "You volunteered to clean under tables? Are you unhealthy?" she asks, an eyebrow arched. "I don't go near that table - I just got over a rather nasty cold."
Claret raises two hands, lifting them up and down as if two sides of a scale. "I don't know that fish guts and Thunderbolt...mess are quite the same. But I'll give you props for bravery." Sorren's smirk is answered with a simple smile, but a moment later, at Lekzanne's comment, it's retracted adn she allows with a nod, "Or insane. And yes, of course, we'd best leave all the mauling to the dragonets. They can't be blamed by the families."
"Just try explaining that to her," mumbles R'dur with a shake of his head at Yselle's admonition. "She's almost as bad as Bri." Which is certainly saying something, the way his weyrmate has him wrapped around her finger. Standing, the brownrider notes aloud, "But, ah. Speaking of. I should go--I promised to ask a couple of people something about that. Excuse me." With a parting smile, he turns and heads for the lower caverns.