[Log] Ground Level
Who: Tiriana, X'ndar
When: Day 11, Month 7, Turn 16
Where: Weyrling Barracks, Telgar Weyr
What: Stuck with Tiriana shadowing him for a day, X'ndar makes good use of the slave labor.
Weyrling Barracks, Telgar Weyr
This immense cavern is the home for weyrling pairs. A huge opening is the entrance, leading to the ground level bowl. The floor is not quite smooth, being gouged with numerous scratches and cracks, from the clumsy undergrown claws on equally clumsy dragonets. The indentations on the floor, made by millennial pressure of the growing dragons, are quite suggestive of their purpose. Most of them have furs in one corner of them, as the new riders sleep as near their lifemates as they can. A particular odour lingers in the air here, not quite pleasant.
A large, dragon-sized opening leads out of the barracks back into the central bowl.
Contents:
X'ndar
Obvious exits:
Bowl Weyrlingmaster's Office
X'ndar
The man before you standing at just on 6ft, carries the typically tanned skin of a Southerner. Relatively short medium-brown hair with sun-bleached streaks running through it, ends in slight curls at the nape of his neck. Expressive brows, frame blue-green eyes, reflecting the color of the ocean, and show intelligence and a quick wit. His nose is unremarkable in it's self and could simply be termed as straight, ending in a slightly rounded tip. A full lower lip, with an upper companion that holds a slight Cupid's bow form a mouth that readily curves into smirk, smile or sneer. X'ndar's face is kept clean shaven at all times. Broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist and a ridged flat belly speak to the turns spent as an active dragonrider. Long muscled legs carry him forward through life with confident strides, while the well defined arms make him capable of being put to any task that requires strength even at the age of 42 Turns, 10 months, and 9 days old.
Having found it necessary to exchange the lighter garb of a Southern dragonrider for that more suitable to the Northern Climes and those of Telgar in particular, X'ndar is usually seen clad in brown leather riding breeches that are held at his waist with a black leather belt. Summer finds him in a short-sleeved, lightweight shirt of white that covers his torso. The knot of intricate black and white loops with a thread of brown running through it, depicts his position as Weyrlingmaster at Telgar and is sported on his shoulder with pride. The drawstring lacing used to close it up the front, normally worn loose and revealing glimpses of his skin beneath may also at times reveal the scarring on his upper left chest. The black leather boots that reach to mid-calf are by no means new but definitely well looked after.
While the winds might be howling outside in the bowl, inside the weyrling barracks all is quiet. That is, except for the dark muttering and occasional creak of a lid lifting then banging back down again coming from the back end of the large cavern. A distinctly musty odor permeates the area, the type one associates with old damp canines as the Weyrlingmaster moves between the recently mended cots.
Ducking her head against the wind, Tiriana makes her way to the weyrling barracks, pausing just inside the door to comb fingers through her hair, tug her shirt straight, and shoot a glower back at that wind that messes everything up. But then there are other things to focus on, and she trudges further in, looking more disgusted by the smell than the wind. Her nose wrinkles, and she mimes gagging on it before she greets X'ndar with a slightly sulky, "Hey."
With his back turned to the entrance, it takes Tiriana's single word of semi-greeting to turn X'ndar's head over his shoulder. Eyes land on the dark-haired candidate and his mouth sets lines down its sides in what could be interpreted as a smirk, "Ma'am." The slur of title and short bow likely in response to whatever gossip goes around the Weyr concerning the girl. All pretences aside, the brownrider beckons her in further, the sack in his hand held out in her direction. Explanation of some type, "Figure with ya daddy bein' weyrleader an' all, you pretty much know all 'bout bein' a rider, aye?" Words designed to entrap or simple conversation starter to the task he has in mind for her?
That mocking title has Tiriana's eyes narrowing, and her arms cross as she steps further inside and stops. She doesn't move to take that sack, but she does give it a long look before her gaze cuts back up to X'ndar's. "Yeah," she begins, a little warily. "Lots of my family is, so I know plenty. Does this mean I can go now?"
Her eyes narrow, his light up with the grin that hits the Weyrlinmaster's face. Soon a finger wags back and forth, "Uh, uh, uuuuh. Not so fast darlin'. Hopin' ta find ya dragon out there? Then now's ya chance to experience it all at---" pause, chuckle, "ground level an' all." That sack is jiggled a little before her, "Barracks a' nearly done, just them presses ta clean out." The very ones from which that suspect odor emanates from here and there.
Bristling at the ribbing, Tiriana sets her shoulders stiffly, frowning. "No, I'm just doing it on a lark," she retorts. "Who really wants a dragon, anyway?" She rolls her eyes and fixes that sack with another look, not taking or maybe not even noticing the hint of his wiggling it. Instead, she casts another dubious look sideways at the presses. "What, you don't make them clean out their own presses? Call all the last class, tell them to come do it themselves?"
Amusement wanes into a bland visage that wears an eyebrow hiked upward and a level, "Pity. Now ya get ta have ya pretty hands dirtied up for a whim." X'ndar's determined. Wide shoulders move in a shrug over who may or may not want a dragon, followed by pointing out, "Dragon chooses. Choice ain't yours ta make." Moving over to the nearest press one boot lifts and toes open its lid. From within its darkened depths the vague outline of a piece of clothing can be made out. Could simply be a discarded tunic, but might also be underclothes. It's a gamble really. "Last class a' busy with duties. Drills an' all," the brownrider remarks to Tiriana in offhanded manner. Back to peering down into the press, "Found a brooch in one once." Is he trying to call on any curiosity she might have?
"Not yours, either." Not the most brilliant of comebacks, but it seems to comfort Tiriana a little, and she unfolds her arms to glance at the press too, edging a step closer to see and then wrinkling her nose. "They're not /that/ busy," she notes, shaking her head. "I see them just sitting around all the time. I mean, there's only a couple of 'em that have /real/ duties, and not just regular rider stuff. Don't /you/ have better stuff to do than this, anyway?" She bumps her boot against the press. "I'm supposed to be in the stables today, I hope you know. Fine, whatever. I'll clean." Sigh.
"Wouldn't make it," his own return quick to come, "So now that we got that outta the way," X'ndar's tracks her inching closer, mutters, "Dirty little mongrels some of 'em." The weyrlings. To all of the rest that Tiriana puts words to he simply rumbles amusement, "Ya rather muck runner manure than hunt fa treasures?" See? He can make it fun. Sort of. With her agreement to help finally making its appearance, the brownrider slips a glance toward the cavern entrance, "Make ya a deal. Find anythin' o' value, ya get ta keep it, aye? When ya done," she, not we or he, "I'll tell ya who's press was who's an' ya get ta hang the dirty laundry out to dry, so ta speak," griiiin.
"Treasure. Right," Tiriana snorts to that. "Somebody's dirty underwear, just what I always wanted. Do I look five?" As opposed to acting it. She pauses a beat. "And I /like/ the stables. Nothing wrong with that. --How about you tell me now?" She plants her hands on her hips, turning to look at X'ndar again. "Because there are some people I wouldn't touch their stuff with a pole, they're that disgusting."
X'ndar drops his chin down to level a look onto Tiriana only just barely shorter than himself, utters one word, "Brooch." Take it or leave it. Leaving that press lid open, the sack nearby, he moves onto the next, hunkers down and flips its lid open and begins poking around. Something clunks against the wooden frame inside, halts the brownrider's hand. His baritone dropping once again into a low chuckle, "Ain't nothing wrong with the stables," he'll agree to that, "Like 'em well enough ma'self." But as to her last, "You an' me both," blue eyes scan about the cavern. Standing and moving away he returns, this time to her side and solemnly holds out - a pole. Mirth dances in his eyes, but his face is held in serious repose for the gesture.
Tiriana's mouth twists as she debates that and finally shrugs, kneeling down by that press and peering into it. "And the runners can't clean up after themselves, either," she informs X'ndar without looking. "Don't mind getting dirty or anything, just having to pick up after people that oughta know how to do it themselves." But she still starts rummaging around, reaching into the press to pull things out one by one and spread them out to see what she finds--mostly scraps of papers and that one garment. The sound of footsteps behind her pulls her gaze around again, and she just eyes that pole and X'ndar. "No. Really," she tells him, with a roll of her eyes.
The pole hand pushes outward, hooks up that solitary garment that holds edges of lace to its leg-holes and dangles it off of the floor. X'ndar passes critical eye over it, cants a smirk down onto the kneeling Tiriana, "Coulda sworn this press belonged to a male," a bluerider from the last class named here, "Always wondered why the lad walked so odd. Musta scratched somethin' bad." Once again, he can't disagree with the candidate's logic, "Must be the scramble ta have their weyrs, aye?" as to cleaning up behind others. However, he's soon dropping the pole to the floor with a clatter and shrugging that off as he moves back to the press he'd been busy with. A large hand dips in and then re-emerges to toss a belt buckle crudely shaped into a runner's head over to the young woman, "Runner." Makes it treasure enough, right?
Tiriana does not touch that lace-edged garment; she just stares at it. "It does," she notes, words slipping out before she thinks. She shudders and is a little more delicate about reaching in this time. "Disgusting." Pause. To that latter remark, she shrugs. "I /guess/. Maybe. Better to have a weyr, anyway," she agrees, one hand reaching up automatically to catch the buckle. He says 'runner'; she says, "Tacky," and sets it aside. "So... which one was, say, R'uen's?" the girl wonders slowly, after another moment.
Confusion for a heartbeat from X'ndar, "Come again?" Thankfully clarity sets in right after and whatever smart-alec comment he might have returned with is swallowed beneath low laughter, "Take ya word for it." The odds and ends retrieved from out of the press he's busy with are shoved roughly into the sack he has at hand. "Communal livin' not ya thing?" the blonde streaked head turning just in time to catch Tiriana's comment and chuckle, "Figured ya'd think so." Straightening from his crouch the next press it moved to, flipped open and an old moth-eaten sweater plucked out. Outright devilry dances in the blue depths of his eyes, a nod toward the press the candidate resides at, "That one."
"I don't like people," Tiriana notes, matter-of-fact. "Especially when I can't pick which ones I have to live with. All those bratty kids--." She scowls again at that, rubs her finger over the belt buckle to dust it off, though that motion breaks off sharply at his latter answer. She shoots a withering look at him. "Liar," she accuses, with another look between the press and the weyrlingmaster. "Do you even remember now? It's been turns and you /are/ old."
"Unlike ya'self o' course," X'ndar remarks dryly on the subject of bratty kids. Interest holds his attention to the way Tiriana is still paying the self-proclaimed tacky trinket attention, then lifts to meet that withering look, his own hard to determine. He'll put on the show for her benefit too. One hand rifles over the blonde streaked head and his face takes on an expression of uncertainty as the other hand hooks a thumb through a belt-loop and he rocks back on his boot-heels. The ceiling gains long, apparently thoughtful study. When his head tips back down it holds a lopsided grin of little repentance, "I lied." When?
"Exactly." The irony of her calling other kids bratty is entirely lost on Tiriana. Instead, she just shakes her head at X'ndar's show of thoughtfulness; leaning back forward, she pulls a few more items out of the press, holding them between thumb and forefinger only. "I know you did," she sniffs, setting things aside again after inspecting them. "So which one, /really/?"
The lids of the next few presses are opened and left so to air. No treasures or old clothing left behind in them. There are some that clean up behind themselves after all. Boots scrape their way back down in Tiriana's direction where X'ndar halts and pauses a long contemplative look onto the dark-haired young woman, "Ya reckon the two o' you can handle what weyrlinghood means if ya impress?" serious, no joking or jesting in the low query. Falling to the brief silence of his own thoughts, the Weyrlingmaster breaks from them to push his chin off to the right of the candidate to where a non-descript press stands at the end of a non-descript cot, "That one." Truth.
While X'ndar opens the other presses for her, Tiriana flips through what's come out of this one, stuffing most of it in their trash bag before she gets to her feet and drags over to the next one with a sigh. But his question makes her stiffen again, stopping by that press. She shoots a look at the one he points out, only briefly before she sits back down and starts methodically through the next cot on her docket. "We will if I do," she informs the weyrlingmaster indignantly. "Not like there's anything else to do about it. And not that it's any of /your/ business, either."
Hands shove into pockets. X'ndar's done his press of the day. He does however, lift out what appears to be an old journal written in a scrawling script from the press he's come to a rest at. Pages are idly flipped through until this action halts on one in particular, his baritone reading aloud a line of text, "...The man's a brute! He still makes us run laps. Why run laps when we have dragons that can fly now?..." a snort roughs out and the journal snaps shut and gets slipped into a jacket pocket. Only now does the brownrider address Tiriana's indignant query, "Becomes my business iffen ya impress," his tone showing nothing but notation. A glance to the entrance then back onto the candidate shrugging, "Likely go back ta them runners anyways, aye? Then there be nothing ta be snippin' on." Change of topic however sudden, "All this cleanin' and sortin' gives a man a powerful hunger. Goin' ta get a bite ta eat. Want I should bring somethin' back for ya?" Like he's done so much as to not even have broken a sweat or dusted up his hands.
Tiriana's hands tighten, but she settles for banging around on the press, careless about the items she bumps into its sides as she hauls them noisily forth. "I don't want anything. I'm not hungry," she answers, voice flat; she doesn't look around this time as he prepares to leave.
Whether X'ndar interprets the banging around from Tiriana as annoyance or clumsiness will go unsolved for his expression gives nothing away. Unconvinced, "If ya say so." One last look flicked down onto the candidate at work and then he's striding out of the barracks. Whether or not the young woman uses this opportunity to flee her unexpected chore, or continue to poke about in presses, the Weyrlingmaster will leave to her discretion.