[Log] A Party for the Newest Arrivals, Pt. 1
Who: B'ren, Ceriyne, E'sere, G'thon, Jerion, Magaly, Miniyal
When: Day 8, Month 10, Turn 200, 6th Interval
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
What: High Reaches welcomes its newest arrivals to the Caucus with a party.
Notes: Find Pt. 2 here.
Living Cavern
Large enough to hold the majority of the Weyr's human population, this cavern can become loud enough to deafen thanks to the acoustics caused by its size. The ceiling is so far overhead that it's cast into shadow, a darkness that is broken only by the spark and glitter of a lucky beam of light striking the minerals found in the rock walls. Below, most of the floor is covered with an assortment of long tables and benches. There are some smaller tables, surrounded by chairs, but privacy appears to be a rare thing in this bustling cavern. Large hearths line the west wall, with fires burning day and night to warm the food and drink that keep the Weyr's inhabitants fueled. The serving tables are near the hearth, opposite the dais that holds the single table reserved for the Weyr leadership and honored guests.
Contents:
G'thon
B'ren
Map of Ista Weyr
Upper Caverns [UC] Lower Caverns [LC] Kitchen [K]
Infirmary [INF] Bowl [B]
B'ren
Tall and lanky, B'ren holds himself like someone who knows he's all that. The cocky slant to his shoulders and that sideways smirk give some sign of his personality. Black hair is cut to look just a tad messy, as if he just got out of bed or just finished some stunt on his green. His own eyes are green, a gentle shade.
His clothing is stylish if just a little worn, as if he spent all his marks on the best weaver, but was only able to afford a few outfits. Black pants and a green tunic to bring out his eyes and show off the color of his lady. B'ren looks to be around 19 turns, 5 months, and 23 days turns old and wears the navy, black and green knot of a High Reaches Weyr Greenrider.
G'thon
As if built for the sole purpose of commanding respect, G'thon has been presented with a lined countenance by hard work outdoors; with a high, balding pate framed with sleek silver hair by time; and with height by benefit of genetics. His face is long, with a prominent nose and high cheekbones that serve to emphasize the crinkles that frame his oft-smiling hazel eyes. His chin is pointed, his jaw long - but a full, broad mouth is where much of his expression really lies.
His work keeps him trim and well-built, though with age his shoulders have become slightly rounded. Still, he dresses every part the upstanding dragonrider, wearing simple, functional clothes befitting his work, his Weyr, and his station: well-tailored leathers in grey trimmed with charcoal, the wool-lined jacket open over a high-necked black shirt of a soft, fine knit. Heavy black boots contain the cuffs of his trousers, laced to the midcalf and creased around the ankle from regular wear. He wears the knot of High Reaches' Weyrleader.
E'sere
Shaggy, stick-straight hair gives this young man a more youthful appearance, disguising his 28 turns. E'sere is tall, rangy, with long limbs well-muscled from turns as a rider. His features are strong, distinctly masculine and rugged in their sharpness. A hawkish Roman nose centers his face; above it, eyes of nondescript hazel and thick brows are half-obscured by a too-long forelock. Thin lips line his mouth. Below that mouth is a strong, sharp chin, his jaw lined with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow.
E'sere is dressed neatly and stylishly, taking great pride in his appearance. His shirt is made of simple white fabric; his pants of a heavier weave that has been tailored to fit him. Even his boots are kept quite clean, polished, and with minimal scuffing and wear. He also wears a thick jacket to keep out the cold of High Reaches, though it seems a bit more battered than the rest of his attire. The knot he wears is the rather complicated mix of threads that denotes a bronzeriding wingleader.
B'ren is sitting in one of the chairs with his feet propped up on another, a cloth full of ice held against a bruised jaw.
Entering from the lower caverns, E'sere runs a hand through his damp hair and glances briefly about the living cavern, noting a few faces, notably the Weyrleader's. Drawn almost magnetically toward the man (or perhaps just his knot), the bronzerider ventures lazily in that direction, his path meandering as though he hadn't any firm goal in mind. He pauses to inquire after the health of another rider near the group, a few brief seconds of conversation before he turns to glance at the older man. "Good evening, Weyrleader," he greets G'thon. As yet, he takes no interest in B'ren, the greenrider apparently beneath E'sere's notice.
B'ren rolls his eyes a bit as he's ignored by both bronzeriders. And since a bronzerider recently punched him in the jaw, he holds a rather low opinion of that color at the moment. He gives G'thon a lazy salute before rising to his feet and going to get a meal for himself, walking around to the back side of the table so he can serve himself now rather than waiting in line. If people were smart, they'd line up on both sides. Perhaps he'll start a trend.
G'thon continues walking alongside, and conversing with, the assistant headwoman out of Tillek; he manages a tip of his head for B'ren's salute. The arrival of E'sere, tugged by that gravitational pull, causes the talk shared by the older man and his guest of proper food for mixed crowds and the doings of his mother to pause. "Ah, Wingleader," the Weyrleader notes after the slightest pause, a one-sided smile lifting his mouth. "It is, at that. You know Aysha, I'm sure." The headwoman's assistant dips her head with all the regal poise of those not born to privilege, and apparently adequately certain that E'sere doesn't know her at all, murmurs an excuse and drifts gracefully off to greet the Weyr's kitchen's master, apparently an old friend.
Ceriyne enters from the infirmary.
Ceriyne has arrived.
Indeed, it takes only a few moments for the apprentices of Caucus gathered at the table's one side to note the advantage of the greenrider on the other side - and soon, there are several in line behind him. This does not go over quite so well with the serving staff, who are now obliged to dart between the feasters to lay out new plates and serving ware - but it's a festive occasion, and no one actually complains.
Ceriyne
Pale green eyes are Ceriyne's most noticeable feature. Maintained archs rest at the end of each of her shaped brows, drawing further emphasis to her eyes. A slender bridge leads to a round and upturned nose that, while not quite small, is none the less proportionate with her soft features. On occasion, the circles beneath her eyes are more noticeable. Above a gently rounded chin are her lips; these a light shade of red. Medium brown hair falls in a thick wave to her shoulders. More regularly its woven into a braid or a tight knot at the base of her neck. A less then spectacular build gives way to a small bust, a slightly curvy waistline and (for someone short like her) long legs.
Ceriyne wears an unremarkable outfit that seems to be worn more for purpose then fashion. A half-size too large, the navy blue tunic she wears truly leaves more to the imagination then a proper fitting tunic would. The neckline is rounded, the sleeves long enough that Ceriyne has to roll the 'cuffs up past her wrists. A tie secures the sides behind her back, helping to close the fit a little better but still leaves modesty intact. The overhanging hem rests along the waistline of her ankle reaching soft gray skirt. Thick, winter-proofed shoes adorn her feet when indoors but for those trips outside a pair of scuffed, heavy boots take their place.
"Aysha. Of course," E'sere agrees, nodding, after a subtle checking of the woman's knot. "Of Tillek. I hope the hold's well. Pass my regards on to the Family." Whether he really knows or is just bluffing is debateable, for after niceties with the departing holder, he turns back to the Weyrleader. "It is, at that. I hope it finds you well, sir? And Hirth, too, of course," he adds to the man, his eyes straying to the serving table as people line up on both sides of the table. "Mm. Bright of them," he remarks vaguely. Taking a step forward to join the line, he glances back around at G'thon. "Can I get you anything as well, sir?" he offers generously.
B'ren snorts softly into his pasta. Smart. Yeah, sure. Hungry is more like it. Taking his plate he returns to his seat, eating with one hand while the other continues to hold the ice pack against his jaw. He darts a glance to G'thon, wondering if he's heard from Lexine yet. Surely if B'ren was to be punished he would have pulled him aside by now, right? He hopes so.
G'thon lifts his chin just slightly and turns his head, a gesture suggesting stretching of a sore neck as much as it allows him to review his wingleader's natter and/or ruse from the corners of his eyes. They twinkle a little, just there, for that. "I am always well when the Weyr is well - and it never hurts for the Caucus to show off its best advantages," the older man notes, and falls into step a half-stride behind E'sere in approach of the serving table. "Thank you, Wingleader. I'll get my own - perhaps you can suggest what's best to sample tonight. I haven't had a chance to hire an informant from the kitchens yet." Apparently, if punishment is upcoming for B'ren, public humiliation is not on the menu.
Ceriyne looks tired and walks like she's carrying a great deal of weight with her as she enters. With her shoulders slumped, she massages the side of her head as she moves out of the infirmary toward the far end of the living cavern. Food is obviously sought, though her surroundings aren't paid all that much attention to. As she walks, she stifles a large yawn. Several feet and closing, she finally seems to notice the crowd at the table and it draws her to an abrupt halt. A debate rages silently, though in the end the need for food wins out. Resuming her walk toward the table, Ceriyne positions herself at the end of the line.
Map of Ista Weyr
This map is drawn on a rather large hide and sketches the layout of Ista Weyr. The bowl is drawn with the Star Stones labeled. The main rooms are drawn in around the bowl, labeled in neat handwriting. The lines are a perfect thickness too! While it's clearly not a professional work, anyone going to Ista with this map is sure to know their way around - and that is the point of a map is it not? In the bottom corner is the name "B'ren". It hangs on one of the walls in the Living Cavern, proudly tacked up for all to see.
E'sere quirks a brow, allowing himself a slight smirk of his own as Aysha moves off. "Of course, sir. It seems like a very good group this time," he remarks, ambling forward to join the line, just behind Ceriyne. He glances briefly over the young woman from behind, then turns to peer back at G'thon. "Hmm. The mixed vegetables are excellent, sir, as is the baked herdbeast," he suggests. Despite his recommendations, however, he fills his plate with other, lighter fare when he reaches the food.
B'ren spots Ceriyne and follows her with his eyes. He gets to his feet and moves over to stand behind her in line, despite having a full plate of food already. "Do you not like me?" he asks her point-blank. He may have cut in front of E'sere, but he doesn't seem to notice. Perhaps he didn't.
"Oh, they're almost always very good groups, I'd say," the Weyrleader muses as if distracted, turning to consider the spread provided for the feast at the precise time required to allow E'sere that visual once-over of aftward Ceriyne without notice from the older man. A nod, perhaps, to the wingleader's suggestion, he takes a thin strip of the herdbeast for his plate, accenting it with white cheese and black bread and plain raw greens. "You've met some of the new ones already, I hope?" Slight suggestion taints that tone, like G'thon considers such meeting a good idea.
"Why would you even ask me that?" Ceriyne appears curious and not the least bit offended by his blunt question. She shuffles forward when the line moves, but manages to keep her attention split between the greenrider and the food she begins to pile onto her plate. "I mean, I didn't do anything to make you think that, I hope?"
E'sere retreats a hasty half-step backward as B'ren barges into place with Ceriyne, though careful to avoid bumping G'thon in turn. He fixes the greenrider with a disapproving look. "/I'm/ not particularly fond of you at the moment," he drawls to the man, shaking his head. Howeever, for all his flat words, he seems to pay the pair little mind, just so long as they don't hold up the line too long. "A few, sir, a few," he tells G'thon noncommittally. "I plan on meeting more, though; I thought it best to let them settle in a bit first. There'll be many more days for meetings."
B'ren shrugs a shoulder, "I dunno, you left kind of fast and I thought I saw you angry for a second. I just thought I'd check. I'm new here and already have a few enemies, I need as many friends as I can get," he says hopefully, with what he hopes is a winning smile. He turns to look back at the Wingleader and smirks, "Yeah? Get in line," he mutters. His tone isn't challenging or condescending, rather it's sad. "I'm not in line to get food, just to talk," he assures. So it's not really cutting.
The Weyrleader is, indeed, the place where the back-stepping stops; he seems unconcerned with the proximity of Lexine's son, and his smile even creeps a bit farther upward on the one side. But it's past E'sere, to B'ren, G'thon speaks. "If you are trampled in a stampede of hungry members of Caucus, then, greenrider, we will not be able to punish them for it." A little wry, he adds, "Despite their enthusiasm it is they and their instructors who have first rights to our tables tonight. - And you should share a table with some, if you have time, Wingleader." And the tall, gloss-headed man steps back from the fray, apparently content with what's on his plate, to allow others in at that baked herdbeast.
Ceriyne only becomes aware of E'sere's presence when he speaks, and she pauses in her food gathering to look over her shoulder toward him. The knot is noted, drawing a faint frown and a less then pleasant look leveled toward him, but she quickly looks back toward B'ren. "It wasn't you. I just had things to do and, well, the weyrwoman seemed displeased enough, I didn't think sitting around would've been the right thing to do." Food collected, Ceriyne pauses to get a drink before moving to select a seat. A quieter askance toward B'ren follows, "That isn't him, is it?" A backward nod of her head toward E'sere follows.
E'sere eyes B'ren, arching a brow slightly. "I /am/ in line," he points out, rather mildly now. His response to that unpleasant glare from Ceriyne is a slight smile and a dip of his head toward her. Then, glancing again back to G'thon, he finishes loading his own plate and steps away as well in mimicry of the older rider. "Of course, sir--a very good idea," he tells the Weyrleader with a quick nod of complete agreement. "I'm sure they'd feel more welcome for the company."
B'ren shakes his head at Cerinye as he heads to his seat, pulling out a chair near his for her if she wishes to join him. "No. -He-," the one they're talking about, "probably has a bruised nose." He flashes a cocky grin at the Weyrleader and waves a hand, "Of course not." He's just a greenrider. Caucus members would /never/ get in trouble for something as minor as the trampling of a greenrider. Dark humor takes hold as he sits down again. "Not all Caucus members are so bad though," he admits, giving voice to his thoughts, "I've met some really nice ones."
Miniyal enters through the tunnel that leads from the upper caverns.
Miniyal has arrived.
Miniyal
It is her eyes that usually draw attention first. In an otherwise unnoticeable face, they shine like twin sapphires. Nut-brown hair, never quite completely tied back, frames her face and falls down to her mid back where free. A strong pointed chin, combined with well-rounded cheeks, makes this young woman look almost unfinished, as if whoever designed her got bored half way through and wiped their hands of the mess. Her expressions are usually guarded, a slight smile, the barest grimace, as if she is afraid to show her true self to just anyone. She stands straight, usually stiffly, and her movements are carefully controlled, once again as if she is afraid to let go and relax. Her height is unassuming, barely meeting the average range and then only so long as she stands up straight.
For clothes she wears a plain black dress with a high neck and long sleeves. The sleeves widen at the ends and have blue ribbons around the cuffs so she can tie them back when needed. The loose, formless dress conceals her sedentary build well enough, but there's no way to entirely conceal the fact she's heavy. Were she taller she might carry this extra weight better, but instead she just looks short and pudgy. On her feet are black boots, nothing special about them, but they look new or at least very well cared for.
"It makes them more well-rounded, too, I believe, to meet their peers outside of their circle." At this point it may become unclear as to whom the Weyrleader's advice is really directed - and again B'ren distracts him, as something a little louder in that now-distant conversation causes a dimming of the tall man's eyes and a thinning of his one-sided smile. A murmur in his throat is his only musing remark on the topic, however, and he turns to head for his wing's usual table instead. That table is currently dressed with cloth and wines, as most of the others are, and the dressing is signal that the Weyr's members are invited to take any seat, anywhere, to mix and mingle and enjoy - but G'thon heads for -his- table just the same, and for his chair. "Do as I say," he murmurs sotto voce to the wingleader, "and not as I do, you know."
Ceriyne hmms softly in response while following after B'ren. The offered seat is taken, with as minimal fuss as possible. "I suppose I can keep an eye out for him then, if he ever does decide to show up to get his nose looked at." Comments on trampling and caucus members are ignored, if only for the fact that they're not truly directed her way, at least not until B'ren's last statement reaches her. With a sideways look toward him, she muses, "A collection of all sorts, isn't it?"
It is only poor luck that sends Miniyal on her way into the living cavern just as a much taller, in a hurry, individual is on her way out. The collision would have been a silent affair, the former records keeper not carrying anything, but the woman ran into squawks about her shoes and that sends Miniyal into a stuttering apology. She is very quiet about it, but those close by will notice the incident and the way the red-faced pudgy woman sidles by the glaring woman and keeps her head down as she follows the wall around the room, seeming to be doing her best to not hit anyone else. Or run into a table. Judging by the way some people watch her warily it seems as if that is not an unexpected event.
E'sere nods slowly to G'thon, adopting a slight smirk at the Weyrleader's words. "Yes, sir," he agrees; and despite his words to the contrary, he seems more intent on tailing the Weyrleader than venturing toward a few of the new Caucus members. "It's what they're here for, after all. It would be quite a waste if they didn't," he adds to the older man, stepping over to the table with him. Before seating himself, he skims the living cavern vaguely, though eyes rest just a second longer on B'ren and Ceriyne before sliding away, across Miniyal and her victim and finally back to G'thon. The young wingleader settles into a seat nearby, a nod his answer to the Weyrleader's aside. "Yes, sir," he agrees.
B'ren nods thoughtfully at Ceriyne as he begins to twirl his pasta onto his fork. "Indeed. I've met some rather charming folks. And some folks I want to avoid for the rest of my life. Nice ones, and arrogant ones. All sorts, yes." Not the diplomatically minded, he doesn't seem to notice or care that the very members he's generalizing about are all around the cavern at the moment. At the commotion he looks up, and spying Miniyal his face bursts into a smile and his eyes dart for the map that's fastened on the wall. Then he leans forward to whisper to Ceriyne, "That's her, the one I stood up for. She hates me."
Magaly enters from the bowl outside.
Magaly has arrived.
Magaly
A plain-featured woman; brown hair, brown eyes, a swathe of freckles from brow to collarbone. Her wavy mane shows a tendancy towards frizz, when let loose hangs to the middle of her back. A soft, oval face hosts wideset eyes with thick, short lashes underneath manly brows. A bold nose, broad over thin, pale lips. Darkly tan, her porous complexion shows the faint etching of wrinkles that she seems too young to posess--but such is the legacy of hard work and time spent in the out-of-doors. She maintains an athletic frame with modest, feminine curvature. A strong set of child-bearing hips widen an already riding-flattened backside.
Her attire is neat; fastidious. While it does not boast of her station, it is still made of fine material and tailored to her form. The blouse is an emerald green, silken material with sailor-cut collar and cuffs. The buttons are hidden beneath a gold-embroidered panel that slims the look of her torso. The neutrality of her slate gray pants only sets the stage for soft, suede boots dyed a deep ebony. The barest of scuffing near the toes suggest a certain amount of use, but an equal amount of care.
A fine assortment of jewelry tastefully accessorizes her outfit: '+detail Magaly's jewelry'.
The living cavern in any Weyr is always easy to find. It's that really large spot with a constant hearth simmering a pot of something and the almost as constant din of noise. Magaly ambles inward, flight jacket still tightly clasped to her person and gloves not yet removed. "Sharding colder than I like it, already," is the thought she mutters out loud.
Heading along the wall as is, it is only a matter of time until Miniyal comes upon the map. Perhaps she has not seen it before, but that implies she avoids the living cavern. Judging by the way she keeps her head down and tries to move quietly and unnoticed that might be the case. The map, however. The map gets her attention. She doesn't hear her so-called defender speak up. Much too busy with cocking her head from the left to the right as a frown forms. Peering closer at it she then begins to snicker, it's not a pretty snicker either. More like high pitched and almost nasally, no girlish giggles from her.
Ceriyne eats as she listens to B'ren, though the lean toward her finds her pulling away quickly, with just a moderate amount of surprise upon her features. Unable to cover for it, she does attempt to keep her embarassment minimal. "Miniyal, right?" Asked quietly while Ceriyne watches the woman's progress with close scrutiny, "Well, like I said...there's all sorts around here now. Not everyone's going to like you." Habitually, G'thon and E'sere's positions are checked, "Who are they? I mean, I know who he is-" G'thon is motioned discretely toward, "The other one though?"
So there they are, then, the Weyrleader in his chair and E'sere nearby, neither of them following the older man's wise, wise advice. And that seems to suit him just fine in the end; he reigns at the table's head with casual indifference to the finery with which the tables are dressed and cuts bits of herdbeast to accompany the season's first tender winter squash on tines of a fork. "Is it, you think?" An aside to the Wingleader, the question is dryly put. His eyes take in arrivals both gracious and less so - the latter including Miniyal's misstep and Magaly's curse. The latter earns a crooked brow.
B'ren looks back over his shoulder, "E'sere," he says, "Bronzerider and wingleader. I wonder if I'll be in his wing." Miniyal's snickers are heard and he grins, "Excellent," he murmurs to Ceriyne, "I drew that map - long story - I'm glad she's amused by it. And listen to that laugh! My gosh, like a dying wherry."
As the general noise of so many people talking begins to materialize into individual conversations, Magaly allows the snippets heard here and there to wash over. There are more important things to attend than the current gossip, as of yet. "Something hot, and preferrably alcoholic?" she asks a passerby on their way out. A finger points to the obvious assortments on yon serving tables. "Thanks, chap," the gloves, now slipped off, are snapped in friendly-like manner against the fellow's shoulder. It earns Magaly's retreating back a quizzical look, but she's off and away for that something hot-and-alcoholic. As she goes, a surreptitious glance rounds the nearby tables and a bobbing nod greets those that meet her eye.
E'sere arches his brows, pausing in his dinner to study G'thon. "You think otherwise, sir?" he counters after a moment. He busies himself cutting small pieces from his meat for a few seconds, before continuing without glancing up. "Is it not to let the best and brightest of Pern's young leaders meet and share experiences while learning from the older and wiser?" he asks, sounding like a textbook's definition of the Caucus. He flashes a wry smirk at his dinner companion. "Perhaps I'm mistaken. I certainly didn't have anything to do with it's creation--that was Mother's domain."
"Yeah, I got the bronzerider part." Ceriyne remarks dryly. Looking back toward B'ren, she asks, "Do you want to be in his wing? I mean, I know you guys really don't get a choice, but... if you did, would his be it?" The later of B'ren's statement once more gains a small smile and shake of her head, "At least you have a good sense of humor."
Miniyal is more than amused and she continues to snicker, one hand finally clapped over her mouth in an attempt to stifle the less than pleasing noise. When that mostly works, amusement partially stifled she turns around, eyes searching the room without managing to quite look at anyone. Instead she just lets her attention pass over forms until they find a figure that is almost recognizable. When she finds this she focuses more and then heads towards B'ren, a determined look in her eyes and on her way she manages to run into a few tables, mumbling embarrassed apologies.
Jerion enters through the tunnel that leads from the upper caverns.
Jerion has arrived.
Jerion
As yet unbowed by age, this tall man seems to carry an air of congenial knowledge about him. His wavy hair cascades down past his shoulders, silvering at both temples, his neatly-trimmed goatee also featuring silver hairs. Wherry-tracks grace his blue eyes, as yet unclouded with rheum. A body still slim from turns of travel, he still hasn't acquired more than a slight sag to his gut. Aside from wrinkles on his weathered and ruddy face, his age is best noted by the stains of his past life on his hands and forearms. Old varnish stains seem to have permanently marred the skin on his fingers and on the back of one palm, while there are a few tiny scars on either forearm, reminders of old accidents in the workshop.
Jerion is wearing a set of clothes that is easily seen as high quality, befitting his rank. The black wherhide boots show no mar, their soles properly fitted and unworn. Above, he's got a pair of trous on, tucked into the boot at the upper calf, the trous made of warm black fabric. A matching belt holds the pants up, a silver tooled buckle keeping it in place. A pair of grey leather pouches are threaded onto the belt, and nestled on his right hip is a well-made beltknife. His grey shirt is of light fabric, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up comfortably. On his shoulder is a master's knot, the colors blue and white of the harper craft. He's also wearing a harper master's pin, a silver harp cradling a flawless sapphire. Next to that is the hammered pin of the Caucus, this one made of silver as well. Often in one or the other hand if he's standing or walking is a well-tooled cane or staff, which he can be seen leaning upon if they're in hand.
The mention of alcohol has B'ren looking around, and he tips a hand to his forehead towards Magaly with a grin. He looks back to Ceriyne and shrugs, "I don't know. Haven't heard anything good or bad about him as far as wingleading goes. I want to be in a wing where the leader keeps us alive in Threadfall." He gives a jaunty wave to Miniyal as she approaches. "So what do you think?"
Another low museful noise in the Weyrleader's throat, an entree to his reply. "They're young people, E'sere." He sets down what will only be his third bite of his meal, resting the fork against the edge of the plate with the handle on the table, overturned. For this remark, containing the wingleader's name, he lowers his voice considerably, but it's the light in those crinkle-rimmed eyes that conveys the real tone in his perfectly level speech. "Surely they have their own personal motivations." Then he's taking the fork up anew, only to add, "You should visit with them," before closing his mouth around that morsel.
Magaly returns the casual salute B'ren throws her way in kind. Upon arrival at the mulled wine, she finds a mug fit for a Lord and fills it to the brim. Quick, mincing sips bring it down to allow room for a small refill and then Magaly's on the road to satisfaction. /Now/ she can socialize. Tucking her gloves in the links of her gold belt, the plain-faced woman slowly meanders towards the larger of the groups gathered. Without a word, though she nods to B'ren and his tablemates again, Magaly takes a seat and cocks a foot on the edge of the table. Pushing back to rest her chair on two legs, she flicks her interested gaze to each face in turn.
"No doubt." Ceriyne responds as she glances toward Miniyal. More food is taken in in the lapse that follows, though long before she's able to finish the full meal, a small boy steps up to her side and tugs on her sleeve. Ceriyne stops to look toward him, and bends closer to recieve the whisper that follows. With a soft sigh, she stands and moves with him toward the infirmary entrance without so much as a wave to B'ren or those at their table.
"What do I think?" Miniyal repeats, her tone filled with all sorts of things, the most obvious amusement and annoyance. "It's terrible! It looks nothing at all like it should. The lines are hideous. Do you even know how to set a pen to a hide?" Shaking her head she stomps her foot. "It's not at all done properly and it looks terrible. How could you put something like that up? It's incorrect!" She's full on into explaining the problems with the map and doesn't really notice arrivals and departures with more than a quick glance.
Ceriyne moves into the infirmary.
Ceriyne has left.
B'ren dips his head with a smile for Magaly, eyes taking in her knot. "Evening, Weyrwoman. High Reaches Weyr's duties. You're welcome to join this table, but we're the lower cavern workers and less important dragonriders." He grins and nods towards where G'thon and E'sere sit, "They're our Weyrleader and a Wingleader. Bronzeriders and perhaps more aligned to your taste in company?" He's not being rude, just assuming she's lost and sat at the wrong table by mistake. "Tell me though, how is the wine? I've yet to try it." He turns to regard Miniyal with a grin, "But it's a map, isn't it? Someone looking at it knows how to get around, right? And it's already done. I'd say it's more effective than the one you've got in your possession, which no doubt doesn't even have the bowl outline finished." His eyes twinkle at the merry banter.
A soft clacking noise presages a now-familiar form to the High Reaches living cavern. Jerion is moving slowly this day, using his cane as a staff isn't really good for maneuvering quite so well indoors. Tap, tap, tap. The aging headmaster looks around as the smell of food and the sound of chatter assault his senses. With a slight smile of fondness for one of the two, he moves amongst the tables, nodding when greeting, pausing to give a minor pleasantry hither and yonder, a whole half-bow of courtesy when he spies a certain Magaly somewhere he wouldn't have ordinarily have expected it, before stopping near the Weyrleader's table. "Weyrleader, wingleader," he greets politely, his smile not quite bland, merely acknowledging the other two's presence and their ranks in the expected formal way. "Edible today?" he asks, his hand flickering very briefly at the meals in front of those at the Weyrleader's table, the tone in the harper's voice either very arch, or he's teasing someone somewhere.
Seated with G'thon at the Weyrleader's table, E'sere is paying no mind to the various conversations circulating around other nearby tables, instead focusing his attention on the other man. "That's hardly exclusive to the young, sir," he points out with a shrug that dulls the edge in his words. "But, if you insist, I'd be happy to. I'll leave you in peace. Good evening, sir. Master, I was just on my way out, actually, if you'll excuse me." Bidding the Weyrleader and Jerion good-bye, the wingleader finishes picking over his food, having hardly touched it, and passes the plate off to a kitchens worker. Then, he rises, inclines his head to G'thon, and ventures across the cavern, toward B'ren's table. "Now, now. Don't slight yourself. You're all important to us, of course," he tells the greenrider with a smirk, arriving in time to catch a few of his words. "I wanted to apologize for my... brusqueness, earlier. Hunger makes a man snappish," he adds.
Miniyal folds her arms over her chest and glares more at B'ren. "I will have you know," she informs him imperiously, "My map is three quarters of the way done. And it is -accurate-. Which is what is in important. People need to be able to look at a map and know exactly what they are seeing. Not just. . .just what you think it should look like. I saw three errors on it. The lines are too thick. One side curves improperly. There's a half inch too much on the south side." Shaking her head she looks over at the map hanging on the wall. "People would not be able to judge correctly if what they are seeing is correct. A proper map takes time."
Magaly glances towards the hotly contested map for later reference, it's vaguely in the direction of E'sere and G'thon's noted presence. Lest they think her wary, studying gaze rude, she lofts the mug and warms her lips into a smile for salute. "Ah, I think I recognize them vaguely, I'll remember to thank them for providing the good wine." Mag admits to B'ren with a dry tone. Instead of deterring the man from his debate or the newly arrived bronzerider's apology, she merely slips the quiet rebuttal in: "I could count more Weyrwomen who were dredged up from the lower caverns of their own Weyr than I could of those nobly born." A wink, and she's back to nursing the mulled wine.
B'ren turns and smiles up at E'sere, extending a hand to the man, "Not to worry," he says with a grin, "hunger does that to the best of us." He then looks at Miniyal, his brows lifted and an expression of 'are you serious?' on his face. "It's accurate," he assures, "I was born and raised there remember." He turns then and grins at Magaly, "Welcome to the Table, then, ma'am." Clearly pleased with her view of things in general. He returns her wink.
"Hardly indeed," murmurs G'thon, but the words are meant for himself, as if some sense of satisfaction has been derived from succeeding in inspiring that dull tone and that sharp mood from his Weyrwoman's son. He closes his mouth around another bite of his meal at exactly the right moment to use it, with smiling eyes and a welcoming gesture, as excuse to allow the wingleader to make his excuse and escape before conversation with Jerion truly begins - then the Weyrleader swallows, and rises even, putting his one-sided smile very wide indeed for the headmaster's appearance. "My opinion of what's edible is far from the refinement of a harper's palate, Jerion. Still, I'm sure there's something there meant for you. It's practically your celebration, after all." Tease for tat, and G'thon comes around the side of the table, abandoning his seat in apparent gladness for the other man's arrival.
Jerion swivels his gaze around the living cavern with a keen eye. "You would be surprised what a harper's palate might be suited for, my dear Weyrleader," the headmaster answers with a slight nearly-genuine smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "And aside from the graduation, why on Pern would any of this be for me, hmm? It should be for those who excelled so. I merely encouraged them," he adds in a genuine-sounding humble tone. "I simply hope they will occasionally remember their time here and put their lessons to good use for the benefit of us all."
E'sere offers his own hand to B'ren, his apology accepted. "Indeed, it does," he agrees, before glancing briefly at the map that's such a source of contention. Perhaps wisely, he doesn't add his own comments, instead focusing an appraising look on Magaly. "Weyrwoman," he greets her politely, tilting his head. "Don't let me interrupt your dinners or your conversation." Though, despite his words, he seems in no hurry to run off, instead loitering just next to them.