[Log] Questions and Answers
Who: Lassen, Sria, Tadiere (NPC)
When: Unknown
Where: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr; Galleries, High Reaches Weyr; Candidate Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
What: Sria's Sruth searches Lassen.
Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr
The impressive living cavern is seemingly as large as the bowl that cradles the hatching sands. Rivers of polished wood tables and benches arrow towards a raised platform crowned with a compact version of their sturdy design. Neatly crafted pegs, some fancifully carved, are tapped into holes in the wall and support clothing dangling like lazy sleepers. Woven baskets, both useful and decorative, hang along another wall. The air is redolent with the smell of burning conifer wood blended with the myriad odors of the bakery's spices and the kitchen's succulent offerings. Banners worked with the designs of Holds and Halls beholden to the weyr cascade down the walls high above, interspersed with several brilliantly colored tapestries. The clink of cutlery harmonizes with the flowing river of talk and gossip as the weyrfolk gather for a hearty evening meal.
Contents:
Sria
Jemah
Large Ale Cask
Tray of Bubblies
Firelizard Perch
Obvious exits:
Kitchen Bowl Lower Caverns
Sria
Sria is all lean muscle and sharp form, her 5'6" frame and some thirty Turns carried with assurance. Haphazard waves in shadowy blonde end just below her chin, the color contrasting elegant, sienna eyebrows and darker lashes that line greyed-greenish eyes, luminous for the thoughts behind them if not their muted hue. A paler tan outfits her modest figure; a few barely-there freckles lie in waiting.
All the dye on Pern could not get her top any greener - a shallow neckline rests at the very ends of her shoulders and vees below collarbones' hollow center, shade broken only for the dark-threaded Weyrsecond knot looping one sleeve. Trous are black, blacker, blackest only in comparison to not-unworn boots.
In an out-of-the-way seat, watching the raucous business of mealtime in the caverns but not particularly taking part, sits Sria, with a glass cupped in both hands and an empty tabletop before her. She seems thoughtful, even slightly distant, though not completely - for when a bluerider at the Snowstrike table tips his chair too far and pitches rather comically backwards, a small chuckle escapes her.
Lassen is part of this noisy scene, laughing and cutting up and mocking that unfortunate bluerider mercilessly. However, while most of his tablemates, a group of boys about his own age, continue the discussion along a rapidly downhill path, Lassen shakes his head with a grin and eases away, back up to the serving table. He gets a fresh drink and a few desserts before heading to a seat; rather than rejoin the pack he sat with earlier, he heads for a quieter spot, near Sria. "Whew. Seems busier than normal," he remarks, taking a sip of his drink and shooting a glance over at Sria. He sprawls gracelessly in a chair, adopting a crooked grin.
Sria blinks, though the reverie doesn't seem to have held enough of her attention to really be broken. She slides a glance Lassen's way and returns the grin. "Does it? But no less enjoyable." She lifts her chin toward the recently-toppled bluerider, who's now hiding an alarmingly pink flush in his plate, and then discreetly looks around again. "How's dessert? - Desserts," she amends, eyeing his plate.
Nodding enthusiastically, Lassen remarks, "Yeah, that's what makes it entertaining. But sometimes, it's fun to just watch the rest of 'em. Not often, though." He grins, then eyes his plate. "Good, I'm hoping. Was last night, anyway, and the night before that, and the night before... Well, you get the point. I'm Lassen, by the way. You're the one from the thingy, right? The sands, I mean," he queries, tilting his head slightly. He pauses to allow her to respond, or perhaps just to stuff a pastry in his mouth.
Sria grins at the recognition, or the food-shoveling, "Thingy, yes. One of the ones. I'm Sria; well met, Lassen. The desserts are, in my opinion, always good, but then, I'm not picky." She leans over to more closely study his plate, then says, "But I am especially partial to the unconventional ones. Make sure to tell me your favorite," for all that she appears to be long finished with her own meal.
Lassen's brows arch; his grin broadens. "Me, either," he notes. "I mean, there's not much point to it, I don't think. I mean, food's food--it's all good. But, well, dessert /is/ best. Um. I like these thingies--" he holds up one of the pastries "--right now, because we didn't have 'em back at the hold--High Reaches Hold, that is--that's where I'm from, you know--anyway, we didn't have them there. And they're really good. Dunno what they call them, but hey. Names're just names. So... Sria? Oh, boy. There's too many S-names lately; I can't keep them all straight." He bounces gleefully from one subject to another.
"Well," Sria counters. "It's not -all- good, though that's mostly due to preparation. Or skill in the kitchens. Anyway, High Reaches Hold? How long have you been at the Weyr, then?" Glancing out to the ruckus once more, "Long enough to know what mealtimes are like, I gather." For S-names, she smiles, "I've heard that before. Luckily, I've been pinned with one of the shorter ones."
Lassen pauses, chewing thoughtfully on one of his pastries as he debates this. "A while?" he finally answers cryptically. "A few sevendays, maybe a month? I dunno. Wasn't really keeping track," admits the young man with an unconcerned shrug. "And maybe some of it it's better, but most all of it's still edible, you know? The food, I mean." Pause. "Sria. Hmm. Yeah, that is one of the shorter ones, I guess. I met... Sawvano... Savaho... somebody with a name like that the other day, and then Suri, and Suri started talking about Sari, and then I kind of got lost. So maybe I'll just not call anybody by name, and just wave instead. S'easier, right? Right," he answers his own question with a nod.
Sria only smiles for the lack of timeframe, inclining her head, and then even she appears to lose track. "Suri and Sari? I can see the confusion. Of course, there's also Sirana, and Satiet, and all number of others." But she grins, "Easier, sure. Though far less challenging."
"Yeah, I know," Lassen replies, sounding forlorn only for a moment. "But hey, I'm not above the easy way out, y'know? Simple's good. And Suri and Sari are sisters, so it gets worse. I think Suri said twins, too, so I can see me now, chasing one of them down to talk and then having entirely the wrong one. Bad enough the names are alike, you know?" He mocks a shudder, grinning crookedly all the while.
Sria laughs, shaking her head, "Twins, and their parents named them - ? Sisters is bad enough." A statement that would hold true out of context, too. "Well, it won't be hard to remember them collectively, at the least, hm. Speaking of S-names, however, I was planning to head over to the sands to join one of my favorites of the bunch." Three guesses who that could be. "Have you seen the eggs yet, Lassen?"
A passing caverns worker singsongs softly as she passes, "And it's not the rider, I bet."
Lassen nods, then shrugs. "Yeah, I made part of the clutching, but I didn't stay for all of it," he replies. "Didn't take too good a look at 'em, either. I mean, it really didn't seem that... fascinating right then, you know? Sorry. But I mean, it's walk around, lay an egg, repeat until you run out." He grins, then adds, "But I guess I could look at 'em again now, if you don't mind me tagging along. Who're you meeting?" The question is genuine enough: for all everyone else seems to know, Lassen's oblivious.
"It's all right," Sria says, laughing as she waves a hand, "Don't apologize. Though I will say it's a little more fascinating when your lifemate is one involved. And no, I don't mind." No answer for the last, as she rises and strolls toward the bowl, pausing to stow her mug on the way; perhaps Lassen will just find out.
Quickly, Lassen finishes dessert and drink, leaving his plate and glass on the table as he trails after Sria.
In the Galleries of the High Reaches Weyr Hatching Grounds
Tiers of stone carved benches rise uniformly above the hatching sands, set against both the southern and western walls of the enormous hatching grounds. The warmth radiating from the sands make the cool stone benches a welcome change, especially for sand baked feet. One section of the galleries has been roped off for special spectators, and the seats within have cushions done in the dark blue and black of the Weyr. To the east, the cavern narrows and short flights of steps lead down to the cavern entrance or to the sands themselves. From the galleries, the many dragon ledges are visible, scattered all along the hatching cavern walls.
Down on the sands, a generous clutch of eggs is guarded by the broody Queen mother, lovingly turning them as they harden. Curious visitors and weyrfolk finished with the day's tasks come here to view the eggs, and make their own guesses to what lies within them. Firelizards perch on the benches, watching for any excitement on the sands.
Contents:
Sria
VIP Hospitality Table
Obvious exits:
SAnds Bowl
"That's Sruth, Lassen," Sri says, with a bare nod to the brown dragon as she finds a seat on the risers, "Consider yourselves introduced - and don't mind him if he seems to be in a temper," she adds, as if abruptly prompted. Sruth, for his part, shifts restlessly around the eggs, dark eyes finding the galleries.
On the sands, The fall and rise of Teonath's spine indicates sleep. But the tremor of her lids that seem to have lost their ability to close fully seem to show otherwise. Whether it's feigned or not, however, the gold doesn't spare the galleries more than a soft exhalation of breath that segues into a discomforted rumble.
Lassen peers from Sria to Sruth, blinking in surprise. After a few moments, though, he offers the dragon his most charming grin (that is to say, not very charming at all, but more goofy than anything else) and a wave. "Hi, Sruth. Nice to meet you. Why's he grumpy?" The last is meant to be an aside to Sria, but Lassen's whispering leaves something to be desired--namely, quietness.
On the sands, Sruth has seen his share of charming grins, and those not-so-charming, too. There's a low sound from his throat, a rumble that could, if it weren't for that certain edge, be almost pleasant.
Sria sends a sharp look Sruth's way and then glances back to Lassen, not apologetic, but considering. "Not -grumpy-, really, though I do find myself saying that a lot. He's protective, and every now and then he has his moods. Like anyone. Anyway, was there any particular egg you liked, of those you saw?"
"Oooh, I see," Lassen says, nodding slowly. "Guess I can't blame him there. Bet lots of people are always circulating through here, bugging him--I'm surprised she can just sleep right on through it." He gestures toward Teonath. "I mean, I sure couldn't. Too much excitement, you know? But I kind of like that one, I think. Or that--oh, that's a nice one. That one wasn't there last time I was here." He points at a succession of eggs before asking, "Which one do you like? Is there a way to tell what'll come out of 'em? Somebody said 'no', but I dunno. I mean, there's really no pattern at all to it? My brother, he thinks there's some kind of pattern or system or something behind everything, so I'd love to be able to rub it in his face that he was wrong." A wistful grin overtakes his expression at that sublime thought.
On the sands, Proving ever more helpful by the moment, Sruth takes this time to position himself between galleries and eggs, obscuring all that he can of those already partially buried shells. The brown's dark expression only intensifies, eyes spinning, though it remains all for the newly-arrived - Teonath's respite receives none of his apparent ire, not even a lingering trace.
"He's not _usually_ as particular about visitors as I would have expected, actually," says Sria, and she considers the teenager again before turning to the eggs. "I like them all," she answers honestly, and smiles, "it's difficult not to. -I've- never been suspicious of a pattern, and that's the official word so far as I've heard it - save gold eggs, of course - but everyone you ask will have a different theory. The only one I've ever relied on, however, is that it won't be what's first expected. - Sruth, cut it out," is pitched lower, at the brown's antics, and she then ignores her lifemate to ask Lassen, "Is your brother older, then?"
Lassen grins at Sruth, snickering slightly at his behavior. "I'd just be curious, you know? Not exactly particular. But anyway. Nah, he's about a turn younger than me--makes it worse, I think. You ever been upstaged by your little brother? Or sister. But eh, it don't matter, really. We get along mostly; he's just always right and it's kind of annoying. Me, I usually don't even know there's a question to answer." He shrugs good-naturedly.
On the sands, Sruth now stretches his tail out, as if to block as much of the view as possible, and growls a dark discontent - with quiet, vicious ferocity and an all but murderous glare to match - in the direction of the galleries. It's enough to send three young candidates, already chatting and comparing notes in the second-to-last row, up another level.
Sria seems to approve, ever slightly, of Lassen's reaction to her overdramatic dragon. "He's curious, too. About most things. - A Turn younger, hm. I've younger sisters, older brothers. Upstaged, well." The Weyrsecond only grins, veiling her answer, and then says, "You know, I think you and R'sel would get along. He's another brownrider." Make note. Sruth's next earns a sharper tone, the rarely-voiced command, "Enough."
Blithely oblivious to the nature of Sruth's movements, Lassen only waves a hand airily and nods, still smiling at the dragon and his eggs. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Got one older sister, two younger, and then there's my brother and a few foster-siblings, too. But I like it that way, so," he answers breezily. Then, squinting as he tries to place the name, he finally admits, "R'sel, don't think I know him. You'll have to introduce us some day, you know? Bet I would like him--I like most people."
As Sruth growls again, this time louder and, somehow, hungrier - more urgent - Sria turns with brief incredulity toward her lifemate. "Faranth," she mutters, but instead of further command - or any indication at all that her dragon's not about to eat someone - she turns back to Lassen, and now she seems amused, apart from the conversation at hand. "I'll do that, and the same could be said for him. Sruth," she then says, addressing the increasingly more impolite brown, "will calm down in just a moment. He'd like me to ask you a question, Lassen. Up for it?"
"Demanding little things, aren't they?" Lassen notes with a grin for Sruth and Sria both. "Well, maybe not so much little, but you know what I mean. But yeah, sure. Go ahead. Do I get to ask him a question, too, after I answer this one?" Curiously, he edges forward in his seat, peering at both the rider and her dragon.
"Save the 'little' part," Sria agrees, "They very much are. And I think, if your answer is yes, he may just let you ask him something in return." Indeed, Sruth seems to be settling down again, the whirl of his eyes slowing considerably. Sri continues, "What he's been very difficult about indicating, Lassen, is that he'd like you to stay here at the Weyr for a while more, and Stand as a candidate for that clutch out there. Teonath's clutch, his clutch." As if those words, once spoken, strike a chord, she's silent another moment and then says, "Will you accept?"
"Really? Huh," Lassen remarks, brows arching at Sria's first words. Her relaying of the question, though, leaves him a bit more dumbfounded and openly gawking. "Me? A candidate? Are you serious? Are /you/ serious?" He peers from Sria to Sruth, eyes wide. "Wow. I mean, that's--wow. Yeah! I mean, I'd love to. That's a big honor, right? That's what everybody keeps saying. This is really great: my brother's never had /anything/ like this happen. I am /so/ going to gloat. Oh, and I gotta tell Lisle--bet she'll be happy--and then Sari, Suri, whoever it is, you know. But yeah, I'll do it!" In his sudden enthusiasm, any talk of his own question for Sruth seems forgotten.
Sria grins at the reaction, "Wonderful. He's rather pleased," with a nod to her dragon. Very serious indeed. "Shall we head to the barracks? I can give you the quick look about, and you can move your things from the dorms, send for whatever else you may need, later." And without waiting for a reply - though she does make sure he's following - she heads out to the bowl once more.
Candidate Barracks
This is a large, high ceilinged cavern cut from the rock. There are rows of depressions on the floor, couches for the young dragons who will soon live here. For now, cots have temporarily been brought in for the candidates while they bide their time, waiting for the exciting day when the eggs will hatch. Men keep to one side and women to the other. At the foot of each cot lies a small press for storing clothing and other small items.
The cavern has been decorated with old dragon tapestries hung on the walls, their colors slightly faded. A threadbare rug in the middle of the room bears the emblem of High Reaches Weyr, a mountain range in black on a dark blue field. A few low tables, chairs, and pillows have been scattered about the room, and baskets of glows placed strategically throughout the room keep the place well-lit. An opening in the southwest leads out into the Bowl.
Contents:
Sria
Candidate Cots
Firelizard Perch
Obvious exits:
Weyrling Training Room Bowl
"Here you are," Sria says, taking a moment to regard the barracks and skirt a card game to her left. "Boys on one side, girls on the other. Claim a cot, there's a press for each, and -" she walks over to a spare press and, from its depths, pulls out a white-threaded High Reaches Weyr Candidate's knot. "You'll want to wear this," she says, handing it over. "Congratulations, Lassen. Now, there's the chore board," indicating with a flick of her wrist, "which you'll need to check every day. The official rules are up there, too, and your Candidate Coordinators are Matheny, L'ian, and Thiana." Got all that?
Still gaping as he enters the candidate barracks, Lassen swivels his head all about to take in the sights of this new place. "Wow, nice," he remarks, glancing from the rug to the tapestries to the cots. "I like it. Homey." He nods again to himself, then flops unceremoniously on the end of one cot, hopefully unclaimed, for the time being. "All right. Cot, knot, and chores. Thanks," he remarks, accepting the knot and sliding it into one pocket. "Matheny, L'ian, and who--Therian? Don't know any of 'em, but I guess I will before long. I think I got it, though. I mean, how hard can it be?" He grins brightly. Poor, delusional boy.
A auburn haired girl peeks up from her cot, where she's spending the last minutes of the day reading a letter. Her gaze flicks upward, a bit dreamy still from the letter's contents no doubt and she offers the new arrivals a lazy grin, "Hallo there, ma'am," that for Sria, "I'm Tadiere! Stay away from there," she advises, pointing to a corner, "Dorn sleeps there and he kind of...," her voice trails off, but she does wrinkle her nose and mimes pinching her nose. When he sits, she grins and returns to her reading.
"Thiana," Sria says, and makes no comments on Lassen's delusions. "You'll meet them." - "'Evening, Tadiere," she greets. "You're welcome to call me Sria, you know, or at least Weyrsecond, if you must," said as if the words have become routine, before she turns back to Lassen. "Have any questions for me? Or," she adds, with a grin, "for Sruth."
Lassen jumps up like something's bitten him, rubbing the seat of his pants and eyeing the cot warily. "Dorn kind of what?" he asks dubiously, grimacing. "I'm Lassen, by the way. Are all these taken? I'm not sure I trust what some of these people might do to their cots." He eyes the rest of the nearby cots uncertainly, before taking a ginger seat back down on the one by him. "So, Thiana, got it. And oh! The question. Um. Huh. I didn't really have anything in mind--it just seemed like the right thing to suggest. Maybe lemme think on it a while, so I can come up with a really, really good one?" he suggests, grinning.
"Wise move," says Sria, ignoring all talk of candidate odors. "Let me know. And feel free to ask questions of me, should you think of them, as well. Congratulations, again; it was a pleasure meeting you, Lassen."
"Sria," the girl's light lashes flick up to reveal saucy grey eyes. "Definitely Sria then, I wasn't sure, you know, with you being the Weyrsecond'n all." Tadiere flashes Lassen the quickest of grins, completely clever in the way her eyes shift from dreamy to alert, "Dorn smells. He doesn't take baths if he can help it, and we're thinking of pushing him into the lake sometime when it's not all frozen. Wanna help?"
Lassen wrinkles his nose, noting succintly, "Ew." Quickly, he nods. "Yeah, definitely, I'll help. Bet if we tried hard enough, we could break the ice somehow and dump him in. Or--hey!--we could melt it somehow, like with hot water or something, and then throw him in." Pause. "Although maybe the lake's not such a good idea. I mean, I wouldn't want to drown him, or freeze him. And anyway, I'm betting what he really needs is not just water, but sweetsand. And I am /not/ scrubbing him. Ew." Again, he grimaces, before glancing at Sria. "Yeah, okay. I well. Nice to meet you, too--and Sruth. Tell 'im thanks for me again, say?" He beams at the brownrider excitedly.
"Somehow," Sria muses, "Putting someone unwillingly in the lake seems to be a theme every time I'm in here. Good luck, then." With Dorn? Maybe. She echoes, "I will," for Lassen, and steps out.
Sria meanders out to the bowl.
Sria has left.
Tadiere snickers, "You can call me Taddie. Most people do," she waves the letter around, so it draws the new candidate's attention, "My brother does, you know. He sent me all the news from home. I've been here since the clutching almost. Not quite. And no, we don't want to scrub him. It'd take a braver man than you, or me, even though I'm not a man, to do that." She considers this new option and then shrugs, "You'll see when he comes by, he's kinda massive, so he could break the ice on his own. I don't know how the healers could stand him."
"Being big's not so bad," Lassen notes thoughtfully, glancing down at himself and shrugging. He scoots back a bit more, making himself at home on the cot that isn't his. "So, Taddie. I've been here at the Weyr for, oh, a while now, but I just got searched." Obviously. "Where're you from? I'm from the Hold--High Reaches Hold, that is--so it's not that far a stretch for me, here. Not in distance, anyway. I've got a little brother myself--only a turn younger than me, but still--but I haven't talked to him in a while."
"Yeah," the auburn haired candidate remarks, "I've seen you around I guess, maybe." Grey eyes go a bit squinty in the attempt to discern whether she really has seen him or not and then ends in a flippant shrug of shoulders. The letter is carefully folded up and tucked beneath her pillow. "Tillek, a great green just came out of nowhere and Searched out a few of us. Two, me'n him over there," she jerks her chin to indicate a quiet looking boy who has the misfortune to have a cot closer to the entrance. "Joon, I think."
Lassen grins, nodding quickly as he glances over at Joon and gives a friendly wave. "Must've been surprising," he remarks, turning back to Tadiere. "I mean, I've seen the dragons come to the Hold--High Reaches Hold, that is--where I lived, and then take some people off. It's kind of interesting. I made a bet one time on who they'd be taking, and Mom got mad at me. I lost, anyway." He shrugs it off with a grin. "Sruth, he was down on the sands, and Sria and I just wandered in to see the eggs. And then he wanted to ask me a question, and that what it, see: d'you wanna be a candidate?"
Tadiere flops backwards onto her cot, limbs spilling off the sides. She's quite long-limbed. "Jays, I thought Tillek got cold in the winter, but it's nothing compared to this. You've got tomorrow off, right? If you want, you can still help us out with feeding grounds duty. A green or two went up today and the feeding grounds is a mess. Usually the herders look after it, but with us around..." the bright-tempered soprano trails off, her disgust apparent. "So anyway, I guess you wanted to be a candidate."
"Yeah, sure," Lassen agrees quickly. "I can help. Do they give us a free day right after we're searched or something? If they don't, I can probably help later on, after I finish whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing," he volunteers. Though, he makes a face at the thought of the chore. "Yeah, I see what you mean. What else are candidates for? Huh? Oh, well. I never really thought about it until now, see? Oh, wait--you meant about Sruth? Yeah, I told him I did. I mean, it's exciting, you know?"
"Sure, sure, no chores on your first day to settle in and candidacy's exciting I suppose," Tadiere curls over on one side, arm tucked beneath her pillow to give Lassen a friendly, if tired, grin, "We don't have to fight Thread, but my family's pretty proud of me still. The last dragonrider in our family was turns and turns ago, some distant cousin of mine got Searched and Impressed at Fort. They're stoked. Y'think your family will be happy for you?"
Lassen nods enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah, definitely!" he exclaims. "I mean, I can't think of nobody in our family that was ever a rider. S'pose somebody way back might've been, but I dunno. Never looked into it." A shrug. "Anyway, not sure I'd wanna fight Thread. Although you gotta admit it'd be exciting if we did get to. We could go out, save the world, be heroes. That'd be really awesome, right?"
A yawn stretches Tadiere's mouth, and she squirms further into her pillow. "We could also die if there was Thread. I'm glad there isn't," but then another yawn splits the girl's face, "Mmm, it was good meeting you, Lassen. And hopefully I'll see you tomorrow before chores claim my brain and my hands." On cue, a great big lunk of a guy comes in, smelling distinctly ... unkempt, though he doesn't look as rumpled as he smells. He passes by and grunts, and then lands on his cot with a thud. The auburn-haired girl leans forward and mouths: 'Dorn,' as if it wasn't obvious.
"Oh, right. That," agrees Lassen, sobering only for a moment. As Dorn enters, though, and wafts by, he grimaces and snickers behind one hand, getting up and edging toward a different cot, one he can claim himself--and well away from the unfortunate Dorn. "Night, Taddie," he calls to the girl, before he sets about settling into this new home.