[Log] Big as a Weyr
Who: Claret, R'dur, St'vren, Tegara
When: Day 11, Month 7, Turn 3
Where: Living Cavern, Telgar Weyr
What: The weyrlings and Claret discuss their growing dragons and all the work that entails over dinner.
Telgar Weyr's Living Cavern
This huge cavern is sufficiently roomy to hold a large portion of the Weyr's population without feeling cramped. There's always a bustle of activity here. Fragrant dishes are constantly in prepartion for mealtimes: currently for the evening meal. Drudges are always present, either cleaning under Pierron's watchful eye, or helping fetch and carry. A myriad of glowbaskets and many ever-lit hearths make the cavern warm and inviting despite its size. The scents of cooking meats, baking breads and pastries, and the pungent aroma of spices hang mouthwateringly in the air. It is little wonder that those seeking to relax nearly always find their way here to do it. Dark summer blooms of vivid hue decorate the tables.
A short tunnel jaunts northward out to the bowl and the merry sounds of cooking, chores, and laughter echo from the kitchen at the southeast end of the cavern near the easterly passage to the rest of the lower caverns. Within the lower caverns is an entrance to the infirmary weyr to care for injured dragons and riders.
Contents:
PLAYERS: R'dur Pierron
OTHER: Telgar Serving Tables
Obvious Exits:
Inner Caverns Kitchen Bowl
Claret
Claret has the form of a young woman of approximately twenty turns. She stands about three inches under six feet, with long slender limbs that fold gracefully when she sits, an effect that is quite at odds with her habit of hastily and unceremoniously arranging her form in whatever awkward position seems most expedient. Her fingers have the slim dexterity of one accustomed to precise handwork and her muscles are toned from active lifestyle and employment. Yet her movement manages never to be quite fluid, frequently enough taking a roundabout path into large objects when she simply cannot spare the attention to watch where she's going. Lightly waved hair so dark brown as to be almost black falls in thick abundance down her back when loose, framing a face of naturally tanned skin and mercurial black eyes.
Claret is dressed in a well-worn tunic of a light golden brown. Breeches and shirt of a darker, dry earth toned brown are worn underneath the tunic, with a brown belt to secure the ensemble. A handy pouch hangs from the belt and sturdy brown boots encase her feet. Her hair is braided back simply and knotted at the base of her neck, and a greenriders knot of black, white, and green is pinned to her shoulder, accompanied by an Icewind patch.
As evening falls, R'dur makes his way into the living cavern with a yawn, covering his mouth with one hand and looking sheepish. He heads toward the serving tables, picking over what's offered as he gathers his meal. Next step: find a seat. He takes the first available one he comes to, and lowers himself gingerly into it to begin his meal.
Claret follows her customary, erratic path as she walks into the large cavern, barely dodging out of the way of a few headlong collisions, since she doesn't really watch where she's going. Yet she makes it to the serving tables unscathed, heaping up a plate as full of dinner as it can get before turning to find the closest place to sit: by R'dur. So it's with a cheery smile that she heads in his direction, setting her plate and self down without waiting for an answer. "Evening! May I join you?"
Tegara walks in from the bowl.
Tegara has arrived.
Tegara
Tegara is your typical adolescent, who suffers from a certain gawkiness of limbs that make her look just a bit uncoordinated, a thing characteristic of her age. She has long reddish-brown hair that she generally keeps pulled back in either a ponytail or a neat braid. Her face is a neat oval, fair skinned and somewhat prone to burning when she has been out in the sun overlong. The sun also brings the red highlights that are naturally present in her hair. Her eyes are wide set, and grey like rock of the hills in which she was born. Her nose is neat and slim, perhaps a trifle long, but not too far out of harmony with the rest of her face. Her mouth is small and rosy-lipped, topping a small, firm chin. The rest of her body is that of a girl on the brink of womanhood -- her bust is just beginning to form and her hips just beginning to broaden. Her arms and legs are beginning to lengenthen and her fingernails tend to be bitten down and a bit grubby, in spite of her best efforts to keep them neat and clean. She is dressed in the everyday work clothes of a weyrlng of Telgar Weyr. She is still wearing a sturdy linen undertunic, heavy canvas trous and stout leather workboots, but her woolen overtunic is now a bluish-grey, all the better to not show dirt, and adorned on the shoulder with the black and white weyrling knot of Telgar, a green thread interwoven in it, the color of her lifemate.
R'dur glances up at Claret's greeting, offering the greenrider a smile and a nod. "Yes, ma'am," he tells her. "Please do. I wouldn't mind the company at all." He gestures toward the seat she's already chosen. "How are you?" He takes a sip of his drink before starting his meal in earnest, working his way through it one item at a time.
"Me?" Claret echoes with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, folding herself comfortably in her seat. "I'm plagued. But still quite well, of course. Hope you're managing well, too?" The question is asked thoughtlessly, and few enough moments are spared for it before she waves her hand dismissively. "Also, that ma'am part, that's not important, you know. If you must call me something formal, because of the rules and what have you, it can be Greenrider. Or such." Which is her way of saying she's not overfond of the appellation.
It is at this time that Tegara enters the living quarters, looking for a bite to eat and some hot cider to wash it down. "Oh hi there R'dur, greenrider Claret," and she sketches a quick salute to the senior rider. "Mind if I join you?" she asks as she collects a plate full of food and a mug of mulled spiced cider to chase the chill of the evening air away.
R'dur hesitates. Then: "Yes... greenrider," he agrees reluctantly, actively wincing at the title. Seems he's less fond of that one than 'ma'am'. "I'm well, yes," he goes on to agree, nodding. "And--hi, Tegara," the weyrling greets the new arrival. "Please, go ahead and have a seat." He gestures to a second empty one as he continues to work his way slowly around his plate.
St'vren walks in from the bowl.
St'vren has arrived.
St'vren
Six feet three inches and still getting used to it, this young man walks with a hint of care and on the lookout for low doorframes. Long-legged and long-armed, his skin is naturally golden-brown, and marked here and there with the tiny burn scars any Smithcrafter falls prey to. Dark brown hair is cropped in a near-burr, as much for practicality as to hide the early signs of a bald spot. His eyes are deep-set and brown, with heavy brows and a dark fringe of lashes. His nose is...prominent (but well-shaped), and his mouth seems permanently set in a small tolerant smile. Cords of muscle are evident in his arms, and the rest of him is correspondingly solid. His hands, also scarred here and there from small burns, are broad and short-fingered with hints of soot under the nails. St'vren has 20 Turns, 9 months, and 23 days.
St'vren is dressed for hard work in all weather, also known as weyrlinghood. A plain black shirt with long sleeves and khaki trous fit comfortably to his big frame, the cuffs tucked neatly into his worn black boots. A battered leather belt with a brass buckle secures everything into a semblance of neatness, if not high fashion. A leather thong loops around his neck; a pale shard of eggshell is hung pendant-style on it. A shoulderknot of black and white, with one bright cord of vivid bronze, marks him as a bronzeriding weyrling at Telgar Weyr.
St'vren comes inside out of the warm night, quite smudged, but looking pleased with himself and the world at large. "Hey everyone. Are there any bubblies left?" He's clearly ready to eat the table if nothing better presents itself.
"Or," Claret suggests cheerfully, "You could call me by Claret. I've always rather liked my name. Luckily enough, since I'm stuck with it. I think." Fingers raise and wiggle in Tegara's direction. "Hullo. Please do. Join us, I mean." Leaving the rest of the gesturing to R'dur, she picks up her fork, preparatory to tucking into her meal. Her motion is temporarily arrested, however, by the entrance of the besmudged St'vren.
"Claret, then," R'dur decides, looking only somewhat relieved. St'vren is a welcome distraction. "I think there might be some," he tells the bronze weyrling, glancing over to the serving table, quite near to them. "There were a couple of minutes ago, anyway, when I came by. How are you, St'vren? Tegara?" He glances curiously between the pair as he picks at the remains of his meal now.
Tegara settles herself next to her brownriding clutchmate and digs into her meal. "Hey, Stav," she says to the new arrival, who is all besmirched and besmudged. "What have you been up to, besides not cleaning up...." She looks over in R'dur's direction. "Hi there, R'dur," she says, observing him idly picking at the remnants of his meal. "Since when did you become such a picky eater?"
St'vren directs a wounded glance at Tegara while he stockpiles most (not all--he left two!) of the remaining bubblies. "Me and Rusuth were practicing landings some more. In the sandy part of the Bowl this time, not the rocky part." He learns so quickly. "I'll go and wash up later so you and Darya won't make faces, I'm just /starving/." Wounded look transforms into wobegone--it's very affecting, really. "How about you and R'dur?"
Claret is nothing near the picky eater that Tegara professes R'dur to be, and she shows it by tucking into her meal heartily, though to her credit, she speaks between mouthfuls. "Good. Glad that's settled." R'dur's obvious relief goes unnoticed, and so he receives another bright smile before her next mouthful. "People," she observes, "Can be much more interesting when they're dirty. Then you can ask them questions about how they got that way. And sometimes the answers are surprising. Come over and sit, if you like," she waves.
R'dur glances down at his plate sheepishly, shurgging toward Tegara. "Well, when I'm mostly done, I just..." He gestures vaguely. He forces a smile, though, and keeps himself from blushing by turning to St'vren. "Anyway. I'm well. How are your landings going now? Alidaeth has been studying the older dragons' technique to make sure he's got everything down. He doesn't want to try anything until he's sure he's ready--but he'll get it right when he does it again. He's very good about that."
"So your eyes are bigger than your stomach then," Tegara tells R'dur, twitting her clutchmate a bit as she slices into a plateful of roast wherry and boiled rivergrains. "I've been working on takeoffs and landings too -- Riaceth can be such a klutz at times." She shakes her head in wonderment. "But she's so graceful once she's in the air though, so it sort of makes up for it all."
St'vren sits down between Tegara and Claret, considerately not getting any of his smudges near their clothes. His napkin, on the other hand, is a lost cause. "I think we've about got the landings perfected," he tells his clutchmates proudly. "It's that he keeps /growing/, and so he has to keep adjusting his speed and approaching angles accordingly, and he wants to have the one perfect way to do everything instead. We only had one crash-and-burn today, and I got the worst of that." He flicks some gravel off his jacket with a slightly embarrassed air. "So it's not really that interesting a story, Claret."
Claret bids fair likely to end up picking at her food in just the same manner as R'dur is, but for the moment, she ignores it, listening to the weyrlings talk of their dragons' practice. "Plenty are a bit clumsy to start, aren't they?" she asks Tegara. "Bet it'll go away. Eventually. Once she grows out proper." As for St'vren's smudges, Claret seems barely to notice, instead nodding her head in forlorn agreement. "No. It's not. But you never know! Once in a while, there's something fascinating to be heard."
R'dur glances down at his plate again, reluctantly admitting, "I suppose so." He smiles ruefully up at Tegara. Then, to St'vren, he notes, "Well, that's good, I suppose. You're both all right now, though? Perhaps they're nearly done growing, so he'll be able to settle in to one method shortly."
St'vren mutters something with his mouth full of pastry, then swallows and tries again. "I'm starting to think that Rusuth will never stop growing. I'll just be making new straps for him and not letting him overeat until the end of the Interval. Though by that time, surely he'll have gotten the hang of landings."
"Maybe," Claret suggests, "Rusuth'll grow big as a weyr, with all that time for growing. Although that would make landings particularly difficult, I'd expect. Too bad." Taking up her fork again, she wrinkles her nose as she tries to place together names, no matter how recently she's heard them. "How's... Alidaeth, R'dur?"
R'dur grins at St'vren. "Hopefully, he'll stop sometime in the next, oh, hundred turns or so--though I wouldn't get /my/ hopes up for it," he tells the weyrling, shaking his head. "Alidaeth is well--not quite so large as Rusuth, fortunately. I have hopes that he'll finish growing soon; I just finished extending another set of straps for him today."
"Has he been up to any new mischief lately?" St'vren asks R'dur, scrupulously cleaning his plate of excess berry filling. "Alceth got her foot stuck in that oil jar last sevenday, but I wasn't sure if Alidaeth had anything to do with that, or if it was just carelessness..." The thought of a weyr-sized dragon makes him roll his eyes, which was perhaps Claret's intention. "Faranth. I'd be making straps all day everyday. And the /oiling/..."
"You would finish -eventually-," Claret observes, ever so practically. "Although the oiling would be quite a trial, wouldn't it? Bet they're both bigger than Avrieth by now. I always did have it a bit easier in that respect!" Finishing up her meal, she starts scooting out of her seat, unfolding herself gracelessly to a stand. "Still, she's demanding enough. Like now. Have a nice evening, you two," she offers with a smile, before gathering up her dishes and heading out.
R'dur shakes his head. "Fortunately, nothing like... last time. He's been pretty good lately," he notes, sounding relieved. "Oh, good night... Claret," is added toward the departing greenrider, before R'dur turns back to St'vren. "As soon as you finished, you'd have to start all over again," he commiserates.
Claret walks down the short tunnel and out into the bowl.
Claret has left.
"I think Riaceth's just about full-grown," Tegara says. "Even though I did have to extend those straps that everyone was admiring the first time we took to the air." She laughs at St'vren's discomfiture with his perpetually growing bronze, then looks up to notice that Claret is rising to leave. "Bye Claret," she bids a fellow greenrider.
St'vren has his mouth full, again, and so has to settle for making an incoherent but friendly noise after Claret as she leaves. "I'm sure all your straps are just as perfectly perfect as your first set," he assures Tegara wryly. Jealous? Maybe a /little/. "While the rest of us work and slave, and our dragons use the old straps for chew toys.
Finished picking at his meal, R'dur stands. "Alidaeth wants me back with him, so I'd better go. See you later, Tegara, St'vren," he tells the pair apologetically. He cleans up his dishes, then heads out.