Of Fish and Thread.
Who: Daurian, J'lor, Padian
Where: Exile Island
When: Day 12, month 7, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: Daurian and Padian pursue their daily fishing exercises and J'lor comes to practice his underwater basket weaving. Go Team Islander!
Other: Discovering Padian's bird-brain quality. <3 New Stupid Boy.
High at its zenith, the great light blasting its rule over the high, blue sky shines upon everything. Each white-crested wave that ravages the shoreline in foam is tipped in shimmering brilliance, and the stones whose faces are wet with the coupling of land and sea gleam like fallen stars come to rest upon the primitive hamlet that so many have come to call, begrudgingly, home. Upon a boulder, wielding expertly a crudely constructed fishing pole, the son of Padili, Obridath's rider, has his knees around a small basket, elbows resting upon the top which, now and then, twitches. His tousled blonde hair is touched by seabreeze, and his off-white, sleeveless tunic is damp in several spot-like areas. Clearly, water carried up by strong winds does not bother him in the slightest. He hums something to himself, raising the sad little hook out of the water and frowning, briefly, at its fruitless state.
Yet another rider's son makes his appearance; Daurian, namely. With it still being day, Daurian's tasks are food gathering and nothing more. Such is how he arrives, carrying a basket of what looks and smells like freshly caught food. A knife lays sheathed at his waist and a thick, oiled cloth draped over half of the basket. He spots Padian and offers a bare nod of his head in greeting before settling some feet away to begin his task of gutting and preparing the fish.
And to complete the picture, along comes a dragonrider that has no son. Vellath is currently where he has been when not training, eating, or bathing: resting outside of that hut with a newcomers. J'lor picks his way, barefoot, along the beach with an armful of rushes. Baskets and mats need to be made and it seems the once-leader of the exiles has pulled the short straw on that one. He angles towards Padian and Daurian with a warm "Fine day, for the season." or any season. And then, to Padian, "Any luck?"
"As much luck as the old sea will allow in one day." Comes Padi's reply. The fellow lifts the crude rod once more and winds its string around the sturdy wooden arm, settling it beside him. He raises his elbows, the criss-crossing patterns of the basket show upon the reddened and whited flesh, and his hands twist and remove the lid. Reaching in, he pulls out a fish that's not entirely wide, but very long. A good catch, that. "Lots of these t'day. Think they'll make a good stew, sir?" Then to the other, the sound of another basket. And a bright grin. "Hey! How's your luck, Daurian?"
"Afternoon, sir," Daurian says to J'lor. He quickly turns back to his work, first counting the fish in his basket then setting them out on the oiled cloth. He darts a look in Padian's direction before setting into the first fish to fall on his proverbial chopping block. "Caught a handful," He motions with a gut stained knife to his basket, "Found a good spot, got lucky."
Two sirs in a mere five minutes! The bluerider's brows draw down as he frowns slightly. Sir. Indeed. "J'lor, if you please," is all that is said about it, however. "I think we have enough creative cooks, Padian, that we can make a stew out of nearly anything. And out of fish..." a small smirk, "there is not much we haven't turned fish into over the turns, is there." Then his attention shifts to Daurian as the older man lowers himself to the beach to set the rushes down and pick up a few. Let the weaving begin. "M'uri flew well in drills today." A glance up to Padian, "Padili, too. Everyone's been rising to the challenge." Approval is laced though the warm tenor voice.
Speaking of his mother. Padi's face falters a moment, the neutral shade of acceptance and mirth cracks briefly. Then a proud smile flourishes. "That's great! What're we drilling for, again?" We. Everyone's involved. Small victories shared among the people. He stands, securing the lid back on the basket. He gathers the quartered strings beneath the basket and ties the top of the basket onto the rest of it. Plucking up the rod, he skid-steps off the boulder and trots a few paces, the basket bouncing against his back.
"I'll let him know you said so, J'lor," Daurian says, tone proper and respectful, nothing more, nothing less. "He'll be flying in Nabol?" A curious question Daurian follows up with a look in Padian's direction, waiting to see if he'll show concern toward his mother flying Thread. After a short pause, he looks back toward J'lor, "I can always set some traps, try to see if I can find something in the jungle."
Nabol? Oh yea! Like sun-strike, Padi's features suddenly brighten with remembrance. "Oh! Yea! Nabol." Momentary sunlight dims and he looks, once more, curious and unknowing. "Why are we flying Thread at Nabol, again?" A brow raises, golden, over a pale green eye, turned toward J'lor with a tilt of the head.
"I expect most of what's to be found in the jungle are rabbits," J'lor muses. The creatures were brought over with the instigators as a sorce of fur and meat and have, since, run quite rampantly wild. "But if you'd like to try, then by all means..." His attention slides down to his hands and their almost automatic movements. Twist, around, through, tighten..."We'll all be flying over Nabol. That's what we're training for," the last is directed towards Padian.
Daurian dips his head in acknowledgement, saying nothing as he finishes with the second fish and starts in on a third. It's when he sets that one aside that he finally speaks, "Managed to catch a bird a few days back. Can try that again and check my traps." A delicate pause, "Maybe there's a chance to get something from Nabol. If we're flying over it, what's the harm in asking?"
Wow, there are two more people talking, here! Padian turns his head between both of them, stepping back a few paces to make this motion easier. He plunks himself down upon the sands and prepares to mimic Daurian's actions. The strings are undone with a few, mindless flicks of the boy's long hands. "Harm in asking? I thought.. Huh." Curious. "Mother always tells me the mainland folk hate us. Why do we fly Thread over their heads if they hate us?" And a genuine question, this. Those mossy orbs turn toward J'lor again, youth swallowed in them.
The bluerider, for the moment, keeps his eyes unnecessarily on his work. "We fly over Nabol, because innocent lives are threatened and the mainland Weyrs will not do their duty." And perhaps, for J'lor, it really is as simple as that. "I don't think we'll be speaking with anybody this time, Daurian. We're just going to arrive, fight thread, and return here. It will give those on the mainland time to acknowledge us as something more than their stories would tell. Perhaps, if we are needed the following fall, we will establish contact then. One step at a time."
"Why wouldn't they?" They, not we for Daurian as he answers Padian. Afterward, Daurian methodolically continues lopping heads off, slicing bellies open and gutting fish. He has it down to a fluid process that doesn't stop or pause as he responds to J'lor, "A good plan as far as I can tell. I hope it works out." He reaches the end of his count - seven fish total - "If I can ask, is it your plan?" Sir is all but implied, for Daurian remains respectful even to the point of looking at J'lor.
Gears. Really, there are some in the boy's head. "How do we know when Thread falls over Nabol?" The blonde curmudgeon questions, brainlessly plucking out fish giblets and setting them to the side. Man, those things roasted over a low blaze are.. way too good to be healthy. A few of the larger bones are set aside, too. The question Duarian asks, that of whose plan, earns him a look. The kind that says, 'why didn't I think of that?'. He turns his head and peers at J'lor for his answer.
"It's wasn't, actually," admits J'lor. "It was suggested to me." But there is no further clarification, except to add, "I hope so too, Daurian." Brown eyes flick up to regard Padian, "we have maps and charts that tell us so," the bluerider explains. "And we shall arrive when the maps say thread is to begin."
Daurian rather easily accepts J'lor's statement as he wipes his blade clean and slowly starts packing the fish he'd cleaned, "Then we'll prepare for your return. Will it be bad?" Another look is stolen toward Padian, almost as though Daurian were affirming that.. yes, that's what happens when greenriders raise their kids.
Not just any greenrider! A crazy, half-there greenrider who eats fish raw. Yes, Padi's mother is a nut. Daurian's question is echoed on the face of the boy, and he begins chucking fishbits back into the basket. "Anything special we should make for when y'all come back?" He asks, playing catch'm with a particularly wobbly fish-organ.
"Hmm...well, we hold feasts the day after fall when fall is here. I suppose a communal meal would be in order." Weave weave. More strips are added as J'lor works. "As to whether it will be bad...that I cannot say. It will be different than fighting fall, here. We'll know the land less. The wind currents less. But, not so very different that I do not think we can manage. In the end, it will be a fall. And we have flown fall many times before."
A fall." Daurian repeats, unable to drown the urge, "We'll need healers. Numbweed," Things the rider likely knows, and Daurian looks mildly ashamed for even telling the man his job, "It's not..." He stops there and instead focuses on sliding his knife back into its sheath and packing the fish back into the basket, "I hope it's a good Fall. Safe."
Pause. Padian looks down at his hands a moment. "Hey, J'lor? Think anyone could teach me some dragon healing?" The boy quizzes, moss-gaze still fixed upon the bluerider, lids opening a little wide. Tall request, and he knows it. But, it bears asking.
...
Lost the rest because I, like Padi, got distracted. :D
Where: Exile Island
When: Day 12, month 7, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: Daurian and Padian pursue their daily fishing exercises and J'lor comes to practice his underwater basket weaving. Go Team Islander!
Other: Discovering Padian's bird-brain quality. <3 New Stupid Boy.
High at its zenith, the great light blasting its rule over the high, blue sky shines upon everything. Each white-crested wave that ravages the shoreline in foam is tipped in shimmering brilliance, and the stones whose faces are wet with the coupling of land and sea gleam like fallen stars come to rest upon the primitive hamlet that so many have come to call, begrudgingly, home. Upon a boulder, wielding expertly a crudely constructed fishing pole, the son of Padili, Obridath's rider, has his knees around a small basket, elbows resting upon the top which, now and then, twitches. His tousled blonde hair is touched by seabreeze, and his off-white, sleeveless tunic is damp in several spot-like areas. Clearly, water carried up by strong winds does not bother him in the slightest. He hums something to himself, raising the sad little hook out of the water and frowning, briefly, at its fruitless state.
Yet another rider's son makes his appearance; Daurian, namely. With it still being day, Daurian's tasks are food gathering and nothing more. Such is how he arrives, carrying a basket of what looks and smells like freshly caught food. A knife lays sheathed at his waist and a thick, oiled cloth draped over half of the basket. He spots Padian and offers a bare nod of his head in greeting before settling some feet away to begin his task of gutting and preparing the fish.
And to complete the picture, along comes a dragonrider that has no son. Vellath is currently where he has been when not training, eating, or bathing: resting outside of that hut with a newcomers. J'lor picks his way, barefoot, along the beach with an armful of rushes. Baskets and mats need to be made and it seems the once-leader of the exiles has pulled the short straw on that one. He angles towards Padian and Daurian with a warm "Fine day, for the season." or any season. And then, to Padian, "Any luck?"
"As much luck as the old sea will allow in one day." Comes Padi's reply. The fellow lifts the crude rod once more and winds its string around the sturdy wooden arm, settling it beside him. He raises his elbows, the criss-crossing patterns of the basket show upon the reddened and whited flesh, and his hands twist and remove the lid. Reaching in, he pulls out a fish that's not entirely wide, but very long. A good catch, that. "Lots of these t'day. Think they'll make a good stew, sir?" Then to the other, the sound of another basket. And a bright grin. "Hey! How's your luck, Daurian?"
"Afternoon, sir," Daurian says to J'lor. He quickly turns back to his work, first counting the fish in his basket then setting them out on the oiled cloth. He darts a look in Padian's direction before setting into the first fish to fall on his proverbial chopping block. "Caught a handful," He motions with a gut stained knife to his basket, "Found a good spot, got lucky."
Two sirs in a mere five minutes! The bluerider's brows draw down as he frowns slightly. Sir. Indeed. "J'lor, if you please," is all that is said about it, however. "I think we have enough creative cooks, Padian, that we can make a stew out of nearly anything. And out of fish..." a small smirk, "there is not much we haven't turned fish into over the turns, is there." Then his attention shifts to Daurian as the older man lowers himself to the beach to set the rushes down and pick up a few. Let the weaving begin. "M'uri flew well in drills today." A glance up to Padian, "Padili, too. Everyone's been rising to the challenge." Approval is laced though the warm tenor voice.
Speaking of his mother. Padi's face falters a moment, the neutral shade of acceptance and mirth cracks briefly. Then a proud smile flourishes. "That's great! What're we drilling for, again?" We. Everyone's involved. Small victories shared among the people. He stands, securing the lid back on the basket. He gathers the quartered strings beneath the basket and ties the top of the basket onto the rest of it. Plucking up the rod, he skid-steps off the boulder and trots a few paces, the basket bouncing against his back.
"I'll let him know you said so, J'lor," Daurian says, tone proper and respectful, nothing more, nothing less. "He'll be flying in Nabol?" A curious question Daurian follows up with a look in Padian's direction, waiting to see if he'll show concern toward his mother flying Thread. After a short pause, he looks back toward J'lor, "I can always set some traps, try to see if I can find something in the jungle."
Nabol? Oh yea! Like sun-strike, Padi's features suddenly brighten with remembrance. "Oh! Yea! Nabol." Momentary sunlight dims and he looks, once more, curious and unknowing. "Why are we flying Thread at Nabol, again?" A brow raises, golden, over a pale green eye, turned toward J'lor with a tilt of the head.
"I expect most of what's to be found in the jungle are rabbits," J'lor muses. The creatures were brought over with the instigators as a sorce of fur and meat and have, since, run quite rampantly wild. "But if you'd like to try, then by all means..." His attention slides down to his hands and their almost automatic movements. Twist, around, through, tighten..."We'll all be flying over Nabol. That's what we're training for," the last is directed towards Padian.
Daurian dips his head in acknowledgement, saying nothing as he finishes with the second fish and starts in on a third. It's when he sets that one aside that he finally speaks, "Managed to catch a bird a few days back. Can try that again and check my traps." A delicate pause, "Maybe there's a chance to get something from Nabol. If we're flying over it, what's the harm in asking?"
Wow, there are two more people talking, here! Padian turns his head between both of them, stepping back a few paces to make this motion easier. He plunks himself down upon the sands and prepares to mimic Daurian's actions. The strings are undone with a few, mindless flicks of the boy's long hands. "Harm in asking? I thought.. Huh." Curious. "Mother always tells me the mainland folk hate us. Why do we fly Thread over their heads if they hate us?" And a genuine question, this. Those mossy orbs turn toward J'lor again, youth swallowed in them.
The bluerider, for the moment, keeps his eyes unnecessarily on his work. "We fly over Nabol, because innocent lives are threatened and the mainland Weyrs will not do their duty." And perhaps, for J'lor, it really is as simple as that. "I don't think we'll be speaking with anybody this time, Daurian. We're just going to arrive, fight thread, and return here. It will give those on the mainland time to acknowledge us as something more than their stories would tell. Perhaps, if we are needed the following fall, we will establish contact then. One step at a time."
"Why wouldn't they?" They, not we for Daurian as he answers Padian. Afterward, Daurian methodolically continues lopping heads off, slicing bellies open and gutting fish. He has it down to a fluid process that doesn't stop or pause as he responds to J'lor, "A good plan as far as I can tell. I hope it works out." He reaches the end of his count - seven fish total - "If I can ask, is it your plan?" Sir is all but implied, for Daurian remains respectful even to the point of looking at J'lor.
Gears. Really, there are some in the boy's head. "How do we know when Thread falls over Nabol?" The blonde curmudgeon questions, brainlessly plucking out fish giblets and setting them to the side. Man, those things roasted over a low blaze are.. way too good to be healthy. A few of the larger bones are set aside, too. The question Duarian asks, that of whose plan, earns him a look. The kind that says, 'why didn't I think of that?'. He turns his head and peers at J'lor for his answer.
"It's wasn't, actually," admits J'lor. "It was suggested to me." But there is no further clarification, except to add, "I hope so too, Daurian." Brown eyes flick up to regard Padian, "we have maps and charts that tell us so," the bluerider explains. "And we shall arrive when the maps say thread is to begin."
Daurian rather easily accepts J'lor's statement as he wipes his blade clean and slowly starts packing the fish he'd cleaned, "Then we'll prepare for your return. Will it be bad?" Another look is stolen toward Padian, almost as though Daurian were affirming that.. yes, that's what happens when greenriders raise their kids.
Not just any greenrider! A crazy, half-there greenrider who eats fish raw. Yes, Padi's mother is a nut. Daurian's question is echoed on the face of the boy, and he begins chucking fishbits back into the basket. "Anything special we should make for when y'all come back?" He asks, playing catch'm with a particularly wobbly fish-organ.
"Hmm...well, we hold feasts the day after fall when fall is here. I suppose a communal meal would be in order." Weave weave. More strips are added as J'lor works. "As to whether it will be bad...that I cannot say. It will be different than fighting fall, here. We'll know the land less. The wind currents less. But, not so very different that I do not think we can manage. In the end, it will be a fall. And we have flown fall many times before."
A fall." Daurian repeats, unable to drown the urge, "We'll need healers. Numbweed," Things the rider likely knows, and Daurian looks mildly ashamed for even telling the man his job, "It's not..." He stops there and instead focuses on sliding his knife back into its sheath and packing the fish back into the basket, "I hope it's a good Fall. Safe."
Pause. Padian looks down at his hands a moment. "Hey, J'lor? Think anyone could teach me some dragon healing?" The boy quizzes, moss-gaze still fixed upon the bluerider, lids opening a little wide. Tall request, and he knows it. But, it bears asking.
...
Lost the rest because I, like Padi, got distracted. :D