log [ there she goes, here we stay ]

[grynne]

Where: Weyrling Barracks, Benden Weyr
Who: Cr'pel, H'lam, Katelin, Pierzoth, Rhenzeth, Sembruth, Tezcath, Z'frex
What: Ashayath rises, and the weyrlings are subsequently held hostage in the barracks by Cr'pel and Sembruth until the ruckus has died down.

Weyrling Barracks(#166RAJ) Early Spring. Cloudy. 41F / 5C.

Large and spacious, the barracks were originally three large caverns that are now connected. From the entrance, the first cavern is the largest and boasts five picnic-style tables capable of seating about ten people at each - presumably a place for weyrlings or weyrlingmasters to work. To the left, a smaller "storage" area contains large oil bins, smaller oil buckets, long cupboards with gear for making straps, and a large but tidy pile of fresh rushes. Although the cavern is in use now, most of sixty-some cots and presses and couches are still in disrepair, folded up along the back wall in the third cavern, out of the way. Only thirty-five of them are currently kept up and in use, arranged in neat rows down the center of the semi-cavern to the right.

The only way in or out is through one of the two large openings from the bowl.

It's been a busy morning at the Weyrlings have just been released from exercises to clean up and get a bite to eat. Cr'pel's been extra-irascible today, shouting a few times, though every time he loses it, he walks away for a few minutes and lets the bluerider on duty with him take over for a little until he comes back, stony-faced and determined so it seems. Now as the class takes that break, he stalks into the barracks and eyes the surroundings like he's about to go on a tear. There's something in the air today it seems. Something that's borne out when the shadow of a bronze dragon goes by, hitting the feeding pens and the feeling of tension ratchets up another notch.

Katelin's fresh clothes are laid out on her bed, but she is not putting them on. Instead, she is vigorously rubbing oil into a stubborn itchy spot on Pierzoth's flank. When she hears the noise coming from the feeding pens, she looks up, startled, and freezes along with Pierzoth, as though they were posing for a picture.

Z'frex is clean, changed, and seated on his cot, polishing off the last few bites of a meatroll while Tezcath is helpfully flopped on the ground nearby. The bronze heaves a sigh, head lazily lifting and swiveling toward the distant pens at the passing of the shadow; his rider stops in mid-bite, his head slowly swinging in that same direction. Food? For once, forgotten, if for a few long moments.

H'lam's something of a wraith, and has been all day. It's nothing particularly new, and it's nothing that changes when they get thier break. His corner is all-but immaculate as usual - he doesn't leave things behind in the morning, even if it means he rouses himself fifteen or twenty minutes before the rest - so he is only smoothing a few stray wrinkles on his cot and his newly changed pants alike while he absently rubs at Rhenzeth's wing-joint. Both of them stiffen unnaturally at the sudden sounds, before they seperate: Rhenzeth leans forward in interest, while H'lam sinks further back on his cot, away from it.

Cr'pel freezes in place, eyes shifting back and forth and he swallow hard once. "Great," the weyrlingmaster's assistant grumbles lowly under his breath, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "All right, well, all of you who're weyrbred, you know what's going on. Anyone who came in on Search, welcome to your first goldflight. I want all of you to stay in here until Ashayath's caught and thing start settle down, understood?" He looks around at the nearest weyrlings a little balefully. Sembruth's shifting from foot to foot out in the bowl, craning his neck to get a gander at the action. His mind though, stretches out to all weyrling dragons. << Everyone, please come home with your riders right now! >>

Katelin blinks a few times at Cr'pel, and reaches out with one hand to stroke Pierzoth's neck. An expression of wariness settles on her face, and she frowns. She looks around briefly at the others, and then says, "But sir, we haven't had lunch yet."

A funny, unintelligible sound escapes Rex in the form of a low 'nnn', his eyes hazy while he communes with Tezcath. His lifemate settles his head down again with an audibly irritated chuff and the young man just blinks a few times, the remains of the meatroll being lowered and his other hand lifting to drag through his hair. Distracted, and lacking any mechanism to mask such distraction in his voice, he replies to Cr'pel, "Uh. Yes, sir." Not that he's looking at him -- or anyone, for that matter. He's compelled to try to look in that direction, even if he's rooted to the spot.

Rhenzeth's cool confidence doesn't waver as he lifts a forepaw carefully - he's not prone to disobedience, but his desire to see what's going on rather than just /hear/ it seems to be overwhelming. "Rhenzeth," H'lam says. His usually bland voice is touched with something unfamiliar, a firm warning that registers enough to stop Rhenzeth in his tracks with a surly whuff of breath. He settles back on his haunches, head whipping around to glare balefully at his rider, who only responds, "You don't get to see."

"Too bad, you'll get lunch afterwards. The rest of today's lessons will probably be canceled anyway," Cr'pel answers a little twitchily and he squints towards the Bowl as more weyrlings enter with little dragons. Most only look vaguely curious, some of the weyrbred brag about their superior knowledge. Sembruth waits until the last of the little ones have come in, then he settles down right in front of the Barracks entrance. "Get out the leather you've been practicing on for straps," Cr'pel says a little shortly, "work on that to keep your mind off of ..." his hand waves vaguely skyward as Ashayath springs aloft to lead the bronzes in a long chase.

Katelin scowls, not at all pleased about having to wait. She climbs to her feet and heads for the exit -- she stops well short of it, of course, just looking out the door to see what she can see. Which right now is weyrlings straggling in, some carrying food. Her scowl deepens, at that. Pierzoth waddles slowly after her rider, wings held tight against her back to avoid bumping anything or anyone.

"You don't need to be oiled," is muttered low from Z'frex to the lazing bronze near his feet, it being the young man's turn to be slightly irritated. He hunches forward, elbows on knees, and proceeds to not obey immediately to get the leather. Instead, he shuts his eyes, mouth set in a thin line and a slow, ragged breath being sucked in before being let out. Nice and slow, if unsteady. Gathering his mental faculties, no doubt; a process that shouldn't take long by any means.

H'lam is ruffled. It's not a state he's happy about, and it's made no better by Rhenzeth's sudden and contemputous snort at Sembruth's blocking bulk. It rises into a growl until H'lam, again uncharacteristically, snaps, "Rhenzeth, shut /up/." Startled but apparently uninjured by his lifemate's remarks, Rhenzeth stands, stalks angrily back to his couch, and flops onto it with as much force as he can muster without hurting himself or breaking the nearby cot. << This is ridiculous, >> he finally announces, saying what he's sure everyone else is thinking. One look at his brooding dragon earns H'lam's curious question, "How long?"

Sembruth placidly turns to look at Rhenzeth, then towards his rider. << You can come sit by me, lil' guy, but no goin' down to the feeding pens. >> Cr'pel makes an inarticulate noise in the back of his throat and /glares/ at Sembruth then he goes over to a trunk, jerks it open and pulls out a couple of sets of practice straps, slams the trunk closed again and pulls out a chair from the few that cluster along the walls. "Half an hour at most," he tells H'lam in a low, growly voice and squints outside again. "We'll hunker here a little longer than that, then you can go get something to eat. I'd suggest the hearth. Things might still be a little crazy in the living cavern." That's said tightly but with an effort at reassurance.

Katelin shudders at Cr'pel's last words, her expression turning to one of revulsion. Pierzoth does her best to soothe Rhenzeth: << All will be well, Rhenzeth. >> She adds, more faintly but still audibly to the other dragonets, << Do not worry, Katelin. You will eat soon. >> Katelin grimaces and strides back through the barracks back to her cot, to fetch her straps-in-progress.

<< This is boring, >> is intoned blandly by Tezcath, who appears utterly unmoving at this point, the very picture of disinterest. His rider, however, remains as he is -- shoulders tensed and hunched, eyes shut and steadily trying to focus on his breathing. Hands clench, unclench, clench again; trying, at least. But the words 'half an hour' leak on through and one of Z'frex's eyes crack open, head tilted to eye Cr'pel warily. "Jays. That long? Really?" Chaos in the living cavern seems to be less of a concern to him. << Oh, wonderful, >> the bronze flatly remarks.

Rhenzeth's irritable response isn't for Sembruth, but for Tezcath. << Everything's boring for you, >> he says, as snippy as his rider was moments ago. << I should think you'd like lazing about - it's what you spend your spare time doing. Just bemoan the world and how bad life is and it will be no different than every other day. >> Snort. << I'm fine here, >> he adds for Sembruth. << Can't see anything from the door anyways, not with you there. >> Then to Pierzoth, another rising growl. He does not /want/ to be soothed, not when he is not able to do what he pleases. H'lam cuffs him a solid one to the shoulder, eyes not ceasing to follow Cr'pel and his stalking about.

<< It won't last long, >> Sembruth soothes further thhough he seems to have above average interest in the goings on up in the skies. << And it will be more interesting when you're grown, Tezcath, >> the brown promises further. Cr'pel looks up at Z'frex, frowns a little, then nods once, jerkily. "Yes. About that long. C'mon lad, uh ... how about chanting through that last dragon body parts lesson?" Sembruth edges aside just a little. << There's room in front of me. >>

Pierzoth hisses right back at Rhenzeth, standing her ground. << You have very poor manners >> she informs Rhenzeth. Katelin rummages around in her trunk, banging things around in frustration, and finally shuts the lid hard. She looks over at Z'frex, one eyebrow raises slightly, waiting to see what he says to Cr'pel's suggestion.

<< How astute of you, >> is directed blithely to Rhenzeth, though Tezcath's thoughts soon turn to Sembruth with an unconvinced, << We shall see. >> Z'frex drags his hands through his hair again, squinting down at his lifemate and then back over to Katelin with a muttered, meaningless, "Hey, c'mon." Cr'pel with a troubled frown of his own. "I- uh. S-sure? How does that one start again? I always forget the- the, uh. How it starts." Stuttering? It's bad enough he can barely keep his thoughts straight enough normally to speak; this whole ... /thing/ is screwing everything up in his head.

<< And so do you and yours, >> Rhenzeth shoots back, eyes flecking with red irritation. << Banging things around like a brat like she's going to waste away in a half-hour. >> Nevermind that it's hypocritical. Something else has caught his attention anyways. Sembruth's movements do not go unnoted and with a quickness that belies his oversized wings, the bronze slinks off his couch and to the door, where he can settle down and stretch his neck out, head angled so he can properly see upwards.

Off in the back of the Barracks a couple of Weyrlings have kind of ... ducked out of sight under young dragon wings and blankets. Cr'pel is actually making a point of /not/ looking in their direction as he passes a set of straps to another weyrling who takes them with a slightly glazed look and goes over to practice punching holes through leather with assiduous concentration while his brown curls up near his feet and makes soft little chuffing sounds. "Wingsail, spar, batten rib," Cr'pel starts off the litany of dragon wing parts for Z'frex' benefit and shoots a concerned look his way. << Pierzoth. Rhenzeth. That's enough. >> Sembruth remains calm but there's a hint of welcome in his mind as Rhenzeth joins him and the two of them continue to look up through the clouds. << She goes high. >> The elder brown murmurs softly as another small brown and a pair of blues join them also looking up up up.

Pierzoth completely shuts Rhenzeth out, tilting her head to look up at the dragons fading into tiny specks. She shifts to make room for one of the blues. << That is good, is it not? >> she says to Sembruth and the rest. Just not Rhenzeth. Katelin looks Z'frex up and down, appraisingly, and goes over to join him, adding her voice to Cr'pel's recitation. She knows the drill; she's recited it under her breath at dinner and in the baths often enough.

"Right, r- right." In goes a breath, then out. Eyes shut, he doesn't see Katelin's appraisal. "Wingsail, spar," and on he goes, fingers lacing and tightening, white-knuckled before releasing. Repeat. Z'frex continues, continues, continues, jaw clenching periodically. Tezcath, being the wonderfully supportive lifemate he is, lifts his head in an approximation of an eyeroll, then curves his head and fans a wing, to cover his face with it.

Rhenzeth's voice is faint, as though he genuinely wants other people to hear what he's got to say, but intends to trick his lifemate into believing thier conversation is private. Just in case Pierzoth is nosy enough to wonder what he's saying. << If Pierzoth's and hers do not like you and me, that is thier problem and not ours. I am not worrying over it; you should not either. They are wherryheaded. >> H'lam grimaces at the remark, an expression that stays fast on his face when Rhenzeth relays his own appreciation for the flight, a feeling and not a sound or word. H'lam, too, knows the cadence of the drill they're reciting, but he doesn't say it. Instead, he retrieves a set of practice straps for himself, settling back down closer to Cr'pel than he was. There's a motive for it, however. "Sir," he says, undertoned enough to be barely heard and as unobtrusive as possible, "why is everyone so..." he doesn't know how to finish it - there's not really a word for the atmosphere in the weyr or for the peculiar actions.

Keeping up the litany, Cr'pel nods a little brusquely, but still, encouragingly as Z'frex and Katelin and then a couple of others join in recitation. Another cluster are assiduously working throuogh straps and no one is bothering the ones in the back. H'lam's approach distracts the assistant weyrlingmaster as he sorts through another tangle of leather and casts the lad a long look. He clears his throat to reply quietly: "They can feel it. Ashayath's desire. The bronzes. They're not holding it back when they fly." His eyes narrow a little, then close outright and he swallows hard, lets out a long breath. "Mm. Won't be long now. Can't you feel it? Grabs you by the balls and wants to tug you along with. Greens don't shout it out so loud that they want to get laid."

Pierzoth gives no indication whatever of noticing Rhenzeth's words, nor even his existence. Some of the excitement of the flight has spilled over to her: to Sembruth and the nearby blues, she projects an image of the four of them flying round and round and round in circles. Of course there's nothing sexual in the image, only a childish delight. << One day, we will all fly so. >> Katelin gives Z'frex an encouraging smile as they continue the recitation, reaching out to touch his arm briefly. When they finish, she says to him, "You see: you remembered it, after all."

Speaking a bit more loudly than necessary to garner Z'frex' attention, Tezcath sends << Are you quite done with that rubbish? I would like to be oiled before my hide falls off, thank you very much. >> Whether a deliberate distraction or a Very Serious Matter is hard to tell, given the droll tone it's given in. Z'frex' concentration is broken and a pained look shot down at the bronze. "You have shards for timing, you know that? Jays, just- wait, okay? Until- until this stupid-" and his attention fixes rather sharply on Katelin, on her hand, and he attempts to return that smile -- though, somehow, it turns wolfish in translation despite his best efforts. "Hey, yeah." A nudge from a certain dour someone prompts a low, "Tez-" << Tez/cath/, please and thank you. >> "-cath, I was getting to it," and then a lapse in silence as the pair commune. And, yes, Rex will have aching hands; fortunately not for the reasons one might typically consider the cause, at least in his case, but rather for all that aimless flexing.

Katelin assumes the 'stupid' was for her. She thins her lips, eyeing Z'frex with no more smile to be seen, and then silently turns and goes to her cot.

H'lam can't quite figure out how to take that explanation, though at least he doesn't look disturbed by it. Probably because he can't do anything but take it as fact - even Rhenzeth, with his wings nowhere near primed for flight, is tugged irrevocably towards it. The whipping of the little bronze's tail doesn't say he's peaceful with being on the ground, but he's absorbing every ounce of the flight he can see, and sending choice pieces back to H'lam now and again, announcing, << That was amazing, >> and, contrarily, << He was stupid. He could have had her if he had half a mind. >> "I don't like it," the young bronzerider decides then and there, and he focuses very strongly on the leatherwork in front of him, hoping that end comes faster.

Sembruth looks down at Pierzoth for a moment, whuffles gently. << Yes, >> he says simply, doesn't elaborate and just absorbs her sending. Cr'pel shoots Z'frex another look, but nods as the weyrling seems to occupy himself with oiling. "Gets easier when they're older and you can do something about it," the brownrider notes a little gruffly. "Seems like he's eager to chase even so little," and the assistant is squinting over at Rhenzeth's lashing tail.

"Hey-" is the start of something that falls dead in Rex' throat when Katelin moves away. "Jays." Muttered; a chuff of a laugh from Tezcath. "Don't. Start." To the task of oiling, then, which Tezcath rouses himself to assist once in a while by lifting a wing or shifting his weight this way or that. Unfortunately, it's never the direction Z'frex wants him to move. Sourly, "I hope so." Pause. "Sir."

"He's willing," H'lam all-but whispers after a moment, his gaze following Cr'pel's. "He wants to be grown up, even though he knows he's no where near ready." Rhenzeth makes a low sound, something like a small trumpet of surprise at what's happening above. << Brilliant! >> he announces for the room at large, to H'lam's further chagrin. "If Sembruth wasn't there, he'd be straining something trying to fly," H'lam says confidently after that, completely confident in his assessment. His face says it all: this does not bode well.

"Nothing you can do about it /now/," Cr'pel reminds Z'frex a little grimly. "Six more months 'til you get your own weyr, boyo." His gaze shifts back to H'lam and the assitant makes a sort of tsking sound in his throat. "Good thing Sembruth's here then. Month old dragon thinkin' he can get up there," he shakes his head and huffs out a short breath, lifts his uninjured hand to rub at the bridge of his nose some more then starts a little. "She's caught," he murmurs, squinting, 'listening'. And then his laughter is bitter, derisive almost. "Vizorth. Oh that's /rich/."

"A lifetime away, in other words?" he observes, having picked up some of that dryness from Tezcath. Z'frex puts a few finishing touches of oil on the bronze, who proceeds to look it over, make a faint, 'this will do' sort of noise, then clambers up onto his couch to curl up in preparation for sleep. Wiping his hands on a towel, the weyrling wrinkles his nose -- at the texture, Cr'pel's laughter, everything. He opens his mouth, then abruptly shuts it, like as not deciding not to ask whatever he was going to.

The name means nothing to H'lam, nor to Rhenzeth, but the small bronze has already wriggled his way away from Sembruth and is saying as he waddles back, in a better mood having watched, << It was amazing. He flipped and twisted and she turned and -- H'lam, are you /listening/? >> It's not a neglected whine, but a tone of dominance. Chasing is important business, and there can't be harm in reviewing now, while it's fresh in thier minds. Picking up Cr'pel's tone, though, Rhenzeth wonders, << Vizorth? >> and H'lam, grateful for that little distraction, turns to look at Z'frex, cautious and maybe a bit concerned.

"If you can't wait six months to get laid, son, you're in trouble," Cr'pel says as dryly with a brief look at Tezcath's rider. That last look earns a little smirk from the weyrlingmaster's assistant then he's listening in again and chuckling as Sembruth relays a thing or two. << Yeah he did. Nice move. >> Sembruth lets out al ittle mental chuckle. << His rider made a lot of trouble when he was here before. >> Before they were tapped.

"I can wait," is muttered, though he explains, "Because even if I thought about it, sourpuss there would get his hide all bunched up about it. Like he is now." Tezcath doesn't even dignify the accusation with a response. Z'frex catches the look from H'lam and answers it with one of his own, a helpless shrug of shoulders and an ever-so-articulate grunt. He's fine; he's always fine, or so that look says.

H'lam seems to have absolutely /no/ problem with waiting, and therefore doesn't speak up. Instead, he stands, folding his straps with the nimble fingers of a practiced perfectionist, and goes to replace them. Rhenzeth is not far behind, no doubt accosting his rider with an on-going commentary about the entire situation, and how /they/ will do it when the time comes. H'lam looks like he'd be fine with falling asleep and not waking up for a very long time, with a hopeless undertone to his normally bored expression.

"Good," is Cr'pel's somewhat irascible response to Z'frex and he's muttering something about horny teenagers under his breath even as he squints towards the back of the room. "Okay kids, fun's over, everyone get this place tidied up and get ready to go get lunch. If you get any trouble from any randy bronzeriders, just shake 'em off and point them at a willing caverns-girl. If you're feeling uncomfortable or your dragon is, come back here, got it?" Sembruth stretches his wings wide, even the scarred one and re-settles a little further away from the entrance to the Barracks.

"Yes, sir." Z'frex grudgingly mutters, then gets up, intending to set to work cleaning up what little he can while an impassive Tezcath looks on. Then? Food. But, for now, cleaning. And getting his mind off of things.

Rhenzeth is /not/ uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, he seems to think, if his still-thrilled projections are any indication, that if he and H'lam get out of the barracks fast enough they might still see the bronze and gold descending. This does what nothing else can, and H'lam loses a few shades of color, looking like he might sink uncomfortably to his cot and stay there. But it's clean, and there's no excuses to be had when Rhenzeth demands, << Come, >> before he's making headway to the door. H'lam can't really second-guess it; he's forced to follow, if only to make sure that Rhenzeth, two months going on two years, doesn't do anything stupid. Braving randy bronzeriders for his lifemate; now that's commitment.