Log: Wanderings of Weyrlings
Who: Nyssa, P'draig, Jekzith
When: It is a winter evening, 19:18 of day 7, month 13, turn 22 of Interval 10.
Where: Main Beach, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy talks to Nyssa a little about weyrling dragons and adult dragons and how things can change.
I stole this from Nyssa.
Main Beach, Ista Weyr(#444RJ)
The coastline of black sand stretches out in either direction, tropical waters lapping ceaselessly against the subtle decline of the main beach that rests at the base of the plateau cliff. To the northeast, water from the upper pool cascades over the plateau's edge, its destination shrouded in the lush fronts of the jungle's edge and a hint of blue-tinged mist. The Sandbar, Ista's seaside tavern, stands to the south beside the long branching structure of the docks.
It's pushing sunset and P'draig is down on the beach lying on a towel, head propped up on another towel that's folded behind his head. He actually looks kind of run down and not quite himself, though there's a drink full of ice cradled in the sand nearby and evidence of kids having been playing there earlier, probably his. The half-constructed sand fort covered with shells is probably a good indication of that.
Nyssa's feet have taken her towards the beach without any real self-direction from her head that is either absorbed in other matters, or is taking advantage of a brief space in time when it doesn't have to be. She is wandering, it would seem, purely for the sake of wandering, and the fact that her eyes are open but not really seeing is all too obvious when she blunders straight onto, and a moment later, sand being what it is, into the sandfort. Her bare feet prove to have their sense of feeling intact, however, since she jumps back instantly with a gasp, straight down onto her knees to survey the damage. "Sorry, sorry, I wasn't thinking."
Eyes closed for the moment, P'draig misses Nyssa's arrival until she gasps and his head snaps up, eyes focusing slowly on her. It takes a moment for him to sort out what just happened and he blinks a few times. "Oh shells, you okay?" he asks immediately and sits up, maybe a little too fast in fact, because he winces visibly and presses the heel of his hand to his eye socket a moment later, like he's got a headache. "And don't worry about that. The kids're done for the day and the tide will come in, in a couple of hours and wash it away. THey'll make another tomorrow."
Nyssa already has her hands dug into the sand, trying in vain to shore up a corner tower. "It looks all uneven," is her excuse for not stopping. "I'm okay, just a bit, well - are /you/ okay?" She's finally managed to get her head up and her gaze in focus, even if that much is not entirely obvious, given her eyes are that shade of grey that never seem to be focused fully. "You need some sleep like the rest of us."
"You're a new weyrling," P'draig completes that abbreviated sentence with a little grin and sighs, lies back again with his weight propped on his elbows. "I ... am probably getting sick," the brownrider has to admit with a lopsided wry look to him. "So don't come too close. That bug that's been going around. I've been spending time taking care of a friend who's got it lately and ... there you go."
The fact that P'draig is not, in fact, a weyrling like 'the rest of us' takes far longer to dawn on Nyssa than it does for P'draig to spell it out. "Oh," she says, finally. "Oh, so this," with another push and pat to shore up a long crack in the sand wall, "it's for quarantine purposes?" Assuming the distance is enough. She tries to think of some useful advice and can come up with nothing better than, "So... shouldn't you go to bed?"
"Hm? Oh, no. I was keeping an eye on the kids while they were putting it together. Didn't start to feel bad until a little while ago," P'draig explains. "No quarantine yet. Though now that you mention it, I'll probably need to close the restaurant for a few days at least."
"Oh." That still doesn't deter Nyssa from her mission to rebuild the walls. "Yes," she agrees, "don't work, rest and get better and that's the best thing." She starts to level off the top of the sand, brushing small, loose grains away with her fingertips. "You should go to bed," she says again, although with no real awareness that she's repeating herself.
"Yeah, I'll need to head up that way in a little bit," P'draig claims but isn't showing any signs of moving just yet. "How's it all going though. With your green. Eilath right?" he asks quietly, watching as the weyrling shores up those walls some more.
"Eilath's sleeping," Nyssa remonstrates in a hushed voice, as if even from this distance, just naming the little dragon might awaken her. Perhaps it even could. But she does look up from her sandwork for one moment with a smile that, if not quite beaming, is certainly sunny. "She's exhausting," she admits, as if that were the best way anyone could ever be feeling.
"Figured as much, since you're down here," P'draig says with a grin. "I used to help teach weyrling groups," he adds on by way of explanation. "And ... yeah, they tend to be that way. Though is she more exhausting than some of the others do you think?" He masks a cough behind his hand, turning away to boot.
Nyssa isn't quite sure if the done thing to do is to claim your dragon is the most exhausting or the least exhausting, so after a good few moments of pretending to concentrate fully on the wall, essays a shrug and plumps for "I s'pose she's somewhere in the middle. On a good day." And then, more honestly, "I'm not sure I really care about the others. Do you need a drink?" That last question comes out sounding too thoughtful, and once she's realised that she repeats it in a better attempt at making the intonation more concerned. "Don't you need a drink?"
"Then there's hope," P'draig answers with a wink, in spite of the tired look on his face. "Jekzith still hasn't really stopped going and going since he hatched," he confesses and nods. "Your focus is pretty narrow in the early months. And well ... sometimes it's just not interesting, other people's dragons." The brownrider chuckles softly, shakes his head. "No I'm good, but thanks. I'll probably finish this off and then go make puppy eyes at my weyrmate for some tea." His knuckles knock lightly against his sand-cradled glass.
"Then you'll infect her - him, too." Nyssa starts to shore up the foundations of another tower that the children hadn't even got around to building. "You got used to it, though?" Again, she's less questioning than assuming there really only can be one answer - or at least there's only one answer she could bear to hear. "The never stopping going, that is."
"Not if I don't touch him or breathe on him," P'draig appropriates the latter pronoun. "Healer said that's how not to pass it and ... well let's just say I got it by leaning in too close to someone. If I ask Mic to make that tea and leave the cup on the table in our room, he should be okay. And yeah, I did. Don't know what it'd be like to not have him buzzing back here," he taps the back of his head lightly. "And we figured things out over time, me and Jekzith too. He's gotten more independent."
"I hope you don't get too sick. It's hard, not breathing," Nyssa comments, only further proof that keeping a handle on this conversation is more than a little taxing, for reasons far more than the sand sculpting, possibly up to and including the doubt in her next question, "Is that a good thing?"
"Me too. Hopefully it'll run its course before the end of the seven," P'draig says optimistically. As for her question his shoulders dip a little. "Depends on the dragon. Jekzith ... needs to be involved in things all the time and I can't be there for him every minute that he wants to be nosing into something."
Nyssa at least attempts to think this over, although the concept at this moment doesn't seem to be particularly palatable. "I suppose," she decides eventually, "everyone's different, even dragons. Especially dragons." She rubs her hands together, dislodging most of the tiny clumps of slightly wet sand that are stuck to her fingers. "Apart from when they're not so different."
"They are. They're more like people than not," P'draig offers over his opinion. "Especially right now. Like a bunch of toddlers who actually know how to talk in full sentences, which is actually kind of scary if you think about it," the brownrider posits with a chuckle that he seems to regret a moment later and puts his head back down on that folded up towel. "Yeah, I'm going to have to retreat home here in a second. I'm asking Jekzith to come down though. He's doing loop de loops up high where you can't see him." A thumb jerk upward.
"But the talking's the best part." Nyssa begins to look up and then restrains herself. "I should go." She has enough things to not think about to last her a while. "I mean, he might want to land on the sand fort too, and I wouldn't want to get in his way." She finishes dusting the worst of the sand from her fingers and stands up, although she then proceeds to dither. "That's if you're sure you don't need anything."
"Is it?" P'draig asks with interest, grinning. "And I wasn't saying it was bad, just kind of scary if you think about having close to a hundred weyrling dragons to train in one go," the brownrider points out and covers another cough. "He won't," Paddy notes of his brown. "He's landing right there," and his thumb jerks in the appropriate direction as Jekzith's shadow first blocks out the sunset, then dissipates as he lands and streeetches out long on the beach then trots over with bright azure eyes. "Thanks Nyssa. I'll be okay," P'draig claims as he hikes himself to sitting, then to standing and hooks up both towels with one arm. "Have fun getting to know Eilath better and if you have questions sometimes, don't hesitate to come ask." Pause. "After I'm better." Because this time he starts coughing in earnest even as he waves a farewell to the weyrling. He makes his way off toward the restaurant leaning against the brown with Jekzith's soft croon of concern reverberating on the beach.
Nyssa manages to make her backing off look mostly like an attempt to give the adult pair space. "Sure," she nods, a little tersely. "I hope you feel better soon." And then she flees, back to safer and somehow more comprehensible territory where the dragons are nowhere near grown-up, not yet.
This time, P'draig only waves again and retreats as quickly as he can up the beach, clearly not offended in the slightest by Nyssa's own fleeing.
When: It is a winter evening, 19:18 of day 7, month 13, turn 22 of Interval 10.
Where: Main Beach, Ista Weyr
What: Paddy talks to Nyssa a little about weyrling dragons and adult dragons and how things can change.
I stole this from Nyssa.
Main Beach, Ista Weyr(#444RJ)
The coastline of black sand stretches out in either direction, tropical waters lapping ceaselessly against the subtle decline of the main beach that rests at the base of the plateau cliff. To the northeast, water from the upper pool cascades over the plateau's edge, its destination shrouded in the lush fronts of the jungle's edge and a hint of blue-tinged mist. The Sandbar, Ista's seaside tavern, stands to the south beside the long branching structure of the docks.
It's pushing sunset and P'draig is down on the beach lying on a towel, head propped up on another towel that's folded behind his head. He actually looks kind of run down and not quite himself, though there's a drink full of ice cradled in the sand nearby and evidence of kids having been playing there earlier, probably his. The half-constructed sand fort covered with shells is probably a good indication of that.
Nyssa's feet have taken her towards the beach without any real self-direction from her head that is either absorbed in other matters, or is taking advantage of a brief space in time when it doesn't have to be. She is wandering, it would seem, purely for the sake of wandering, and the fact that her eyes are open but not really seeing is all too obvious when she blunders straight onto, and a moment later, sand being what it is, into the sandfort. Her bare feet prove to have their sense of feeling intact, however, since she jumps back instantly with a gasp, straight down onto her knees to survey the damage. "Sorry, sorry, I wasn't thinking."
Eyes closed for the moment, P'draig misses Nyssa's arrival until she gasps and his head snaps up, eyes focusing slowly on her. It takes a moment for him to sort out what just happened and he blinks a few times. "Oh shells, you okay?" he asks immediately and sits up, maybe a little too fast in fact, because he winces visibly and presses the heel of his hand to his eye socket a moment later, like he's got a headache. "And don't worry about that. The kids're done for the day and the tide will come in, in a couple of hours and wash it away. THey'll make another tomorrow."
Nyssa already has her hands dug into the sand, trying in vain to shore up a corner tower. "It looks all uneven," is her excuse for not stopping. "I'm okay, just a bit, well - are /you/ okay?" She's finally managed to get her head up and her gaze in focus, even if that much is not entirely obvious, given her eyes are that shade of grey that never seem to be focused fully. "You need some sleep like the rest of us."
"You're a new weyrling," P'draig completes that abbreviated sentence with a little grin and sighs, lies back again with his weight propped on his elbows. "I ... am probably getting sick," the brownrider has to admit with a lopsided wry look to him. "So don't come too close. That bug that's been going around. I've been spending time taking care of a friend who's got it lately and ... there you go."
The fact that P'draig is not, in fact, a weyrling like 'the rest of us' takes far longer to dawn on Nyssa than it does for P'draig to spell it out. "Oh," she says, finally. "Oh, so this," with another push and pat to shore up a long crack in the sand wall, "it's for quarantine purposes?" Assuming the distance is enough. She tries to think of some useful advice and can come up with nothing better than, "So... shouldn't you go to bed?"
"Hm? Oh, no. I was keeping an eye on the kids while they were putting it together. Didn't start to feel bad until a little while ago," P'draig explains. "No quarantine yet. Though now that you mention it, I'll probably need to close the restaurant for a few days at least."
"Oh." That still doesn't deter Nyssa from her mission to rebuild the walls. "Yes," she agrees, "don't work, rest and get better and that's the best thing." She starts to level off the top of the sand, brushing small, loose grains away with her fingertips. "You should go to bed," she says again, although with no real awareness that she's repeating herself.
"Yeah, I'll need to head up that way in a little bit," P'draig claims but isn't showing any signs of moving just yet. "How's it all going though. With your green. Eilath right?" he asks quietly, watching as the weyrling shores up those walls some more.
"Eilath's sleeping," Nyssa remonstrates in a hushed voice, as if even from this distance, just naming the little dragon might awaken her. Perhaps it even could. But she does look up from her sandwork for one moment with a smile that, if not quite beaming, is certainly sunny. "She's exhausting," she admits, as if that were the best way anyone could ever be feeling.
"Figured as much, since you're down here," P'draig says with a grin. "I used to help teach weyrling groups," he adds on by way of explanation. "And ... yeah, they tend to be that way. Though is she more exhausting than some of the others do you think?" He masks a cough behind his hand, turning away to boot.
Nyssa isn't quite sure if the done thing to do is to claim your dragon is the most exhausting or the least exhausting, so after a good few moments of pretending to concentrate fully on the wall, essays a shrug and plumps for "I s'pose she's somewhere in the middle. On a good day." And then, more honestly, "I'm not sure I really care about the others. Do you need a drink?" That last question comes out sounding too thoughtful, and once she's realised that she repeats it in a better attempt at making the intonation more concerned. "Don't you need a drink?"
"Then there's hope," P'draig answers with a wink, in spite of the tired look on his face. "Jekzith still hasn't really stopped going and going since he hatched," he confesses and nods. "Your focus is pretty narrow in the early months. And well ... sometimes it's just not interesting, other people's dragons." The brownrider chuckles softly, shakes his head. "No I'm good, but thanks. I'll probably finish this off and then go make puppy eyes at my weyrmate for some tea." His knuckles knock lightly against his sand-cradled glass.
"Then you'll infect her - him, too." Nyssa starts to shore up the foundations of another tower that the children hadn't even got around to building. "You got used to it, though?" Again, she's less questioning than assuming there really only can be one answer - or at least there's only one answer she could bear to hear. "The never stopping going, that is."
"Not if I don't touch him or breathe on him," P'draig appropriates the latter pronoun. "Healer said that's how not to pass it and ... well let's just say I got it by leaning in too close to someone. If I ask Mic to make that tea and leave the cup on the table in our room, he should be okay. And yeah, I did. Don't know what it'd be like to not have him buzzing back here," he taps the back of his head lightly. "And we figured things out over time, me and Jekzith too. He's gotten more independent."
"I hope you don't get too sick. It's hard, not breathing," Nyssa comments, only further proof that keeping a handle on this conversation is more than a little taxing, for reasons far more than the sand sculpting, possibly up to and including the doubt in her next question, "Is that a good thing?"
"Me too. Hopefully it'll run its course before the end of the seven," P'draig says optimistically. As for her question his shoulders dip a little. "Depends on the dragon. Jekzith ... needs to be involved in things all the time and I can't be there for him every minute that he wants to be nosing into something."
Nyssa at least attempts to think this over, although the concept at this moment doesn't seem to be particularly palatable. "I suppose," she decides eventually, "everyone's different, even dragons. Especially dragons." She rubs her hands together, dislodging most of the tiny clumps of slightly wet sand that are stuck to her fingers. "Apart from when they're not so different."
"They are. They're more like people than not," P'draig offers over his opinion. "Especially right now. Like a bunch of toddlers who actually know how to talk in full sentences, which is actually kind of scary if you think about it," the brownrider posits with a chuckle that he seems to regret a moment later and puts his head back down on that folded up towel. "Yeah, I'm going to have to retreat home here in a second. I'm asking Jekzith to come down though. He's doing loop de loops up high where you can't see him." A thumb jerk upward.
"But the talking's the best part." Nyssa begins to look up and then restrains herself. "I should go." She has enough things to not think about to last her a while. "I mean, he might want to land on the sand fort too, and I wouldn't want to get in his way." She finishes dusting the worst of the sand from her fingers and stands up, although she then proceeds to dither. "That's if you're sure you don't need anything."
"Is it?" P'draig asks with interest, grinning. "And I wasn't saying it was bad, just kind of scary if you think about having close to a hundred weyrling dragons to train in one go," the brownrider points out and covers another cough. "He won't," Paddy notes of his brown. "He's landing right there," and his thumb jerks in the appropriate direction as Jekzith's shadow first blocks out the sunset, then dissipates as he lands and streeetches out long on the beach then trots over with bright azure eyes. "Thanks Nyssa. I'll be okay," P'draig claims as he hikes himself to sitting, then to standing and hooks up both towels with one arm. "Have fun getting to know Eilath better and if you have questions sometimes, don't hesitate to come ask." Pause. "After I'm better." Because this time he starts coughing in earnest even as he waves a farewell to the weyrling. He makes his way off toward the restaurant leaning against the brown with Jekzith's soft croon of concern reverberating on the beach.
Nyssa manages to make her backing off look mostly like an attempt to give the adult pair space. "Sure," she nods, a little tersely. "I hope you feel better soon." And then she flees, back to safer and somehow more comprehensible territory where the dragons are nowhere near grown-up, not yet.
This time, P'draig only waves again and retreats as quickly as he can up the beach, clearly not offended in the slightest by Nyssa's own fleeing.