Log: How To Manage Sal'ros
Who: P'draig, T'rien, Persie
When: Evening 5/30/11
Where: Hot Springs, Fort Weyr
What: After a long day of sweeps, the eternal question of how to get Sal'ros to toe the line keeps T'rien, P'draig and Persie talking for quite a while in the Hot Springs.
Hot Springs
The first thing which draws your eye when entering this vast subterranean cavern is the sheer height of it - a massive bubble hollowed out of rock by the pressures of volcanic gases at some time when Fort's volcano still spurted flame. The eye is drawn up and up into the darkness of the ceiling, where occasional flecks of mica reflect the light and catch the eye, flickering like solitary fireflies. Towards the northern end of the cavern, the ceiling disappears and the sky can be seen where the volcano eventually released built up pressure so long ago - now it forms an entrance to the hot springs for dragon and rider, dropping down through the open ceiling to the rocky lake shore or to various ledges high in the walls - from which the more daredevil riders have been known to dive on occasion.
Down at ground level, the warm lake laps the shore gently, never completely still. Steam rises from the surface and ripples stir from the movement of the hot water seeping in from hidden springs. The lakeshore closest to the Weyr entrance is smooth and gently sloping, a safe place to bathe and talk, but further out there are various rocky coves that can be reached by swimming or by dragon. At night, glows set in the walls reflect their glimmer onto the water; by day, the light from the ceiling gives the lake ever changing shades of blue and gold, deepening to soft opal at dusk and dawn, casting shadows that seem to harbor small crevices.
A wide corridor leads off to the southeast, curving back to the Inner Caverns.
Cavoth spirals down from the opening overhead.
Cavoth has arrived.
Seated atop Cavoth, T'rien has left.
T'rien slides down Cavoth's side to the ground.
T'rien has arrived.
T'rien gives Cavoth a pat on the hindquarters. "Enjoy, Cav," he murmurs. Cavoth lumbers into the warm waters, heaving a draconic sigh of relief as he settles in. T'rien watches for a moment, smiling in a distracted sort of way that doesn't seem to reach his eyes. He makes his way over to a more shallow portion of the springs and sets about removing his clothing.
P'draig has that look of someone who's been soaking for a while. His hair's wet through, half floating in the water, a lingering trail of suds marking earlier ablutions on the part of the brownrider. He cracks open an eye as T'rien approaches. "Hey," he says, voice tired. "How many sweeps'd you have today?"
T'rien slips into the water with a heavy sigh, groaning as the water loosens cramped muscles. "I lost track after lunch," he replies. "Shards...I'm too young to feel /this/ old."
P'draig chuckles hollowly. "Mm. Had 'em all morning, came in for a break and a wash then went out again. H'dren's sick and needed a sub. I don't think I can feel my back anymore," answers the Weyrlingmaster, one hand lifting lazily to the surface, running over his face.
T'rien grunts, sinking lower into the water. "I didn't mind it too much today, to be honest," he confesses. "It gave me time to think about a few things."
"Too much time thinking for me," says P'draig more quietly and tilts a look over at the other brownrider. "What's on your mind?"
T'rien is quiet for a long time. "Do you think I'm...authoritative?" he asks quietly, reaching for a pouch of soapsand nearby.
P'draig blinks a few times, considering then shakes his head. "That's not really a word I'd use to describe you. Conscientious, determined, but no, not really. You've gotten more confident in the past few turns though." An honest, almost blunt opinion.
T'rien makes a face, nodding as if confirming something he'd already determined. "Yeah, I didn't think so, either." He's quiet for a long time, scrubbing at his arms and chest. "Sal'ros is not in the weyr," he states finally.
"Sorry if that's painful, T'rien," the Weyrlingmaster apologizes, "but I think you'd rather I didn't lie or coat the truth with sweetening." He straightens a bit in the water, perching his bottom on one of the smoother rocky outcroppings. "Is he supposed to be?"
T'rien shakes his head. "It's not painful, P'draig. It's the truth. I'm not exactly the strong, in-your-face, leader type." He pauses to rinse. "I appreciate the candor." With another shake of his head, he scrubs at his other arm. "Yes, he is supposed to be at the weyr. Danielle grounded him."
Persie steps out of the wide corridor onto the sandy beach.
Persie has arrived.
P'draig chuckles softly. "No you're not, but you do have a quiet strength to you that could lend itself to being respected as a leader," he points out. "There's more than one way to lead. In fact, I think you'd probably make a decent Weyrlingmaster some day if you wanted to come work with me." His eyebrows shoot up at the last bit. "Oh. Again? That sharding idiot. I told him to keep his nose clean and instead he bucks his wingleader, again. Shardit." P'draig's face gets a rather stormy look to it at the report about Sal'ros.
T'rien rinses his other arm, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "I've a mind to do something about it but I'm not sure I'm strong enough to stand up to him," he confesses.
The whistling comes before the girl. It's rather poor whistling. Really, it's a shame she's whistling at all, since she's rumored to have a rather nice voice. Persie arrives in the cavern with a children's tune on her pursed lips, her step long and lanky and falling in time with the music. She has a towel tossed over her shoulder and a bundle of clean clothes under her arm.
"You're his wingssecond, it's your duty to deal with it, especially with Danielle busy with her little one," says P'draig matter-of-factly. "Want backup on that? I'll go with you," offers the Weyrlingmaster. Persie's arrival lifts his eyes though and he cracks a grin for the greenrider. "Heya, Persie."
T'rien glances over at the sound of whistling, managing a smile for Persie as she comes in. "Back up is exactly what I had in mind. I was hoping to at least get all of Firefall to help me with this. I have a feeling he may be...difficult about it." He peers at P'draig for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I also had another idea I wanted to run by you..."
The whistling stops as soon as Persie hears the two men talking. After all, her whistling might be distracting and their in the middle of a conversation. Or just as likely, it's hard for -her- to hear over the whistling. In fact, after the split of an easy grin, she asks anyway. "Who's getting dealt with now?" She heads over towards the benches and shucks off her boots.
"Bringing the wing might work, show him that his actions affect other people ..." he shrugs, considering, then nods. "Speak it," invites, P'draig. "Sal'ros," the Weyrlingmaster clarifies for Persie's benefit.
T'rien glances at Persie again, seeming almost apologetic as he continues. "Since he never seemed to learn respect, I was thinking he needed a few more lessons in it. I was actually thinking of making him sit in on the weyrling classes. I can't demote him to weyrling officialy, but I can make him feel like one, if that's what he wants."
P'draig scratches at the end of his nose. "Don't know that that will have the intended effect T'rien. But it's worth a shot." He hesitates for a moment then clears his throat, "he claims to respect /me/. Y'know what I did with him?"
"Oh, he'll probably just make the weyrlings act like a bunch of asses," Persie says with a wave of her hand. You know, as if she has any place in this convesation. "He just likes being upset. Everyone knows there's no reason for it. I mean, really, what could possibly be so wrong in his life that he's so very angry all the time?" And for someone so perpetually cheerful as Persie, that sort of anger probably -is- entirely foreign. "Wait, what do you mean involve the wing... affect other people? Doesn't he affect us enough?" Her wing, too, see.
T'rien sets his jaw. "That's the problem, Persie. No one wants to /deal/ with him. He has to be dealt with! He's a danger to the wing /and/ the weyr!" Smacking the water in frustration, he turns to P'draig again. "What did you do?" he asks.
P'draig looks up at Persie thoughtfully. "Quite a lot actually, from his perspective, it's a long story though and goes into things he told me in confidence that I'd rather not share," explains the Weyrlingmaster. He leans back so that T'rien's watersmack doesn't hit him in the face. "Took him out to the cliffs above Tillek and made him race me to the top without a safety rope."
Persie jumps a bit, if just because T'rien is all riled up and smacking the water. She inches a little further away as she starts to peel off her oddly colored clothes. "Everyone's got hard stuff," she says to P'draig. "And these days we've all got some of the same hard stuff. He's just a baby and doesn't want to suck it up and behave himself. He -wants- to act bad." Excellent grammar. "I don't think there's anything any of us can do, really. Are we gonna yell at him a whole lot and then he'll just suddenly agree and be nice?"
T'rien raises an eyebrow. "I'd trip and fall to my death," he says unequivocally. "He'd push me over before I managed to trip." He pauses a beat. "Did you win?" He sighs and shrugs for Persie's benefit. "That's my quandary. I know that yelling isn't going to do any good. But I'll be sharded if he's gonna continue to ignore the established authority around here. He's a rider and he's an embarrassment to Fort."
"I did, and the stakes were that he had to suck it up and play by the rules for the rest of weyrlinghood," replies P'draig thoughtfully. "Things changed between us after that. He stopped sneering at me as much and didn't slur the sir, so to speak." His eyes lift to Persie once more and he shakes his head, saying simply, "It's not that simple."
P'draig's remonstance clam's the talkative Persie right up. Her lips close and her head goes down and she just carries on with getting out of her clothes and into the bath. No further comment for the moment.
T'rien says "So what should I do? Race him? I can't earn his respect. I don't /want/ to earn his respect."
P'draig looks back up and over at Persie, noticing the shut down. "Hey - it's okay, I think Sal'ros as a topic gets everyone a bit ... irritable," he offers by way of apology and clears his throat. "Not sure, the idea of busting him down to weyrling isn't a bad one. But I think he might just scoff at you. The only way you're going to get anywhere with him is to earn his resepct somehow."
Persie has only a bashfull little smile for P'draig's apology. "It's ok, sir," she says, still keeping her head down and her gaze mostly averted. She dips under the water to get her hair wet and then gets on with soaping up. But, see, she -is- thinking and when her brain is going her mouth is usually short to follow suit. "But that's not fair, is it? I mean, does that mean that everyone has to earn the respect of everyone below them to give orders? Or that if a person makes a big stink and behaves like an ass, that other people will set up special little races to make them feel all good about being bested or something? That doesn't seem like the way to do it. I mean, shells, maybe I'll start just ignoring every order I get and spending all my time in random bars. If Sal'ros can get away with it..." Not that she doesn't do plenty of visiting anyway, but that's beside the point. She's not serious anyway.
T'rien dunks his head, resurfacing and wiping the water out of his eyes. "I'm not sure how I can do that, P'draig," he confesses. "And Persie has a point. Maybe it's because I'm weyrbred but I don't quite see why this is such a problem for him. I asked my grandmother about what /she'd/ do in a situation like this and you know what she told me? 'I'd kick his butt so far out of the weyr, he wouldn't land until he hit the Red Star!'"
P'draig shakes his head. "Persie, you haven't needed to call me 'sir' since you got tapped, please call me P'draig when we're all off-duty," he invites in a more relaxed tone of voice. "No it's not fair, but all forms of punishment have failed with him," answers the Weyrlingmaster, "short of dropping him on a deserted island for a seven-day, I'm not quite sure what else there is. And kicking him out of the weyr would give him exactly what he wants. The only person who can really exert any control over him, is Jenna. Jenna and Niyath, to keep him grounded."
Persie just gets all flustered all over again at P'draig's instruction. "Sorry, s--" She almost did it again there, the familiar old formality that is so easy to slip into. Something he's said tonight must have really struck a nerve in her. "Just sorry," she tries again. She clears her throat, awkwardly. "Uh, well, uh..." Attempt number one. "I mean... Your grandmother? Did she mean, like, actually beating him up? Like..." She puts her soapy fists up to illustrate that she refers to a true, old-fashioned fist fight.
T'rien scratches his cheek. "Yeah, I know. So I'm back to square one." He closes his eyes. "That's not doing me much good, either. If I keep running to other people to control him, he just views me with all the more disdain." On the other side of the pool, Cavoth lifts his head and warbles. "I can't make him fight Thread, Cavoth. He's missed so many drills, he'd put the whole wing in danger." He blinks at Persie and actually starts to laugh. "No, not literally, but I could see /her/ doing it. As for me, well...riders aren't supposed to fight one another."
"He's still missing drills?" P'draig's nostrils pinch and he sighs deeply. "Actually, bust him down to weyrling and have him fly resupply next Fall," suggests the Weyrlingmaster. "Thread's a threat no one can ignore. And no, they're not, but in Sal'ros' case he might respect a well-placed punch."
"Riders are supposed to fight Thread, too, and listen to their wingleaders," Persie says with a bit of a snort and virtually overtop of P'draig's comments. It sounds like she might be in favor of beating up Sal'ros, rather funny from a scrawny, girlish thing like herself.
T'rien snorts. "I can't recall one drill he's been to, since I was promoted. Not that I missed him at the time." He ponders the idea of punching Sal'ros and the indulgence seems to lighten his mood somewhat. "Think M'yr would let me get away with clocking him a good one?"
"Not a single one???" Now P'draig is starting to look very irate indeed. "Well if you don't, I might," mutters the Weyrlingmaster darkly, mouth set in a thin line. "And I thought we'd made progress, he and I." It's his turn to hit the water with a bunched up fist though rather than an open palm.
As inappropriate as it might be, Persie's first reaction is let out a giggling laugh. She turns it into a big of a cough, then an apologetic smile and finally an explanation. "Maybe the only reason everyone's been trying to ignore him is so that they don't go punching his lights out. I'd take a swing at him myself! Sounds like he's lucky he hasn't been taken down by an angry mob."
T'rien smiles slowly. "So...why doesn't an angry mob take him on?"
"Well, I'm in that group myself," confesses P'draig, "or at least I was while he was a Weyrling. Obviously I had to restrain myself." He casts Persie a grin now, her laugh taking some of the charge out of the air. "An angry mob ... I don't know. That might just send him to ground and we'd lose him entirely. Though from what you're saying T'rien it wouldn't be much of a loss." The Weyrlingmaster looks unaccountably sad about that.
T'rien shakes his head. "I don't like him," he confesses. "He's been mean to me since I first met him, and for no reason. It was hard enough moving to a new place; I didn't need to be ridiculed and made fun of the entire time. And I don't need it now, either."
"-I- think that Jenna will just have to deal with him. I mean, we can't control Sal'ros, so maybe Niyath can control Solath instead." There's Persie's thirty-second piece. "I'm happy he doesn't come to drills or fly with us. Not if he's going to behave the way he does." But by the end of that she seems to be rethinking some part of her opinion. "Have you guys heard rumors about girls and him? Does he have a lot of 'em, I mean?" Here's a reversal, Persie asking the boys for gossip.
P'draig casts a sympathetic look T'rien's way. "I'm sorry I couldn't spare you that T'rien. It's my job to keep things running smoothly for the Weyrlings." Again the Weyrlingmaster's frown surfaces as he mulls things over. "I agree Persie, that if it's control we're after, the only ones who can would be the goldriders through their dragons to his. I don't think he'd abandon Solath and if Solath is here, then so must Sal'ros." Persie's last earns a wan smile from P'draig. "Yes. I've heard much the same. Lots of women."
T'rien smirks. "I have no idea. I could care less who he's..." *Ahem* "His personal life is none of my concern." His eyes grow distant for a moment, staring over at Cavoth.
Persie lets out another laugh at herself, "Oh, right. Sorry," she says with a sort of goofy grin. "I just... well, sometimes if a guy has a girl, she can say things that other folks can't say. But that's not normally the case when a guy has a lot of girls. Then they don't really mean anything." Heh. Weak laugh. She dunks under again to rinse the suds out of her hair.
T'rien's eyes focus and he, too, looks at Persie. "We could try to find out if he has a girlfriend...or I could just try to break his jaw and be done with it."
P'draig clears his throat. "All right, all right, I'll spill. He does. But again, something told in confidence." P'draig's eyebrows do a thunder dance on his forehead. "I mean, awful as he behaves, the guy deserves some privacy."
See, when a person dunks their head under the water and comes up with their eyes all wide and blinking only to be met by two dragonriders staring them... "Uh...." That's Persie's big contribution. "What did I do?" But then P'draig is talking and oh does it sound juicy.
T'rien says "Does he? He insults my father and says he's doing my mother in one sentence, then shows me his knives and threatens to bury one in my back when I'm not looking." His face goes cold. "I'm thinking a good fight is just what both of us need. And it's a long time coming."
P'draig's face looks troubled indeed. "Perhaps," he finally agrees and falls quiet, drawing a knee up to his chest and picking absently at a scab there.
"T'rien wants to beat him up," Persie observes, very astute. "But don't you go blaming me when you get in trouble for it, alright?" she points a wet finger at her wingsecond. "You blame your gramma because it was -her- idea in the first place." Her gaze slips towards P'draig and his scabby knee and her lips twist to the side, but she says nothing.
T'rien sinks into the water until only his head is visible. "I don't want to beat him up," he notes. "My grandmother would stand a better chance at taking him...shards, maybe I should just have her take him on. She'd probably break every bone in his body."
P'draig clears his throat. "Unfortunately, I kind of agree. You'd have to uh ... train a bit more before taking Sal'ros on. He's been a fighter for too long. It'd have to be blade free of course. I can officiate if it gets to the point, T'rien. Call him out, fists only or wrestling only or whatever."
Persie's shoulders drag up to her ears, a mammoth sort of shrug that seems much the same as P'draig's lifted knee and T'rien's sinking. It has that same quiet sense about it. "Who's his girl?" Because, well, -she- isn't gonna fight him.
T'rien reaches up to wipe the water out of his eyes. "I don't even have a belt knife," he murmurs. "There's no point, P'draig. He'd mop the floor up with me and we both know it.'
"Don't know," says P'draig. "She's not from Fort, that's all I got." His leg drops back into the water and he slides down on the rock-bench thing he's perched on in the water. "Yeah. I know. Not me though." There's that troubled look on the brownrider's face again.
Persie says "Well, she's probably not much use to us then," Persie says. She joins in with the sullen look, one corner of her mouth tucked in to suck and think on, making her expression lopsided. "I guess, really, if we're talking about beating him up... The Weyrleader should probably handle it.""
Jekzith> Solath stretches his lanky limbs as he lands in the bowl, wings tucking in fairly quickly to his sides, body lowering to the ground to let the rider uptop him descend to the ground. Slapping an affection hand onto Solath's hide, Sal'ros sighs as he considers the Weyr. Not one to ever talk to his dragon outloud, he ends up shaking his head dejectedly, starting off toward the lake shore, a downcast appearance holds him as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, kicking at random pebbles. Solath seems to sigh as well, if a dragon could sigh, lowering to lie on his belly, watching with slow whirling eyes as his rider heads for the lake.
T'rien gives P'draig a curious look. He doesn't say anything, however, but simply replies to Persie. "That isn't going to get him to behave, either. He doesn't respect M'yr any more than he does me, I suspect."
"She sounded like a real spitfire," muses P'draig thoughtfully and then shrugs. "I really think the only ones who can handle them are Niyath and Jenna. Solath will listen to Niyath."
Jekzith> Sal'ros eventually stops at the edge of the water, considering the other brown dragon out in the shallows. A tired sigh drops the man to the ground in a slumping heap, sitting as comfortable as a man can on a patch of grass. Solath still watches from his belly.
"Well, shouldn't respect start with the Weyrleader?" Persies muses. "In theory, at least. I guess. Shards, this is sort of depressing." And that's not an easy thought for Persie and it makes her even more quiet.
T'rien nods, looking at his hands. "I'm turning into a prune," he mutters. "And I'm getting hungry. Anyone else up for a snack?"
P'draig shakes his head and swims over to climb out of the water. "No, I don't have much of an appetite. I'm going to go take a walk. Jekzith's out by the lake."
Jekzith> Jekzith rolls over and pads up onto the beach, eyeing Solath, rumbling to the dragon in a friendly way. The rider also earns a long spin-eyed look.
Jekzith> Solath senses that Jekzith winds a blue sending your way. << What is wrong with yours? Mine speaks with others about him. He is worried. >>
"Oh, why would you try to talk to him," Persie murmurs to herself, rather non-sequitor enough that one might guess she's not speaking to anyone currently present. In fact, she sort of jumps a little to realize that she's said it aloud. Her smile is, again, apologetic. "I can eat," she says. "Or walk. Or whatever." She's up for socializing, whatever it may be.
Jekzith> A woman of average height strides briskly on her way through the bowl, eyes scanning the vast expanse. She gives pleasant nods to a few riders and their dragons, apparently a familiar face. As she passes nearby the lake, she nearly trips over a body lying in the grass, feet shifting nimbly to miss trampling the rider. "Sorry 'bout that." She laughs, when she regains her footing.
Dragon> Jekzith senses that Solath responds with a grey bleakness, no colour to give his voice life, << I worry the most, yet I cannot do for him what I wish to do. There are breaks. I will have wait until I can jump over the gaps. >>
T'rien climbs out of the water, reaching for his towel. "Sorry for being such a wet blanket," he apologizes. "I'm gonna get something to eat and try to think this through some more."
Jekzith> Sal'ros could've been trampled by either dragon or the woman and he doesn't look like he would've rushed at the way to avoid it. Though the laugh does wake him enough to blink, gaze following her as she regains her footing. Where once he would've snapped at her, he doesn't have the strength left, instead he numbly mutters, "Should've tried harder not to miss."
Jekzith> Solath senses that Jekzith waxes curious. << What do you wish to do? Breaks? >>
P'draig towels off as well, though he grimaces at the clothes he had with him and in the end, just wraps the towel around his waist. "Going to drop these in the laundry and borrow something," he says and waves to the other two. "See you later. Persie, T'rien."
T'rien nods, drying himself off and slipping back into his clothes. "Thanks for the talk, you two. Have a good night."
T'rien steps into the wide corridor leading towards the Inner Caverns.
T'rien has left.
Cavoth launches into the sky, banking through the aerial entrance to the Bowl.
Cavoth has left.
Persie is a bit slower to follow, particularly since neither of her current companions seem in want for company. She tries a hopeful smile, but that doesn't seem quite right and it falls quickly enough. "Uh, have a good night," she offers instead.
Jekzith> Aladrea seems a little surprised by the way she pauses, setting her fists on her hips as she stands over Sal'ros lying in the grass. "Sorry," She grumbles, sounding more entertained than irritated. "I was just looking for a place to dump all this." She pats the satchel at her hip, which is swollen and seems quite heavy, she leans in the opposite direction to compensate for the weight. "Know where I can find the headwoman? Been lookin everywhere for'er."
Jekzith> Sal'ros straightens after a moment, looking back over his shoulder with contempt at the dragons, all of them, including his own. Yet, that contempt is fleeting, his eyes registering Aladrea again, as if he had forgotten the woman was there. "Dump it in the lake. On second thought, what is it?" Although his words finge on interest towards the satchel, his tone of voice doesn't match it. "And no, I don't know where one is.. probably in the storage caverns or the living cavern.. that'd be my best bet."
Dragon> Jekzith senses that Solath responds with a voice that seems to be crawling away, << Nothing fits. I cannot explain it. Do not hate me for it. >>
Jekzith> T'rien makes his way out into the bowl, nibbling on a meatroll. His hair is damp, evidence that he's come from a recent swim or bath - or both. He makes his way toward Cavoth, who also has beads of water on his oiled hide.
You follow the wide corridor, finally reaching the Inner Cavern. A warm, moist breath of air follows you.
When: Evening 5/30/11
Where: Hot Springs, Fort Weyr
What: After a long day of sweeps, the eternal question of how to get Sal'ros to toe the line keeps T'rien, P'draig and Persie talking for quite a while in the Hot Springs.
Hot Springs
The first thing which draws your eye when entering this vast subterranean cavern is the sheer height of it - a massive bubble hollowed out of rock by the pressures of volcanic gases at some time when Fort's volcano still spurted flame. The eye is drawn up and up into the darkness of the ceiling, where occasional flecks of mica reflect the light and catch the eye, flickering like solitary fireflies. Towards the northern end of the cavern, the ceiling disappears and the sky can be seen where the volcano eventually released built up pressure so long ago - now it forms an entrance to the hot springs for dragon and rider, dropping down through the open ceiling to the rocky lake shore or to various ledges high in the walls - from which the more daredevil riders have been known to dive on occasion.
Down at ground level, the warm lake laps the shore gently, never completely still. Steam rises from the surface and ripples stir from the movement of the hot water seeping in from hidden springs. The lakeshore closest to the Weyr entrance is smooth and gently sloping, a safe place to bathe and talk, but further out there are various rocky coves that can be reached by swimming or by dragon. At night, glows set in the walls reflect their glimmer onto the water; by day, the light from the ceiling gives the lake ever changing shades of blue and gold, deepening to soft opal at dusk and dawn, casting shadows that seem to harbor small crevices.
A wide corridor leads off to the southeast, curving back to the Inner Caverns.
Cavoth spirals down from the opening overhead.
Cavoth has arrived.
Seated atop Cavoth, T'rien has left.
T'rien slides down Cavoth's side to the ground.
T'rien has arrived.
T'rien gives Cavoth a pat on the hindquarters. "Enjoy, Cav," he murmurs. Cavoth lumbers into the warm waters, heaving a draconic sigh of relief as he settles in. T'rien watches for a moment, smiling in a distracted sort of way that doesn't seem to reach his eyes. He makes his way over to a more shallow portion of the springs and sets about removing his clothing.
P'draig has that look of someone who's been soaking for a while. His hair's wet through, half floating in the water, a lingering trail of suds marking earlier ablutions on the part of the brownrider. He cracks open an eye as T'rien approaches. "Hey," he says, voice tired. "How many sweeps'd you have today?"
T'rien slips into the water with a heavy sigh, groaning as the water loosens cramped muscles. "I lost track after lunch," he replies. "Shards...I'm too young to feel /this/ old."
P'draig chuckles hollowly. "Mm. Had 'em all morning, came in for a break and a wash then went out again. H'dren's sick and needed a sub. I don't think I can feel my back anymore," answers the Weyrlingmaster, one hand lifting lazily to the surface, running over his face.
T'rien grunts, sinking lower into the water. "I didn't mind it too much today, to be honest," he confesses. "It gave me time to think about a few things."
"Too much time thinking for me," says P'draig more quietly and tilts a look over at the other brownrider. "What's on your mind?"
T'rien is quiet for a long time. "Do you think I'm...authoritative?" he asks quietly, reaching for a pouch of soapsand nearby.
P'draig blinks a few times, considering then shakes his head. "That's not really a word I'd use to describe you. Conscientious, determined, but no, not really. You've gotten more confident in the past few turns though." An honest, almost blunt opinion.
T'rien makes a face, nodding as if confirming something he'd already determined. "Yeah, I didn't think so, either." He's quiet for a long time, scrubbing at his arms and chest. "Sal'ros is not in the weyr," he states finally.
"Sorry if that's painful, T'rien," the Weyrlingmaster apologizes, "but I think you'd rather I didn't lie or coat the truth with sweetening." He straightens a bit in the water, perching his bottom on one of the smoother rocky outcroppings. "Is he supposed to be?"
T'rien shakes his head. "It's not painful, P'draig. It's the truth. I'm not exactly the strong, in-your-face, leader type." He pauses to rinse. "I appreciate the candor." With another shake of his head, he scrubs at his other arm. "Yes, he is supposed to be at the weyr. Danielle grounded him."
Persie steps out of the wide corridor onto the sandy beach.
Persie has arrived.
P'draig chuckles softly. "No you're not, but you do have a quiet strength to you that could lend itself to being respected as a leader," he points out. "There's more than one way to lead. In fact, I think you'd probably make a decent Weyrlingmaster some day if you wanted to come work with me." His eyebrows shoot up at the last bit. "Oh. Again? That sharding idiot. I told him to keep his nose clean and instead he bucks his wingleader, again. Shardit." P'draig's face gets a rather stormy look to it at the report about Sal'ros.
T'rien rinses his other arm, his jaw clenching and unclenching. "I've a mind to do something about it but I'm not sure I'm strong enough to stand up to him," he confesses.
The whistling comes before the girl. It's rather poor whistling. Really, it's a shame she's whistling at all, since she's rumored to have a rather nice voice. Persie arrives in the cavern with a children's tune on her pursed lips, her step long and lanky and falling in time with the music. She has a towel tossed over her shoulder and a bundle of clean clothes under her arm.
"You're his wingssecond, it's your duty to deal with it, especially with Danielle busy with her little one," says P'draig matter-of-factly. "Want backup on that? I'll go with you," offers the Weyrlingmaster. Persie's arrival lifts his eyes though and he cracks a grin for the greenrider. "Heya, Persie."
T'rien glances over at the sound of whistling, managing a smile for Persie as she comes in. "Back up is exactly what I had in mind. I was hoping to at least get all of Firefall to help me with this. I have a feeling he may be...difficult about it." He peers at P'draig for a moment, as if contemplating something. "I also had another idea I wanted to run by you..."
The whistling stops as soon as Persie hears the two men talking. After all, her whistling might be distracting and their in the middle of a conversation. Or just as likely, it's hard for -her- to hear over the whistling. In fact, after the split of an easy grin, she asks anyway. "Who's getting dealt with now?" She heads over towards the benches and shucks off her boots.
"Bringing the wing might work, show him that his actions affect other people ..." he shrugs, considering, then nods. "Speak it," invites, P'draig. "Sal'ros," the Weyrlingmaster clarifies for Persie's benefit.
T'rien glances at Persie again, seeming almost apologetic as he continues. "Since he never seemed to learn respect, I was thinking he needed a few more lessons in it. I was actually thinking of making him sit in on the weyrling classes. I can't demote him to weyrling officialy, but I can make him feel like one, if that's what he wants."
P'draig scratches at the end of his nose. "Don't know that that will have the intended effect T'rien. But it's worth a shot." He hesitates for a moment then clears his throat, "he claims to respect /me/. Y'know what I did with him?"
"Oh, he'll probably just make the weyrlings act like a bunch of asses," Persie says with a wave of her hand. You know, as if she has any place in this convesation. "He just likes being upset. Everyone knows there's no reason for it. I mean, really, what could possibly be so wrong in his life that he's so very angry all the time?" And for someone so perpetually cheerful as Persie, that sort of anger probably -is- entirely foreign. "Wait, what do you mean involve the wing... affect other people? Doesn't he affect us enough?" Her wing, too, see.
T'rien sets his jaw. "That's the problem, Persie. No one wants to /deal/ with him. He has to be dealt with! He's a danger to the wing /and/ the weyr!" Smacking the water in frustration, he turns to P'draig again. "What did you do?" he asks.
P'draig looks up at Persie thoughtfully. "Quite a lot actually, from his perspective, it's a long story though and goes into things he told me in confidence that I'd rather not share," explains the Weyrlingmaster. He leans back so that T'rien's watersmack doesn't hit him in the face. "Took him out to the cliffs above Tillek and made him race me to the top without a safety rope."
Persie jumps a bit, if just because T'rien is all riled up and smacking the water. She inches a little further away as she starts to peel off her oddly colored clothes. "Everyone's got hard stuff," she says to P'draig. "And these days we've all got some of the same hard stuff. He's just a baby and doesn't want to suck it up and behave himself. He -wants- to act bad." Excellent grammar. "I don't think there's anything any of us can do, really. Are we gonna yell at him a whole lot and then he'll just suddenly agree and be nice?"
T'rien raises an eyebrow. "I'd trip and fall to my death," he says unequivocally. "He'd push me over before I managed to trip." He pauses a beat. "Did you win?" He sighs and shrugs for Persie's benefit. "That's my quandary. I know that yelling isn't going to do any good. But I'll be sharded if he's gonna continue to ignore the established authority around here. He's a rider and he's an embarrassment to Fort."
"I did, and the stakes were that he had to suck it up and play by the rules for the rest of weyrlinghood," replies P'draig thoughtfully. "Things changed between us after that. He stopped sneering at me as much and didn't slur the sir, so to speak." His eyes lift to Persie once more and he shakes his head, saying simply, "It's not that simple."
P'draig's remonstance clam's the talkative Persie right up. Her lips close and her head goes down and she just carries on with getting out of her clothes and into the bath. No further comment for the moment.
T'rien says "So what should I do? Race him? I can't earn his respect. I don't /want/ to earn his respect."
P'draig looks back up and over at Persie, noticing the shut down. "Hey - it's okay, I think Sal'ros as a topic gets everyone a bit ... irritable," he offers by way of apology and clears his throat. "Not sure, the idea of busting him down to weyrling isn't a bad one. But I think he might just scoff at you. The only way you're going to get anywhere with him is to earn his resepct somehow."
Persie has only a bashfull little smile for P'draig's apology. "It's ok, sir," she says, still keeping her head down and her gaze mostly averted. She dips under the water to get her hair wet and then gets on with soaping up. But, see, she -is- thinking and when her brain is going her mouth is usually short to follow suit. "But that's not fair, is it? I mean, does that mean that everyone has to earn the respect of everyone below them to give orders? Or that if a person makes a big stink and behaves like an ass, that other people will set up special little races to make them feel all good about being bested or something? That doesn't seem like the way to do it. I mean, shells, maybe I'll start just ignoring every order I get and spending all my time in random bars. If Sal'ros can get away with it..." Not that she doesn't do plenty of visiting anyway, but that's beside the point. She's not serious anyway.
T'rien dunks his head, resurfacing and wiping the water out of his eyes. "I'm not sure how I can do that, P'draig," he confesses. "And Persie has a point. Maybe it's because I'm weyrbred but I don't quite see why this is such a problem for him. I asked my grandmother about what /she'd/ do in a situation like this and you know what she told me? 'I'd kick his butt so far out of the weyr, he wouldn't land until he hit the Red Star!'"
P'draig shakes his head. "Persie, you haven't needed to call me 'sir' since you got tapped, please call me P'draig when we're all off-duty," he invites in a more relaxed tone of voice. "No it's not fair, but all forms of punishment have failed with him," answers the Weyrlingmaster, "short of dropping him on a deserted island for a seven-day, I'm not quite sure what else there is. And kicking him out of the weyr would give him exactly what he wants. The only person who can really exert any control over him, is Jenna. Jenna and Niyath, to keep him grounded."
Persie just gets all flustered all over again at P'draig's instruction. "Sorry, s--" She almost did it again there, the familiar old formality that is so easy to slip into. Something he's said tonight must have really struck a nerve in her. "Just sorry," she tries again. She clears her throat, awkwardly. "Uh, well, uh..." Attempt number one. "I mean... Your grandmother? Did she mean, like, actually beating him up? Like..." She puts her soapy fists up to illustrate that she refers to a true, old-fashioned fist fight.
T'rien scratches his cheek. "Yeah, I know. So I'm back to square one." He closes his eyes. "That's not doing me much good, either. If I keep running to other people to control him, he just views me with all the more disdain." On the other side of the pool, Cavoth lifts his head and warbles. "I can't make him fight Thread, Cavoth. He's missed so many drills, he'd put the whole wing in danger." He blinks at Persie and actually starts to laugh. "No, not literally, but I could see /her/ doing it. As for me, well...riders aren't supposed to fight one another."
"He's still missing drills?" P'draig's nostrils pinch and he sighs deeply. "Actually, bust him down to weyrling and have him fly resupply next Fall," suggests the Weyrlingmaster. "Thread's a threat no one can ignore. And no, they're not, but in Sal'ros' case he might respect a well-placed punch."
"Riders are supposed to fight Thread, too, and listen to their wingleaders," Persie says with a bit of a snort and virtually overtop of P'draig's comments. It sounds like she might be in favor of beating up Sal'ros, rather funny from a scrawny, girlish thing like herself.
T'rien snorts. "I can't recall one drill he's been to, since I was promoted. Not that I missed him at the time." He ponders the idea of punching Sal'ros and the indulgence seems to lighten his mood somewhat. "Think M'yr would let me get away with clocking him a good one?"
"Not a single one???" Now P'draig is starting to look very irate indeed. "Well if you don't, I might," mutters the Weyrlingmaster darkly, mouth set in a thin line. "And I thought we'd made progress, he and I." It's his turn to hit the water with a bunched up fist though rather than an open palm.
As inappropriate as it might be, Persie's first reaction is let out a giggling laugh. She turns it into a big of a cough, then an apologetic smile and finally an explanation. "Maybe the only reason everyone's been trying to ignore him is so that they don't go punching his lights out. I'd take a swing at him myself! Sounds like he's lucky he hasn't been taken down by an angry mob."
T'rien smiles slowly. "So...why doesn't an angry mob take him on?"
"Well, I'm in that group myself," confesses P'draig, "or at least I was while he was a Weyrling. Obviously I had to restrain myself." He casts Persie a grin now, her laugh taking some of the charge out of the air. "An angry mob ... I don't know. That might just send him to ground and we'd lose him entirely. Though from what you're saying T'rien it wouldn't be much of a loss." The Weyrlingmaster looks unaccountably sad about that.
T'rien shakes his head. "I don't like him," he confesses. "He's been mean to me since I first met him, and for no reason. It was hard enough moving to a new place; I didn't need to be ridiculed and made fun of the entire time. And I don't need it now, either."
"-I- think that Jenna will just have to deal with him. I mean, we can't control Sal'ros, so maybe Niyath can control Solath instead." There's Persie's thirty-second piece. "I'm happy he doesn't come to drills or fly with us. Not if he's going to behave the way he does." But by the end of that she seems to be rethinking some part of her opinion. "Have you guys heard rumors about girls and him? Does he have a lot of 'em, I mean?" Here's a reversal, Persie asking the boys for gossip.
P'draig casts a sympathetic look T'rien's way. "I'm sorry I couldn't spare you that T'rien. It's my job to keep things running smoothly for the Weyrlings." Again the Weyrlingmaster's frown surfaces as he mulls things over. "I agree Persie, that if it's control we're after, the only ones who can would be the goldriders through their dragons to his. I don't think he'd abandon Solath and if Solath is here, then so must Sal'ros." Persie's last earns a wan smile from P'draig. "Yes. I've heard much the same. Lots of women."
T'rien smirks. "I have no idea. I could care less who he's..." *Ahem* "His personal life is none of my concern." His eyes grow distant for a moment, staring over at Cavoth.
Persie lets out another laugh at herself, "Oh, right. Sorry," she says with a sort of goofy grin. "I just... well, sometimes if a guy has a girl, she can say things that other folks can't say. But that's not normally the case when a guy has a lot of girls. Then they don't really mean anything." Heh. Weak laugh. She dunks under again to rinse the suds out of her hair.
T'rien's eyes focus and he, too, looks at Persie. "We could try to find out if he has a girlfriend...or I could just try to break his jaw and be done with it."
P'draig clears his throat. "All right, all right, I'll spill. He does. But again, something told in confidence." P'draig's eyebrows do a thunder dance on his forehead. "I mean, awful as he behaves, the guy deserves some privacy."
See, when a person dunks their head under the water and comes up with their eyes all wide and blinking only to be met by two dragonriders staring them... "Uh...." That's Persie's big contribution. "What did I do?" But then P'draig is talking and oh does it sound juicy.
T'rien says "Does he? He insults my father and says he's doing my mother in one sentence, then shows me his knives and threatens to bury one in my back when I'm not looking." His face goes cold. "I'm thinking a good fight is just what both of us need. And it's a long time coming."
P'draig's face looks troubled indeed. "Perhaps," he finally agrees and falls quiet, drawing a knee up to his chest and picking absently at a scab there.
"T'rien wants to beat him up," Persie observes, very astute. "But don't you go blaming me when you get in trouble for it, alright?" she points a wet finger at her wingsecond. "You blame your gramma because it was -her- idea in the first place." Her gaze slips towards P'draig and his scabby knee and her lips twist to the side, but she says nothing.
T'rien sinks into the water until only his head is visible. "I don't want to beat him up," he notes. "My grandmother would stand a better chance at taking him...shards, maybe I should just have her take him on. She'd probably break every bone in his body."
P'draig clears his throat. "Unfortunately, I kind of agree. You'd have to uh ... train a bit more before taking Sal'ros on. He's been a fighter for too long. It'd have to be blade free of course. I can officiate if it gets to the point, T'rien. Call him out, fists only or wrestling only or whatever."
Persie's shoulders drag up to her ears, a mammoth sort of shrug that seems much the same as P'draig's lifted knee and T'rien's sinking. It has that same quiet sense about it. "Who's his girl?" Because, well, -she- isn't gonna fight him.
T'rien reaches up to wipe the water out of his eyes. "I don't even have a belt knife," he murmurs. "There's no point, P'draig. He'd mop the floor up with me and we both know it.'
"Don't know," says P'draig. "She's not from Fort, that's all I got." His leg drops back into the water and he slides down on the rock-bench thing he's perched on in the water. "Yeah. I know. Not me though." There's that troubled look on the brownrider's face again.
Persie says "Well, she's probably not much use to us then," Persie says. She joins in with the sullen look, one corner of her mouth tucked in to suck and think on, making her expression lopsided. "I guess, really, if we're talking about beating him up... The Weyrleader should probably handle it.""
Jekzith> Solath stretches his lanky limbs as he lands in the bowl, wings tucking in fairly quickly to his sides, body lowering to the ground to let the rider uptop him descend to the ground. Slapping an affection hand onto Solath's hide, Sal'ros sighs as he considers the Weyr. Not one to ever talk to his dragon outloud, he ends up shaking his head dejectedly, starting off toward the lake shore, a downcast appearance holds him as he stuffs his hands in his pockets, kicking at random pebbles. Solath seems to sigh as well, if a dragon could sigh, lowering to lie on his belly, watching with slow whirling eyes as his rider heads for the lake.
T'rien gives P'draig a curious look. He doesn't say anything, however, but simply replies to Persie. "That isn't going to get him to behave, either. He doesn't respect M'yr any more than he does me, I suspect."
"She sounded like a real spitfire," muses P'draig thoughtfully and then shrugs. "I really think the only ones who can handle them are Niyath and Jenna. Solath will listen to Niyath."
Jekzith> Sal'ros eventually stops at the edge of the water, considering the other brown dragon out in the shallows. A tired sigh drops the man to the ground in a slumping heap, sitting as comfortable as a man can on a patch of grass. Solath still watches from his belly.
"Well, shouldn't respect start with the Weyrleader?" Persies muses. "In theory, at least. I guess. Shards, this is sort of depressing." And that's not an easy thought for Persie and it makes her even more quiet.
T'rien nods, looking at his hands. "I'm turning into a prune," he mutters. "And I'm getting hungry. Anyone else up for a snack?"
P'draig shakes his head and swims over to climb out of the water. "No, I don't have much of an appetite. I'm going to go take a walk. Jekzith's out by the lake."
Jekzith> Jekzith rolls over and pads up onto the beach, eyeing Solath, rumbling to the dragon in a friendly way. The rider also earns a long spin-eyed look.
Jekzith> Solath senses that Jekzith winds a blue sending your way. << What is wrong with yours? Mine speaks with others about him. He is worried. >>
"Oh, why would you try to talk to him," Persie murmurs to herself, rather non-sequitor enough that one might guess she's not speaking to anyone currently present. In fact, she sort of jumps a little to realize that she's said it aloud. Her smile is, again, apologetic. "I can eat," she says. "Or walk. Or whatever." She's up for socializing, whatever it may be.
Jekzith> A woman of average height strides briskly on her way through the bowl, eyes scanning the vast expanse. She gives pleasant nods to a few riders and their dragons, apparently a familiar face. As she passes nearby the lake, she nearly trips over a body lying in the grass, feet shifting nimbly to miss trampling the rider. "Sorry 'bout that." She laughs, when she regains her footing.
Dragon> Jekzith senses that Solath responds with a grey bleakness, no colour to give his voice life, << I worry the most, yet I cannot do for him what I wish to do. There are breaks. I will have wait until I can jump over the gaps. >>
T'rien climbs out of the water, reaching for his towel. "Sorry for being such a wet blanket," he apologizes. "I'm gonna get something to eat and try to think this through some more."
Jekzith> Sal'ros could've been trampled by either dragon or the woman and he doesn't look like he would've rushed at the way to avoid it. Though the laugh does wake him enough to blink, gaze following her as she regains her footing. Where once he would've snapped at her, he doesn't have the strength left, instead he numbly mutters, "Should've tried harder not to miss."
Jekzith> Solath senses that Jekzith waxes curious. << What do you wish to do? Breaks? >>
P'draig towels off as well, though he grimaces at the clothes he had with him and in the end, just wraps the towel around his waist. "Going to drop these in the laundry and borrow something," he says and waves to the other two. "See you later. Persie, T'rien."
T'rien nods, drying himself off and slipping back into his clothes. "Thanks for the talk, you two. Have a good night."
T'rien steps into the wide corridor leading towards the Inner Caverns.
T'rien has left.
Cavoth launches into the sky, banking through the aerial entrance to the Bowl.
Cavoth has left.
Persie is a bit slower to follow, particularly since neither of her current companions seem in want for company. She tries a hopeful smile, but that doesn't seem quite right and it falls quickly enough. "Uh, have a good night," she offers instead.
Jekzith> Aladrea seems a little surprised by the way she pauses, setting her fists on her hips as she stands over Sal'ros lying in the grass. "Sorry," She grumbles, sounding more entertained than irritated. "I was just looking for a place to dump all this." She pats the satchel at her hip, which is swollen and seems quite heavy, she leans in the opposite direction to compensate for the weight. "Know where I can find the headwoman? Been lookin everywhere for'er."
Jekzith> Sal'ros straightens after a moment, looking back over his shoulder with contempt at the dragons, all of them, including his own. Yet, that contempt is fleeting, his eyes registering Aladrea again, as if he had forgotten the woman was there. "Dump it in the lake. On second thought, what is it?" Although his words finge on interest towards the satchel, his tone of voice doesn't match it. "And no, I don't know where one is.. probably in the storage caverns or the living cavern.. that'd be my best bet."
Dragon> Jekzith senses that Solath responds with a voice that seems to be crawling away, << Nothing fits. I cannot explain it. Do not hate me for it. >>
Jekzith> T'rien makes his way out into the bowl, nibbling on a meatroll. His hair is damp, evidence that he's come from a recent swim or bath - or both. He makes his way toward Cavoth, who also has beads of water on his oiled hide.
You follow the wide corridor, finally reaching the Inner Cavern. A warm, moist breath of air follows you.