Log: Imirath Has Thicktail, Sal’ros Rebels (Niyath and Soldreth 1)
Imirath Has Thicktail, Sal’ros Rebels
Who: V’delin, T’rien, Rachele, Sal’ros, Jenna, F’niah, P’draig
Where: Weyrling barracks
Autumn afternoons at Fort weyr bring crisp breezes, some of which blow with enough ferocity to flutter the heavy curtains across the barracks, tumbling through the cavern and assaulting the inhabitants. One such is V’delin, who is chilled even more than normal by the breeze, as he’s damp and freshly washed. A towel is pressed over his hair roughly, and he scratches at the back of his ear while making a dismayed face at Imirath, who is scowling right back at him from his position in his wallow. Others nearby tug on coats, some hide beneath blankets, and a few study intently at various lessons and assignments.
Some long coat, better suited to being worn over a dress than a weyrling’s garb, flickers at Rachele’s ankles. Unlike the rest of the class seeking shelter from the breeze, she’s standing right at the mouth of the barracks, holding a portion of the curtain in hand and looking out expectantly. No doubt she’s learnt the clockwork of their schedule by now, and is eagerly anticipating the arrival of hot klah and teas to rejuvenate them this afternoon. Rakenth, hide glistening with oil from a recent application, stands at her side, head level with her waist as he joins her in gazing out across the bowl. At last, she claps delightedly and pulls the curtain back in welcome to the drudges that enter with large vat-like ceramic containers with tap-nozzles for self-service in their possession, two to each one to manage the large containers. Looking much cheered and red-cheeked (not to mention windblown), Rachele shuffles to the serving table to get a mug in anticipation, first in line.
There are a few muffled and one loud and clear complaints from other barracks-residents, general grumbles about the chill being made worse for the long-coated weyrling’s holding opne the curtain. V’delin is one who merely looks up, scowls Rachele’s way, and continues drying his hair. Once the mass, which still manages to look oily despite a fresh washing, is free of frequent drips, he tugs on a coat of his own, having clad himself otherwise before returning from his washing. The klah’s arrival has him taking a deep, slow breath, savoring the fragrance that drifts his way on that chilling breeze. Casting a dismayed and disgusted glance to the blocky bronze, Ven rises and joins Rachele at the table, rubbing his hands together as he waits his turn. “Were you on lookout? You must be more fond of the stuff than you let on.”
“The tea,” V’delin repeats, a sassy imitation with vowels extended. “Not much excitement you can add to tea. It’s a girl’s drink, I’d say.” This comes even as he’s stared at by Rakenth, and he smiles crookedly back at them, the tease passing quickly in the face of her cheer in the comforts of home. He watches the plume of steam, a warning on his lips as she bends over it, “Mind the heat-” comes needlessly as her investigation is brief. “Maybe it’s part of the next stage in our training. We have to fend for ourselves when it comes to herbs. There’s an herb garden off the lake, I’m sure we could go and gather some.” As the pot containing klah has its setup completed, he makes for it, casually ahhing as the beverage comes out brewed, though much paler than usual. “I guess the novelty of having weyrlings to cook for wears off fast.” Imirath snorts, and Ven stares levelly at him. “Nothing from you. You’re a downright mess. If you hadn’t eaten like that, this would’ve been a much more pleasant morning.”
“Drinks aren’t meant to be exciting,” Rachele says, with all the naive confidence of a fifteen turn-old girl. “I’m not certain if I think it’s intelligent to classify drinks according to gender, though,” she observes, nonetheless with a smile to show she’s not trying to be argumentative for the sake of it. She dumps the water back into the vat, and closes the lid. There’s shuffling, then, as the entire tea line shifts - some go back to their beds, others sweep into the klah line. Rachele watches the klah flow into V’delin’s mug, and looks down the line of heads now formed to wait for klah. “By the time we fetched enough herbs to turn all this water into tea, the water would almost be tepid,” she murmurs distractedly, assessing the line against her desire for a warm drink. “I think they just forgot to put it in.” That said, she steps past V’delin, aiming for the back of the line. Apparently it didn’t occur to her to sneak in and grab a bit of klah while she was standing right next to it, or such a thing was deemed dishonest, for it’s to the back she marches, Rakenth ambling along beside her, face perpetually lifted up to watch hers.
T’rien comes in, blowing on his hands to warm them. Cavoth, ever present at his side, snuffs and snorts, taking great delight in creating steam in the cool evening air with his breath. “I’m glad you’re enjoy it,” T’rien mutters, looking downright grumpy about the situation.
With a shrug, V’delin brings the fresh though watery klah to his lips, burning himself soundly, cursing up a short stormcloud, then blowing on the offending liquid. Imirath complains with a whuff, burying his face beneath his wing to buffer the lip-burning oozing over from his rider. The blond scuffs his boots along the floor, clearing them of debris of unpleasant sorts, then is just about elbowed out of the way by the next eager weyrlings in the line. “Wait yer turn!” he calls loudly, though hastily relocates since he was holding things up. About then, he notices the girl’s gone…to the back of the line. He takes a moment to further berate Imirath instead, since she’s moved away, then to laugh at T’rien. “And it’s only going to get colder. Big cavern, lots of wind.” Hair still damp, Ven shivers.
The girl waits with her cup at the back of the line, taking a step forward every so often when a weyrling moves off with his or her klah. She overheard the boy’s stormcloud of cursing, but only lightly chewed on the inside of her lower lip and said nothing in response. She’s a little too far to toss in her sixteenth of a mark bit about the weather, and so occupies herself with staring at the back of the head in front of her whilst the line shuffles forward slowly but steadily. Rakenth deals with the movement oddly, by setting his draconic rump down for the two seconds in which they’re still, then shuffling forward a pace only to sit again. Finally she gets her turn at the nozzle, and pours some watery klah for herself. She moves out of the way of the others, then, and holds the cup for warmth. V’delin’s already proven it’s too hot to sip just yet.
T’rien gathers his arms around himself, moving toward the end of the line. “Colder. Just what I need. I can’t feel my toes right now. I suppose they’ll just freeze off come winter.” Cavoth warbles, his faceted eyes whirling in alarm. “I’m just kidding, Cav,” T’rien reassures him. “But I think I’ll ask for a few more blankets from the stores, though.” He considers. “And maybe a few more sweaters and a couple of thick pairs of socks.”
Ven slowly starts back toward his and Imirath’s resting area, but pauses as he sees the dragon has taken up a solid residence there, hunched in a vague sort of squat with his belly dragging against the couch’s carved-out bottom. He puts one hand on his hip, cradling the klah in the other, and commences a stare-down that ceases as T’rien crosses his line of sight on his way to join the line. “More blankets might be advisable, all right,” he agrees, an almost mumbled assent before turning his back on Imirath and watching his clutchmates and their lifemates. “Thicktail’s from eating too much, or too fast?” he tosses out, trying to sound like he’d have no personal reason to ask. Imirath snorts.
Rachele looks up from her contemplation of klah, eyes casting about for the reason for V’delin’s sudden question. She stares at Imirath for a few moments, blinks, and looks back to V’delin. “Both?” She proposes. Rakenth has decided that this is something worth investigating, for he leaves Rachele’s side in order to approach Imirath, head lifted and cocked to the side. A small, throaty croon escapes him, as if to ask, ‘I say, what’s going on here?’ “Rakenth,” Rachele warns softly, advising the blue to keep his curiosity in check. Who wants to be pestered when they’re dealing with a predicament like thicktail? The girl looks at V’delin again, a small bit of color rising in her cheeks as she realizes the situation that’s unfolding. She’ll just lift her mug to hide that mote of amusement toying with her lips. T’rien’s remarks about the cold provide a welcome distraction, too. “I think we’ll all be raiding the stores for warmer things soon enough. I don’t have anything proper for winter. The warm breeze off the sea kept the Seahold fairly clement.”
T’rien gets himself a mug of klah as his turn comes up, making a face as he sips at it. “Still tastes like tree bark,” he grumbles. He cradles his hands around the mug, using it for its warmth. “Yeah, I figured that a quilt and a couple of blankets just weren’t going to do it for me.” He perches on the edge of his couch, eyeing Imirath as he dares take another sip. Grimacing against the taste, he advises, “Thicktail is caused by both, actually.” Cavoth watches from a safe distance in the middle of his couch, apparently deciding that getting any closer is not in his best interests. “You don’t have anything proper?” T’rien echoes, looking amused. “I came here with a pair of sandals on. This is the first pair of socks I’ve worn in Turns.” He points to his feet, where the pattern of a thick-knitted pair of socks can just be seen.
V’delin braves the klah again, a welcome distraction from the topic he’d brought up: still too hot, but less of a burn this time. He swirls the cup, studying it as though it had betrayed him by not containing a more pleasant mix of rum or better. “Both. Hunh. Must be pretty common, then, if we’re told to feed them until they’re full. Or else,” a quick, slanty-eyed glare at Imirath, “some of them don’t know how to tell when they’re properly full.” There’s a rough chuckle for Tirien’s comment: “It should! Bark, root, all vaguely like dirt. Better with a flavoring.” Grunt. Imirath, somewhat confused and a little embarrassed, and not liking either, whuffs at Rakenth and hunkers down a little more, then stretches his neck out mournfully. “Stores, right. Wouldn’t mind a visit to those.” A gleeful light comes into his eyes at the prospect. “So, a seahold girl, and was it Igen that shared you, Tir-er, T’rien?”
Rachele’s eyes obligingly fall to T’rien’s socks, and her smile broadens slightly. “I didn’t say I was the worst off,” she says, lifting her eyes to the weyrling’s face to smile. The boys’ comments about the klah isn’t making her any more eager to give hers a sip, but in the meantime the mug still makes a wonderful smile camouflage. Rakenth has taken his lifemate’s warning to heart, and retreats to his own couch, where he still keeps an eye on the bronze - but from a distance. “Are we allowed to visit the stores ourselves?” She asks, unaware of where in the Weyr such things are. The question is asked as she drifts back to her cot, still cradling her mug, swathed comfortably in her second (or even third) hand dress-coat.
T’rien shrugs, looking a bit sour now. “I dunno. I hope they let us wander around soon. I’m going stark-raving looney in here.” He sips his klah again and shudders. “Shards, this is awful.” He glances over at V’delin once more, keeping a discreet eye on Imirath. “Igen deposited me here, yes,” he replies to the bronzerider’s query. “Or, rather, traded me in for something I’ve yet to learn of. My mother said something about knitting someone a scarf but I’m not sure what she was talking about.” He shrugs, looking into his mug. “What exactly can you put in this that will make it taste better? It certainly can’t make it taste any worse.”
V’delin rubs his arm with his free hand, smoothing goosebumps from the chill that must be forming beneath his weyrling attire. “Don’t think so, but it’d certainly be a welcome foray about now. Wouldn’t mind putting a little distance between me and him.” A quick tilt of his head indicates his Imirath, who continues to look mournful, turning his head sideways to look up at Rakenth and Cavoth to see what they think of him. Ven notes T’rien’s taken a sip, so he follows suit, managing not to further burn his lips or tongue, though he makes a displeased face. “It is. Gah, is there cinnamon over there? Or even sweetener? It’d have to give a better taste. Or any taste.” Then a laugh, the slim weyrling’s shoulders loosening somewhat. “Traded for a scarf. I like that.”
“There’s sweetener,” Rachele says, nodding towards the serving table. Some enthusiastic weyrlings have succeeded in making the area surrounding the sweetener jar look like a winter wonderland scene, granules sprinkled willy-nilly. Her grey-blue eyes fall to her own mug, the semi-brown liquid examined with a small frown. She decides now’s the time to hazard a sip, and the result is a small grimace, and a quick swallow. Trying to disguise her unpleasant expression, she looks at the far wall and ever so nonchalantly tugs her plait of hair over one shoulder to run her fingers through it. It’s knotty, and has become progressively less tidy and a bit dry and frizzy during weyrlinghood, with no time to pamper it and treat it. “Igenites need to know how to knit? Presuming your mother’s Igenite as well,” she murmurs at the far wall, lips still twisted into a bit of a grimace. Rakenth folds his forearms complacently, still watching the bronze, as though waiting for some intriguing clue about thicktail’s nature.
T’rien chuckles wryly, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. “She’s originally from Keroon. It might be warm on the ground at Igen, but it’s still cold in the air and *between*. Not to mention Benden is part of Igen’s sweep area.” He slips off the edge of the couch and makes his way toward the sweetener. A few spoonfuls and a twirl of a spoon later, he dares to take another sip. “Oh, ick. Now it tastes like tree bark with sweetener on it.” He wanders back, looking at Imirath, then V’delin. “You know, they have something that might help him out a bit. Get things moving, if you know what I mean?” He peers into his mug. “Or, you could just give him some of this. I’m sure this klah is capable of cleaning out some pipes. If I ever get put on tunnelsnake duty again, I may use it to force them out of their holes. Nothing could live in this.”
A short, sharp nod, and V’delin’s attracted to that sweeter immediately after T’rien’s moved away from it: anything to improve the horridly bland flavor of the beverage. His cup is set down amid the wonderland with the granules crunching underneath, and his own slovenly ladleing is unlikely to improve the situation. He scrapes some cinnamon from the breakfast table’s leftover rolls, drying and crusting now, and some of the frosting falls in as well. Imirath’s eyes drift closed, his still swollen tail stretching a little, tentatively, though the swelling makes it more closely match the rest of his stocky body. “He’s had his something already, last night. Spent the whole morning shoveling.” Disgusted, V’delin sips at the klah, laughing into it as T’rien describes things dying as a result of it, almost hard enough to chase it out his nose. “Ouch, stop that! All the sweetener does is make it burn.”
Rachele takes T’rien’s information with a small nod, indulging in a bit of a larger smile when V’delin chokes on the foul drink. She’s decided she’s had enough of it, herself, and rises to cross the barracks so she can abandon her mug next to the vat. She’s not the only one leaving barely sipped mugs there; hopefully the kitchen will understand their ire and give them better in the future. Hopefully. She returns to her cot wordlessly, drawing her legs up on it, folding them beneath the trails of her coat. She rewards Rakenth’s nuzzling snout with a kiss between his ‘ridges, and a skritch of his jaw. “Maybe if you write up a notice about wanting some more warm things, they’ll deliver them sooner rather than later,” she suggests, leaning forward to claim some of her notebooks from the end of her bed. Homework time.
T’rien shares the laugh, returning to his perch on the edge of the couch. “Sorry.” He sets his mug to the side, as if that’s the only safe place for it. Cavoth stretches out his neck to take a sniff and immediately snorts in displeasure. “Told you it was bad,” T’rien murmurs to him. The young man removes one of his gloves and wiggles his fingers a bit, rubbing off lints and assorted yarn fuzzies that have accumulated between his fingers. “Looks like he needs more,” he tells V’delin, a bit sympathetically. He snorts at Rachele’s suggestion, pointing at his mug. “Just like they had the decency to give us good klah? My guess is they’ll deliberately ignore requests for warm clothing, just to see how tough we are.”
Imirath, the frequently frothy, slavering dragon, parts his maw and pokes out his tongue, panting disenchantedly. Ven, meanwhile, is looking around for a napkin, kerchief, or what-have-you that he can use for nose-blowing. He locates a mostly-clean kerchief at last by rummaging in his pockets, and manages the feat one-handed while the other holds the attack klah at bay, pausing before the cup joins the other statement-making half-empties on the table to stare at Rachele and her apparent affection with her bond, jealousy perhaps causing the set to his jaw. “Bad is an understatement.” The cup goes down with a thunk, and he instead goes for a bucket of the set-aside drinking water, pouring some in a smaller bucket and taking it to Imirath’s side. The dragonet feigns indifference, then as soon as Ven’s back is turned, drinks thirstily. “Do we need to ask to go to stores? It’s not as though it’s outweyr.”
The girl laughs faintly, and belatedly, at the idea that they’ll be deprived cozy clothes in order to prove their mettle. She’s already rifling through her notes, though, looking for her last arithmetic page. Rakenth lowers his head to the bed, chin upon the coverlet. “Safest to ask one of the weyrlingmasters before helping yourself,” she murmurs, tapping her stylus against her lips as she hunches over her workbook. Tossing her frizzled plait over her shoulder again, she looks at the pair of boys and offers an apologetic smile. “I’m going to do my maths now,” she announces, excusing herself clumsily from the conversation.
T’rien decides that the klah isn’t going to taste any better sitting on the edge of his couch and fermenting, so he deposits the mug alongside the growing collection. He nods to Rachele in understanding, moving to stand beside V’delin and Imirath’s couch. “We could ask,” he suggests. “Or, just go get them ourselves.”
V’delin, standing near where Imirath is stretched out mournfully in his couch, mmphs, “Safest. Because we should always concern ourselves, now, with who we offend and who we don’t.” He just about growls at this sort of restriction, though he makes no direct move to break it, turning instead to watch Imirath drink. “Bout time you had some water. Told you you’d want some, after the morning you’ve had.” A slow sigh, then he folds his arms to regard Tirien, leaving Rachele to her studies without a renewed offer to help. “You think he needs another dose?” A fantastically unpleasant expression. “How can you tell?”
T’rien points to Imirath’s swollen tail. “I think he’s in for an unpleasant night, whether he gets another dose or not. Another purging might give you some peace and quiet tomorrow night, though.” His back is to the entrance, so he doesn’t see Jenna enter behind him. “I personally don’t care about who I offend. I just want to be warm tonight.”
Jenna drifts in, deliberately being unobtrusive. She’s caught sight of Imirath’s impending constipation, but waits, eyebrows arched, to see what V’delin does.
V’delin sighs, his eyes closing slowly. “Thought that one would do it. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable?” Imirath croons lowly, not all that happy himself. “Can’t say I want another morning shoveling like this one. Drink up, Imirath. Last thing we need’s you dehydrated on top of everything else.” Folding his arms, he rubs them again through his clothes. “We might as well make a trip to stores, look for some blankets and sweaters. Beats all of us coming down with something; it’d spread like fire on a grassy knoll in here.”
Jenna says mildly, “I hadn’t noticed it being so cold. Then again, my weyr’s a bit cozier than this barn you lot are bunking down in. Give you a hint: sleep with your dragon if you’re terribly cold. He’ll keep you warm enough. But definately look in stores. You two are about finished growing. You could look for some leathers while you’re at it. They usually keep me warm enough.” She approaches the pair. “So how are you four settling in?”
T’rien grimaces at the thought of getting sick. He’s about to say something when Jenna’s voice catches him off-guard. He jumps, turning around in surprise. “Shards!” he mutters, the word popping out of his mouth before he can catch it. With a sigh, he salutes the Weyrwoman. “I doubt anything will keep me warm enough if it gets much colder. Ma’am.”
V’delin startles as Jenna’s voice is heard, and then recognized. “It’s gotten more chill, m’am,” he reports, offering a salute as taught. “I’m afraid I’ve little interest in sleeping in his wallow at the moment, especially.” Imirath stretches out his long neck, then drinks some more.” Ven gives a quick look to T’rien: hear that? We’re approved by you-know-who to take a trip to stores. “Been better,” he shortly replies. “Though, been worse, too. How’re you, m’am?”
Jenna waves away the salutes, after a quick glance to P’draig’s office to make sure the door s shut. “I don’t stand on ceremony, weyrlings. and all that saluting makes me think you’re oing to poke your eye out. I know you have to, but if we’re not in a place where old eagle eye in there can see you, don’t worry about it.” She eyes Imirath, or more specifically, his tail. “And it’ll get colder, T’rien. We haven’t even had any ice yet. May get some snow this winter too. Be nice to see.” A slight pause and she asks, “How long’s his tail been like that, V’delin?”
T’rien shivers, looking miserable at the mention of ‘colder’ and ’snow’. “And here I thought it would be neat to see actual snow. I take it back. Give me a nice sand dune any day.”
Imirath props up his wing as Jenna approaches, familiar enough with her to have an association with her presence. “She didn’t ask for that, so stop it,” V’delin chastises. The wing droops, the dragon malcontent with the situation in general. “Yes m’am,” he murmurs, a small smile at her vehemence. “Long as we’ve extra layers, we’ll manage. Looks like more socks for you, T’rien.” A grin at the ones the weyrling wears, then a grimace. “Day or two. Gave him the treatment last night, he made more mess this morning than I thought ever possible.” A quick glance to T’rien, taking his advice into consideration. “You think he needs more?”
Jenna hms, squatting by the bronze, after a quick reach to rub eyeridges if he so desires. “I’m just going to check your tail, Imirath,” and she suits actions to words. Not so much with the ‘couchside manner’, is Jenna. “What’d you give him?”
T’rien takes a seat on his couch again. Cavoth scoots over closer, resting his head beside T’rien as he watches. “Maybe three pair,” he mutters, placing his hand on Cavoth’s head to offer him a scritch. The young brown sighs gratefully. “I think maybe I’ll look for some scented candles when we’re in the stores,” he says, eyeing Imirath’s tail again.
V’delin’s standing near his dragonet’s couch, the dragon within uncomfortably stretched out, his neck resting up and out of the couch, his tail somewhat swollen. “What one of those assistants gave me, did what I was told with it.” He doesn’t elaborate on that count, other than making a disgusted face. Imirath allows the contact, far-spread eyes pulling center to try to watch her hand, then to watch V’delin suspiciously as he’s handled. “You think they’ll actually help? They’d have to be pretty big candles.”
F’niah
Layers of lean muscle soften this man’s six-foot two-inch frame. Though wide shoulders skim to trim hips, and down through athletically-toned legs, it’s his hands that catch attention: overlarge like puppy paws. Silky bronze-brown hair has been cut knuckle-long all over his head. Eyes of muted green appraise the world from over an aquiline nose. A decidedly lantern jaw ends his not-unpleasant face, but the finishing touch is an air of near-constant alarm that bodes ill for breakables. Sef has the sort of face that ages well, though he’s probably between 34 and 39 Turns. His voice is usually a smooth baritone, though prone to cracking.
Over an ash grey shirt F’niah wears a black vest. It ties closed with a series of three Xs, the dangling tips of the laces trimmed with a flash of silver. Silver sparkles faintly at his shoulders as well in a peculiar sort of epaulet. The shirt is high-collared, with traces of Fort’s black and brown embroidered in an abstract pattern. The same pattern repeats at each cuff when the full fabric of the sleeve is pushed back. A deep comforting black makes up the hue of his trous, the fabric worked until it’s soft and nappy. They’re cut comfortably full over his hips and legs, almost requiring the braided sisal belt to hold them up. Each leg ‘breaks’ just at the top of his boots. On his hip is a simple twist of Fort’s brown and black, a strand of blue marking his dragon.
Saneth
Horizon’s purple-dusk is this dragon, caught at the hour between midnight’s tenebrous chill and day’s clear cornflower. From tip of chiseled snout to tiny spade of tail, his color hardly varies, making him appear, at first glance, a solid chunk of dragon. Upon closer study, he is actually quite thin, even scrawny, with contrails of pale ice carving thin streams down his neckridges and ribs. Small wings and athletic shoulders only augment his aerodynamic mien; his sails and spars are marbled with the same shimmering frost. Only at the tip of his muzzle and the ends of blunted headknobs do faint glints of periwinkle appear, melting icicles caught in an endless frieze. Carefully fitted over his lanky form are a comfortable set of flight straps - an unadorned pale grey weyrhide that is quite unobtrusive.
At a final length of twenty-four meters he’s smaller than some greens, but the depth to his chest suggests that he’s finished growing. Those experienced with dragonkind might estimate his age at about 20 Turns.
F’niah and Saneth enter the barracks - cautiously on the man’s part, jubilantly for the blue. “Didn’t I tell you to wait outside?” Sef asks, resigned, then shrugs at Saneth’s silent answer. Two more steps and they spot the little group around Imirath and offer a, “Evening,” and an aborted salute.
Jenna mms. “Linseed oil.” She gets awkwardly off her knees, thanks to that basketball of a stomach, and works her way to the supply cabinet. “He’s got Niyath’s tail, so it looks worse than it really is. And really, boys - have him bend his tail outside. No one wants to smell that.” She finds what she’s looking for and heads back to dose Imirath’s water bucket. To be on the safe side, before she pours some in, she sticks her hand in to taste it and make sure it’s not already dosed. Nodding in satisfaction, and oblivious to any shocked looks, she adds the oil to the water. “He needs to drink it all. So now, first lesson in dragon anatomy: constipation sucks. From the bellyache, and from the purge - Oh, evening Sef. Niyath says you were looking for me?”
T’rien looks over as F’niah and Saneth stroll in, offering him a salute, despite Jenna’s earlier advice. “I’m sure I can find something to mask that smell,” he tells V’delin.
V’delin shrugs, helplessly. “It was thick enough in the night, he couldn’t walk that far.” Imirath straightens, removing his rounded belly from where it drags on the ground, and noses suspiciously at his water and at the human’s hand when it dips in there. Fortunately, perhaps, he’s not been slavering so much of late, so it is mostly drool-free. “You heard her. Drink up.” Then a salute as Jenna speaks to the bluerider, Ven cringing as someone else hears of his little issues. “I’d appreciate that,” he murmurs sidelong to T’rien.
“Um,” the bluerider begins, looking uncertainly between bucket and bronze. Saneth, meanwhile, hunkers down and wraps his tail tightly around his haunches, the tip curling under his body. “Well yes, I… I needed to see a ‘healer. A dragonhealer, of course,” otherwise he wouldn’t be looking for Jenna, “But if you’re busy…?”
Jenna says pleasantly, “Not at all. Just giving the guys here a little anatomy lesson. Imirath’s got a bit of constipation - now, to keep it down in future, you need to see that he eats less, and drinks more. It’s quite common, really, V’delin. So what did you need a dragonhealer for, Sef? It’s not Saneth, is it?” She moves towards the blue, offering him eyeridge drubbings and automatically looking over his wings and limbs. “He’s not constipated, is he?”
T’rien grimaces at the thought of a grown blue dragon with thicktail. “We may need even bigger candles, in that case,” he mutters to V’delin. “At least we can go to the stores unmolested, eh?”
Jenna goes on rather blithely, “So what other issues have you lot,” she glances back at the weyrlings, “Had as far as anatomy and health concerns go? There’s Imirath’s wing, which, you may or may not have noticed, had ichor running through his veins. Green, not red, like a human’s. - Go when your mates are asleep, hm? Last thing we need is them charging through the caverns looking for you. - What else have you noticed?
The bronzeriding weyrling suddenly is delighted to see F’niah, especially once he’s indicated he needs to distract Jenna’s attention from his own troublesome Imirath. V’delin hangs his head a little with a humiliated enffff noise as she tells their visitor all about it, and scuffs at the ground with his boots. “Drink up, you hear?” he hisses that way before again turning his back on the soot-shaded dragon to smirk T’rien’s way, cheered at the thought that others, older dragons even, could suffer his torment. “Decent enough trade off, I’d say. It’ll be good to get out of here for a while. And yes m’am,” at her timing suggestion.
Saneth’s too busy eyeing Imirath’s bucket to notice the goldrider until it’s too late. Only once the drubbing begins does he try to pull away, and it’s stopped by the hissed, “Saneth!” “Uh, no ma’am. Jenna. Not that. It’s… oh, is this when you tell them about fellis?”
T’rien blinks a bit. “Fellis? That’s for pain, not thicktail.” He glances at V’delin and shrugs. Cavoth, for his part, makes to stick his nose in Imirath’s bucket of water, a move which is instantly stopped by T’rien’s hand on the closest neck ridge he can grab. “You do that and I’ll make you clean up the mess yourself!”
Imirath takes a test slurp at the water, the oil flavor spread out enough that he doesn’t really notice its taste. He dips most of his muzzle in, complacently enough, eyes whirling Saneth’s way possessively as he does so, then shifting that grunting bubbles-in-the-water blowing snort to Cavoth when he tries to share. Ahhhh, my water. Somehow it tastes better if everyone else wants it, and he tries to drink it up.
Jenna blinks at Saneth, “Goodness. You’re skittish today. My apologies, Saneth. - And they should know about fellis,” she breaks off at T’rien’s words. “Or maybe not. Fellis is highly poisonous to dragons. Numbweed and redwort work just as well on dragonhide as they do on our skin, though it takes a few more moments for numbweed to penetrate the outer layer and numb things properly. Now, another treatment for constipation is aloe juice, but as we’re not at Ista or Igen, it’s harder to come by here at Fort. You are both doing your exercises, correct? Strengthening legs and wings?”
F’niah offers a, “Sorry,” to the room at large and retreats to stand near Saneth’s head. “Maybe it doesn’t fix thicktail, but you still need to know about it. Anyway… um, Ma’am? I’m not telling Saneth because he’d fret. You know how he gets. But I think he ought to see a dragonhealer.” With a lightning-quick subject change that’s probably to forestall the imminent Saneth-sulking he adds, “Did you want Saneth to show them his wings?”
T’rien scratches at the back of his neck. “I didn’t know that,” he confesses. “Good information, that.” He smiles slightly at V’delin. “Want me to send home for some aloe juice? From what my sister said, it has the same effect.”
V’delin immediately agrees, “Sure are. M’am. Getting better all the time.” The mention of fellis’s danger to dragons has him pursing his lips, and filing away that little tidbit of information. “I didn’t either.” Of T’rien, he wonders after both Jenna and the brownrider weyrling have mentioned aloe juice, “Does he drink it? Or,” a gesture, suggesting a different type of application unelucidated.
Jenna heads off any Saneth-sulking by doing the immediate agreeing with his rider. “You can, Sef, please. - No, no, he drinks the aloe juice as well. What goes inhas to come out. Now, other major complaints you may have this early with your dragons are primarily hide and stomach related. Don’t overfeed them. Even if they insist they’re starving. And you absolutely cannot oil your dragon too much.” A pause, and her eyes go to one of the other greenriders listening in. “Okay, well, maybe you can, But as long as he - or she - is bathed daily, then no, you can’t over oil them. Itchy hide can soon crack, and that can be deadly when going between, or even in the upper air currents.”
Saneth has no time to sulk. He has -wings- to display! He’s prevented by the walls and ceiling from his usual showiness, but after a moment he manages to shove over and get one wing fully extended. The babies will just have to use their imaginations for his other. His bugle even has a decided air of superiority. Ta-DA! His rider winces at the sound, a grimace plastered on his face. Gosh, thanks, dragon.
Cavoth goes about showing off his wings and legs for the Weyrwoman, more than happy to oblige her. See how big he’s gotten? T’rien snorts good-naturedly. “Show off,” he chides him playfully. Cavoth warbles and knocks T’rien backwards onto the couch with his head. “Hey! Not now, you big oaf! The Weyrwoman is trying to teach us something!” He sits back up, running a hand through his hair to settle it back into place. “No, you were already oiled today. I’ll oil you again tomorrow.”
V’delin rubs at the scruff of his mustache, nodding wordlessly as Jenna explains. Imirath continues to hunker possessively over his water bucket, guarding it like a greedy canine, his stocky chest a good covering as he pauses in his gulping to admire the wingspan of the blue, then of his clutchmate, head tilting in fascination. “You were, too,” V’delin tells Imirath as he turns his angular head to nose Ven, the rider’s hand going to rub at his ear, to ward off that noise.
Jenna chuckles at Saneth and Cavoth both. “No, no, this is good. You can compare relative sizes and see how much more growing Cavoth - and Imirath too - will have to do.” She takes a moment to point out the leading and trailing edge, the lub, spar bones, fingersail, main sails, etc. “One thing, when you start flying, you’ll have to watch out for the forestay tip,” she indicates it first on Saneth, then on Cavoth, “Because a crash can easily break the small bones there. And you’ll lose some maneuverability.”
“A /lot/ more growing,” F’niah adds, one hand on Saneth’s leg. “Because they’re both gonna be plenty bigger than Saneth. But they won’t Search as well,” he adds in a semi-undertone, Looking meaningfully at Jenna in a way that suggests he’s trying to use his Amazing Psychic Powers to communicate something to her. In his normal voice he adds, “Saneth’s been lucky. All the times he’s gotten scored, he’s never done any serious damage to his wings. That used to happen a lot.”
T’rien runs his hand along Cavoth’s wingspan proudly. “I guess we won’t have to worry about scoring,” he muses. “That doesn’t mean we don’t have to be careful, though. Right, Cav?” Cavoth warbles in an affirmative, lowering his wings finally and tucking them back into place.
Imirath stretches out his wing again, glossy sails expansively trying to trip up his rider as Ven moves forward. Compare me, too! “Fold up a little so I can see the weyrwoman,” he tells the bronze, who cooperates a little, allowing V’delin to point at the same places on Imirath as Jenna indicates them, some help in remembering, then he’s distracted by looking at the older blue, scanning with narrowed eyes for signs of said ’scores.
Jenna nods. “Other issues will be talon loss, from ledge landings especially, but some have also lost them… in their… first hunt.” The words come slower as she attempts to decipher F’niah’s ‘meaningful’ look. Brows furrow. “What about searching, Sef?”
Saneth modestly tilts his wing so the babies can get a good long look at his oh-so wonderful self. No pushing, now, let those in the back see. While he’s distracted F’niah sidles closer to Jenna. “Good at Searching,” he repeats. “Only… not this time. No one Impressed. You see?” “Right!” he adds brightly. “And boy, will they complain first time they crack a talon. You’d think it’d never happened to anyone else. Ever.”
Through the entrance tromps in another weyrling, face covered in dirt - dirt and dust that perhaps would belong to firestone. Black attire seems to be grey at this point in time, his arms having a pasty look to them as well. At least someone has actually been working, though by the scowl etched on Sal’ros’ face, it appears as if the man had not a good day. Solath has been awake for quite some time, though only at his rider’s entrance does the brown really respond, lifting his head from his couch to give an unheard greeting, head tossed momentairly as well, dragon eyes showing signs of hunger. Sal’ros barely seems to notice, heading for his space as it may be, tossing off his shirt and using the inside to wipe off his face.
Jenna blinks at F’niah, still trying to puzzle out his code. And then, “Oh - Oh! I ouln’t worry bout that, F’niah. Not a whit.” She gives a pleasant nod to Sal’ros. “So, any questions? And this won’t be the last time we have a talk about anatomy, so don’t worry if you feel like you missed something.”
V’delin looks over Imirath’s wing to examine the show-off blue just beyond, and he chuckles as something the bronze says or asks brings a smile to his face. “No, but showoffs get attention,” he explains as Imirath again bends his head to the water bucket, sluffing into it noisily. “That’s been true of everything else so far. Only one in all of Pern.” Then the firestone monster scowls by, and Ven watches him, confused. “That’s what you get for being too good at your lessons,” he quietly calls Sal’ros’s way.
“Yes,” F’niah begins somewhat desperately, “Only it’s never happened before. He’s always been… you know.” Apparently dwelling on the ‘you know’ is enough to attract the blue’s attention, for the single wing lowers as he whuffs curiously toward his Boy. That causes Sef to whirl and announce loudly, “Nope, no one is as good as Searching as Saneth! And just -look- at those wings!” Which mollifies Saneth enough to hoist his wing back into display-height.
Jenna says in an undertone to F’niah, “It happens. Small clutch, lot of weyrbred were left standing. Don’t worry about it. Honest. Not Something to Dwell On.” A bit louder, “Lovely, lovely wings, Saneth. Thank you very much for demonstrating for us.”
Sal’ros didn’t even seem to notice anyone else in the barracks, it had become almost normal to have people around all the time - one learned to simply ignore them being there, after a time. So perhaps with a nudge from Solath and a snarky whisper down to the brown, does Sal’ros lift his head, hear that comment from V’delin, his eyes flashing over his shoulder as his chin nearly touches it. “Too good?” he spits out some of the grit in his teeth, “crackdust and broken shells..” he curses as he rummages through some other items he finally had transferred over from Ista, “what’d I’d give to shove that firestone sack…” he halts himself, trying to offer a friendly visage to the others but failing with his ghostly dusted face - now smudged lines of tanned skin showing through.
T’rien is so busy watching Saneth go to full extension again that he completely misses P’draig’s entrance. “Did he crack a talon or something?” he asks out loud, trying to parse out the interplay.
The blue smugly flips his wing back, folding it /just so/, and preens at the gathered crowd. All here to admire his wings, yes indeedy they are. “If you say so,” his rider says, not sounding one jot convinced. Then T’rien’s question distracts him. “Huh, what? Oh sure, Saneth’s done all sorts of things to his talons. Cracked ‘em, ripped some clear off… Makes you glad for numbweed, it does.” He misses the entrance and byplay of the others in his concentration.
V’delin scratches his head, watching the bizarre way F’niah isn’t quite saying what might be the trouble, eyes narrowing as he puzzles out, and finally figures out what he thinks might be the trouble. “If you weren’t so good at your lessons, you’d have fewer physical labors. You’d get to study instead.” As though that might be better. Jenna’s question about questions brings a headshake, him overwhelmed enough to not have any yet. Imirath whuffs between drinking slurps, still moving his swollen tail gingerly.
Jenna says firmly, “I do say so, Sef. Trust me on this one. So,” she turns to the weyrlings. “Questions? V’delin,” she adds, “If his tail gets thick after this one, and you’re carefully monitorng what he eats and drinks, we’ll need to look into this more. make sure it’s not a chronic condition. - Oh, that reminds me, do you all know what dehydration looks like in a dragon?”
T’rien frowns in a confused sort of way, still trying to figure out Saneth and F’niah’s interaction. With a shake of his head, he turns his attention back to Jenna. “I don’t,” he confesses. Cavoth lifts his head, first peering over at P’draig, then turning back to nudge T’rien in the shoulder. “What?” He looks and pales slightly, getting to his feet to offer up a salute.
F’niah glances sidelong at his clutchmate. “Behold the sounds of silence.”
P’draig ambles in quiet-like, blue eyes scanning the room, he nods politely Jenna’s way, and leans casually against the wall, listening in on the ‘lecture’. He doesn’t offer up anything additional as the Weyrwoman and bluerider speak.
V’delin’s eyes roll and he looks to the side as Jenna even suggests the condition could persist, an unsupressable ‘ugghh,’ escaping. “Yes m’am,” he grumbles. “I’ll watch it carefully.” For a moment, he looks like he’s considering giving Imirath a good kick in frustration, though his clenching fists absorb his ire and he takes a few deep breaths to contain it. “Uh, do they loll like a herdbeast that’s in need of water? Tongue out and dry, like that?”
Sal’ros isn’t paying attention to the ‘lesson’ going on behind him, hunched the way he is over his personal possessions, what remains of them that is. Scrounging out another shirt, a long-sleeved one that earns a wince for the colour, it being a dark red. Sighing, as if he had no choice, he throws the shirt over his head, pulling it down, fixing the collar afterwards. Solath finally irritates him enough that he shoves the scrap bowl towards the dragon, “Eat it then. Eat the sharding bowl too if it pleases you.” After managing to accept the shirt, he casually saunters away from the main group and scoops up a full bowl of cut meat - but one that wasn’t by his couch. Without a moment’s waste, he makes back to the brown and drops it front of the brown’s nose, the dragon looking up - the two sharing in some private conversation, earning a twitch of Sal’ros’ lip for all the effort.
Jenna smirks faintly at F’niah. “Gray tongue. Gray eyes. Gray tinge to their hide. Cracked and dry skin. Overall, gray means ‘ill’ or ‘depressed’, depending. So make sure that they get enough water.” She must have eyes in the back of her head, for she shifts, turning and nodding to P’draig. “Imirath’s constipation hasn’t gotten much better. I just gave him another dose of linseed oil in his water. V’delin said that one of the assistants told him to dose him last night as well.”
“Grey on a dragon is always bad,” F’niah agrees. Then he leans over to murmur something to Jenna before straightening again.
P’draig eyes Sal’ros for a moment, the shirt-change, the bowl of meat and he makes his way that way through the intervening cots, couches, Weyrlings and dragonets. “Hey there,” he says simply as he approaches. “How’s things?”
Jenna shakes her head to F’niah, murmuring something to him before turning to the room at large. “If there are no more questions, I’ll leave you lot alone for the evening. Oh, and P’draig, I said that T’rien and V’delin could go to stores when their mates are sleeping. Seems they’re utterly freezing here.” Her tone is amused, and she takes F’niah’s arm to go.
V’delin buries his face behind his hand, looking at the ground, at his leather boots, at just about anything as again his name is brought up in connection with that dragon’s problem. “Watch it, Sal’ros,” he warns, a little snappier than he usually addresses his friend. “Or yours’ll end up in the same place as -him-.” Then a pleased smile as the Weyrwoman reports about fetching warmer gear. Excellent. Himself, meanwhile, lowers his head to the water bucket and exhales, blowing bubbles in it and being entertained by them.
Sal’ros looks over his shoulder as someone approaches - not because he heard, but because Solath had something to do with it, the way the dragon is watching P’draig. Sal’ros gives a modest shrug of his shoulders, as if he really hadn’t put the energy into the gesture, turning so that he can talk to P’draig without insult of showing his back to the other man. In any case, Sal’ros mutters, “Fine.” That’s it, his eyes expecting, waiting, almost challenging and baiting P’draig to do something. Eyes flash towards V’delin, the only acknowledgement to the warning given, as it seems, he’s a little preoccupied with a ranking member of the weyr standing near him.
It takes F’niah a second, but then he extends his elbow for Jenna. “Glad we could help,” he tells the room vaguely, giving P’raig a vague sort of nod. “C’mon, Saneth.” The blue’s even faster out the door than the bluerider, galumphing with enthusiasm.
P’draig’s head swivels Jenna’s way and he nods: “Thank you, Weyrwoman” he acknowledges, modeling the politeness that is asked of all Weyrlings. He turns back as Sal’ros’ short answer is offered up and his hands dive into his pockets, the young Weyrlingmaster tipping his head to the side slightly as he regards Solath, wordless for the time being, just assessing the young dragon and his new rider.
V’delin moves toward his Imirath as the weyrwoman and bluerider leave, a small salute more for P’draig’s benefit than for theirs. “Careful,” he murmurs, watching Imirath drink, the words certainly for the dragon’s benefit and not his friend’s, though the eye-to-eye just beyond has him watching with sidelong glances.
“Y’know, you might want to think about using the work clothes,” notes P’draig, nodding at the shirt. “Save your stuff for later on, when it’s all …. a lot less messy.” He squints at Solath a bit more. “Looks like he’s growing well - any … digestive issues here?” His brows lift a little to underscore the question. Either he’s thick or he’s just ignoring Sal’ros’ confrontational attitude entirely.
“That’s my problem, isn’t it…” he lets a bit of his frustration of earlier events seep through his teeth, although a polite but obviously fake smile follows - almost a grimace if it were not for that tilting of the corner of his lips. “No,” he quips in about the digestive issue, a brow lifting on his head as he considers P’draig, before offering with a tight voice, as if to restrain the want to snap at the man in front of him, “What else?”
V’delin moves quietly toward the oil, returning to Imirath’s side with the pot and the brush, working the oil over his broad back and along his underbelly while the dragonet splashes his muzzle into the water, sousing Ven’s sleeve. He doesn’t seem to notice other than wiping absently at the water, his face turned mostly away from the two brownriders but his ears at attention.
“Yes, it is,” affirms P’draig, straightening up a bit. “And I’m sure you won’t like it a bit when you’ve got nothing clean left to wear and no one to but yourself to wash it for you.” He nods down at the food bowl. “Good appetite on him, how’s he adjusting to life in here?” he gestures around at the busy barracks and his eyes pause here and there, taking in different Weyrlings and their activities or lack thereof as some succumb to fatigue. They linger on V’delin and Imirath for a moment, a hint of a frown creasing his brow before his attention snaps back to Sal’ros.
If it wasn’t for P’draig basically blocking him in, he would have went straight over to V’delin and asked what he missed, but unfortunately, the other weyrling has to suffer in the moment of not being part of the conversation. Sal’ros continues to hold his stare, the defiant spark there although even if verbally he seems to be responding how he should be. “I’ve always washed my clothes, I would not put them in the hands of any other whom have to do their own as well. I do not depend on others to do my dirty work. Unlike some…” there he trails off, but the line of conversation was clear, an insult was intended to be written between the lines there. “Like any other dragon, I’d imagine,” Sal’ros doesn’t even glance back at Solath, not once.
V’delin continues the oiling, working the soothing liquid over Imirath’s wingjoints and using extra across the stitching that is healing well where he was shell-torn in the wingsail, then over his stubby neckridges. Ven raises his head, startled at Sal’ros’s belligerence in his hinted at insult. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak up, figuring it best to not involve himself in their discussion. Imirath, catching some of the uncertainty, raises his head from the water bucket and turns to more directly watch Solath, intrigued by his reaction to all this.
“It’s a simply thing Sal’ros, the first part of Weyrlinghood is exhausting. If you push yourself too hard, you won’t be able to keep up. It’s a balancing act. Use the help that’s provided while it’s necessary. You’ll be responsible for everything else and more soon enough. I’d also like to remind you of one of the rules of conduct: respect. You owe it to every person in this Weyr, even if it’s only the riders you have to salute.” That said he nods again at the bowl Solath is chomping out of. “Watch his intake, or he’ll be suffering as much as Imirath here,” he jerks a thumb slightly towards the bronze dragonet.
“And any other wouldn’t put the effort into making sure a stranger’s possessions are rightly cared after,” he tilts his head, “it reminds me of an age old adage - if you want something done right, do it yourself.” With that, he seems to wall himself up, if the arms across the chest were any indication. Sal’ros barely holds back a contemptuous laugh at P’draig, a soft snort though not retained. He turns his head then, his body following, “I salute no one, I am my own master..” with that, he walks towards his dragon, kneeling then to yank out roughly one of the pieces of meat that the brown was going to swallow without chewing. Apparently the first part of weyrlinghood hasn’t been that good on this man, no doubt he didn’t act this way when he was waiting for the eggs to hatch.
Imirath’s eyes whirl slowly, taking in this interaction and making what he will of it, fascinated by the levels inherent in the tones and physical language of their conversation. V’delin swallows, concentrating himself on not defending Imirath, or on not kicking Imirath alternatively. Instead, he works the oil in over the back and down toward his tail, working gently when Imirath complains. “Shh,” he quiets the dragon, though the whisper seems to emit in surprise at Sal’ros’s blatant actions. “Ya gotta work the system, man. Remember?” he quietly speaks to his friend.
P’draig just shakes his head a little. “That’s not how it works in the Weyr. We’re a team, from the Weyrleader on down, and there’s also a clear chain of command that starts with the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman and goes on down from there. Right now, Weyrling, once you’re done tending to Solath, you owe me twenty push ups.” He doesn’t shout or make angry faces, he just states it as a fact, face unmoving.
Sal’ros catches the whisper from Ven, and after a moment’s consideration, he grips Solath’s mouth closed with both hands, “Listen to me,” the brown appearing calm, “chew, or you don’t eat at all.” Releasing his grip on the dragon’s muzzle, the brown does as ordered, making it painfully obvious that he’s chewing - showing his food off as he goes. Rolling his eyes, Sal’ros nods at Ven, as he stands up, straightening his shoulders as his gaze flashes back over to P’draig. “Sir,” a sharp salute even if there’s a mocking look held behind it, “Sir, forgive me sir. Sir, I forgot I meaning nothing, sir. Sir, I forgot that impressing a brown means I can never be on top of the command sir. Sir, I forgot I can be only a grunt sir - weyrlingmaster - sir. Sir I forgot that men who ride bronze are more important sir, and must be followed no matter how dense, sir. I forgot I should obey like a trained canine sir.” All this time he’s holding his ground, then continues with that arrogant twist on the respectful title of ’sir’ -”Push ups sir, so my nose can be rubbed in dirt some more sir? As you say, sir -” and if that wasn’t bad enough, he makes sure to add one final crisp, “Sir” to get the point across. Sal’ros goes down anyways to do as ordered, in light of his fury that wells inside his chest, a few good push ups would help to put it all to good use.
V’delin grimaces, ducking his head as he does so, that face of someone who just can’t quite stand guys who don’t get good and angry and do some yelling and breaking things. He continues working the oil into Imirath’s tail, gently pressing on it to see if the thickness is subsiding any. The punishment doled out to Sal’ros brings a quick raising of his head, blue eyes startled, and he shakes his head and bites his lip as the insults come forth from his friend. “Dense?” he repeats, folding his arms and spreading the oil over his work clothes. Imirath nudges him, a reminder of his own advice, and he pipes down.
It probably takes a lot of effort for P’draig to remain impassive though he’s doing a decent enough job of not showing it. The observant however might notice a tell-tale hint of pink in his ears. “If that’s what you really think Sal’ros, you’re not going to get very far, either as a Weyrling or a rider” continues the Weyrlingmaster in that same even tone of voice. “However, I’m really not in the business of training canines. I’m in the business of training riders. Just remember that next time you feel like getting something off your chest. Besides being good exercise, laps around the Bowl are sometimes a good way to burn off some steam. I suggest you add one to your morning routine - it’ll give you time to think things through before you mouth off again. Also, report to my office later when Solath is resting. I want a word with you in private.”
Sal’ros makes push-ups almost seem effortless, but if anyone noticed, his arms held most of his muscles, it was no wonder he could easily lift himself about like he was. At the finished twenty, he doesn’t look up, angrily eyeing the knotch in the floor underneath him, glaring at it. “I’m going far, but not how you think…” he mutters under his breath, probably loud enough though that P’draig could hear it. Solath was not really eating at this time, his muzzle hoisted out of the bowl, observing but not doing much more than that - at least that’s how it appears on the outside. “Mouthing off, or speaking freely?” Sal’ros shifts his eyes up then towards P’draig, still in the push-up position, “those of power quell the voices of those whom they control..” but then he does a few more push-ups under his own devices, adding a loud and rich ‘YES SIR’ to P’draig’s final command.
V’delin, hailing from the rich Bitran traditions, is observant, catching both the flush to the young Weyrlingmaster’s ears and the ease with which Sal’ros performs his first task. Ven’s lips purse, Sal’s words still stinging and ringing in his ears, and he turns his shoulder deliberately not looking. Imirath tilts his head toward Solath, offering an investigative croon of inquiry his way.
P’draig folds his arms across his chest now, mirroring Sal’ros’ previous position. “There’s speaking freely the way we did in the Living Cavern over a mug of klah, and there’s being unspeakably rude and starting to upset some of your clutchmates’ dragonets. The lessons in the early part of Weyrlinghood are about mastering self-control, Sal’ros and understanding your new bond with your life partner. Are you up to the challenge?” asks Paddy both brows uplifted. Around the room some of the more sensitive young dragons have begun to shift restlessly or in one case, a small blue is starting to warble nervously, a high pitched sound that could verge on keening. “You said you have no master but yourself, so prove it. Master yourself, Sal’ros,” concludes the marginally older brownrider. His voice never wavers from the steady tone he’s adopted though there’s a slight tension across his shoulders and a strain in the leather of his boots as if his toes are gripping tightly to the floor through them.
Sal’ros pauses in his own self-punishing push-ups, enough to hear over his angered breathing and the nagging of a second mind in his voice. “So I can be like everyone else and blindly obey…” he mutters to himself. Solath just yawns, taking it all in stride and curling up back on his couch, offering nothing in the way of comfort for the other dragons either, just settling down for the night. Finally, he pushes up from the ground, stands, eyes P’draig, then shrugs, “I have nothing to prove. No any reason to prove it, to you, or anyone like you.” He points a finger to flip near the shoulder knot, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go deal with my own digestive issues.” Before P’draig has a chance to do or say otherwise, Sal’ros moves around him and heads for the latrines..
P’draig just shakes his head again a few times, watching Sal’ros stalk off and moves on to the Weyrling with the near-keening blue, offering soft words of encouragement and some pointers to help the lad soothe his lifemate. In fact he checks in with every pair before he eventually leaves for the confines of his office, where it’s highly likely he finally lets himself punch a pillow or two to let off his own steam.
V’delin pushes Imirath’s nose down, as though to dissuade him from involvement in business not his own. He rolls his eyes as the familiar refrain of ‘lessons to learn self-control’ come in to play. The noise from the other dragonets seems to fascinate Imirath, and he joins in, more for the racket and to be part of what’s happening than out of dismay at Sal’ros’s outburst. “Stop that,” Ven chastises. “Mind your own troubles,” he nudges the bronze, shaking his head but biting his lip even more firmly, intently finishing up the oiling and muttering to himself about dense brownriders.
Who: V’delin, T’rien, Rachele, Sal’ros, Jenna, F’niah, P’draig
Where: Weyrling barracks
Autumn afternoons at Fort weyr bring crisp breezes, some of which blow with enough ferocity to flutter the heavy curtains across the barracks, tumbling through the cavern and assaulting the inhabitants. One such is V’delin, who is chilled even more than normal by the breeze, as he’s damp and freshly washed. A towel is pressed over his hair roughly, and he scratches at the back of his ear while making a dismayed face at Imirath, who is scowling right back at him from his position in his wallow. Others nearby tug on coats, some hide beneath blankets, and a few study intently at various lessons and assignments.
Some long coat, better suited to being worn over a dress than a weyrling’s garb, flickers at Rachele’s ankles. Unlike the rest of the class seeking shelter from the breeze, she’s standing right at the mouth of the barracks, holding a portion of the curtain in hand and looking out expectantly. No doubt she’s learnt the clockwork of their schedule by now, and is eagerly anticipating the arrival of hot klah and teas to rejuvenate them this afternoon. Rakenth, hide glistening with oil from a recent application, stands at her side, head level with her waist as he joins her in gazing out across the bowl. At last, she claps delightedly and pulls the curtain back in welcome to the drudges that enter with large vat-like ceramic containers with tap-nozzles for self-service in their possession, two to each one to manage the large containers. Looking much cheered and red-cheeked (not to mention windblown), Rachele shuffles to the serving table to get a mug in anticipation, first in line.
There are a few muffled and one loud and clear complaints from other barracks-residents, general grumbles about the chill being made worse for the long-coated weyrling’s holding opne the curtain. V’delin is one who merely looks up, scowls Rachele’s way, and continues drying his hair. Once the mass, which still manages to look oily despite a fresh washing, is free of frequent drips, he tugs on a coat of his own, having clad himself otherwise before returning from his washing. The klah’s arrival has him taking a deep, slow breath, savoring the fragrance that drifts his way on that chilling breeze. Casting a dismayed and disgusted glance to the blocky bronze, Ven rises and joins Rachele at the table, rubbing his hands together as he waits his turn. “Were you on lookout? You must be more fond of the stuff than you let on.”
“The tea,” V’delin repeats, a sassy imitation with vowels extended. “Not much excitement you can add to tea. It’s a girl’s drink, I’d say.” This comes even as he’s stared at by Rakenth, and he smiles crookedly back at them, the tease passing quickly in the face of her cheer in the comforts of home. He watches the plume of steam, a warning on his lips as she bends over it, “Mind the heat-” comes needlessly as her investigation is brief. “Maybe it’s part of the next stage in our training. We have to fend for ourselves when it comes to herbs. There’s an herb garden off the lake, I’m sure we could go and gather some.” As the pot containing klah has its setup completed, he makes for it, casually ahhing as the beverage comes out brewed, though much paler than usual. “I guess the novelty of having weyrlings to cook for wears off fast.” Imirath snorts, and Ven stares levelly at him. “Nothing from you. You’re a downright mess. If you hadn’t eaten like that, this would’ve been a much more pleasant morning.”
“Drinks aren’t meant to be exciting,” Rachele says, with all the naive confidence of a fifteen turn-old girl. “I’m not certain if I think it’s intelligent to classify drinks according to gender, though,” she observes, nonetheless with a smile to show she’s not trying to be argumentative for the sake of it. She dumps the water back into the vat, and closes the lid. There’s shuffling, then, as the entire tea line shifts - some go back to their beds, others sweep into the klah line. Rachele watches the klah flow into V’delin’s mug, and looks down the line of heads now formed to wait for klah. “By the time we fetched enough herbs to turn all this water into tea, the water would almost be tepid,” she murmurs distractedly, assessing the line against her desire for a warm drink. “I think they just forgot to put it in.” That said, she steps past V’delin, aiming for the back of the line. Apparently it didn’t occur to her to sneak in and grab a bit of klah while she was standing right next to it, or such a thing was deemed dishonest, for it’s to the back she marches, Rakenth ambling along beside her, face perpetually lifted up to watch hers.
T’rien comes in, blowing on his hands to warm them. Cavoth, ever present at his side, snuffs and snorts, taking great delight in creating steam in the cool evening air with his breath. “I’m glad you’re enjoy it,” T’rien mutters, looking downright grumpy about the situation.
With a shrug, V’delin brings the fresh though watery klah to his lips, burning himself soundly, cursing up a short stormcloud, then blowing on the offending liquid. Imirath complains with a whuff, burying his face beneath his wing to buffer the lip-burning oozing over from his rider. The blond scuffs his boots along the floor, clearing them of debris of unpleasant sorts, then is just about elbowed out of the way by the next eager weyrlings in the line. “Wait yer turn!” he calls loudly, though hastily relocates since he was holding things up. About then, he notices the girl’s gone…to the back of the line. He takes a moment to further berate Imirath instead, since she’s moved away, then to laugh at T’rien. “And it’s only going to get colder. Big cavern, lots of wind.” Hair still damp, Ven shivers.
The girl waits with her cup at the back of the line, taking a step forward every so often when a weyrling moves off with his or her klah. She overheard the boy’s stormcloud of cursing, but only lightly chewed on the inside of her lower lip and said nothing in response. She’s a little too far to toss in her sixteenth of a mark bit about the weather, and so occupies herself with staring at the back of the head in front of her whilst the line shuffles forward slowly but steadily. Rakenth deals with the movement oddly, by setting his draconic rump down for the two seconds in which they’re still, then shuffling forward a pace only to sit again. Finally she gets her turn at the nozzle, and pours some watery klah for herself. She moves out of the way of the others, then, and holds the cup for warmth. V’delin’s already proven it’s too hot to sip just yet.
T’rien gathers his arms around himself, moving toward the end of the line. “Colder. Just what I need. I can’t feel my toes right now. I suppose they’ll just freeze off come winter.” Cavoth warbles, his faceted eyes whirling in alarm. “I’m just kidding, Cav,” T’rien reassures him. “But I think I’ll ask for a few more blankets from the stores, though.” He considers. “And maybe a few more sweaters and a couple of thick pairs of socks.”
Ven slowly starts back toward his and Imirath’s resting area, but pauses as he sees the dragon has taken up a solid residence there, hunched in a vague sort of squat with his belly dragging against the couch’s carved-out bottom. He puts one hand on his hip, cradling the klah in the other, and commences a stare-down that ceases as T’rien crosses his line of sight on his way to join the line. “More blankets might be advisable, all right,” he agrees, an almost mumbled assent before turning his back on Imirath and watching his clutchmates and their lifemates. “Thicktail’s from eating too much, or too fast?” he tosses out, trying to sound like he’d have no personal reason to ask. Imirath snorts.
Rachele looks up from her contemplation of klah, eyes casting about for the reason for V’delin’s sudden question. She stares at Imirath for a few moments, blinks, and looks back to V’delin. “Both?” She proposes. Rakenth has decided that this is something worth investigating, for he leaves Rachele’s side in order to approach Imirath, head lifted and cocked to the side. A small, throaty croon escapes him, as if to ask, ‘I say, what’s going on here?’ “Rakenth,” Rachele warns softly, advising the blue to keep his curiosity in check. Who wants to be pestered when they’re dealing with a predicament like thicktail? The girl looks at V’delin again, a small bit of color rising in her cheeks as she realizes the situation that’s unfolding. She’ll just lift her mug to hide that mote of amusement toying with her lips. T’rien’s remarks about the cold provide a welcome distraction, too. “I think we’ll all be raiding the stores for warmer things soon enough. I don’t have anything proper for winter. The warm breeze off the sea kept the Seahold fairly clement.”
T’rien gets himself a mug of klah as his turn comes up, making a face as he sips at it. “Still tastes like tree bark,” he grumbles. He cradles his hands around the mug, using it for its warmth. “Yeah, I figured that a quilt and a couple of blankets just weren’t going to do it for me.” He perches on the edge of his couch, eyeing Imirath as he dares take another sip. Grimacing against the taste, he advises, “Thicktail is caused by both, actually.” Cavoth watches from a safe distance in the middle of his couch, apparently deciding that getting any closer is not in his best interests. “You don’t have anything proper?” T’rien echoes, looking amused. “I came here with a pair of sandals on. This is the first pair of socks I’ve worn in Turns.” He points to his feet, where the pattern of a thick-knitted pair of socks can just be seen.
V’delin braves the klah again, a welcome distraction from the topic he’d brought up: still too hot, but less of a burn this time. He swirls the cup, studying it as though it had betrayed him by not containing a more pleasant mix of rum or better. “Both. Hunh. Must be pretty common, then, if we’re told to feed them until they’re full. Or else,” a quick, slanty-eyed glare at Imirath, “some of them don’t know how to tell when they’re properly full.” There’s a rough chuckle for Tirien’s comment: “It should! Bark, root, all vaguely like dirt. Better with a flavoring.” Grunt. Imirath, somewhat confused and a little embarrassed, and not liking either, whuffs at Rakenth and hunkers down a little more, then stretches his neck out mournfully. “Stores, right. Wouldn’t mind a visit to those.” A gleeful light comes into his eyes at the prospect. “So, a seahold girl, and was it Igen that shared you, Tir-er, T’rien?”
Rachele’s eyes obligingly fall to T’rien’s socks, and her smile broadens slightly. “I didn’t say I was the worst off,” she says, lifting her eyes to the weyrling’s face to smile. The boys’ comments about the klah isn’t making her any more eager to give hers a sip, but in the meantime the mug still makes a wonderful smile camouflage. Rakenth has taken his lifemate’s warning to heart, and retreats to his own couch, where he still keeps an eye on the bronze - but from a distance. “Are we allowed to visit the stores ourselves?” She asks, unaware of where in the Weyr such things are. The question is asked as she drifts back to her cot, still cradling her mug, swathed comfortably in her second (or even third) hand dress-coat.
T’rien shrugs, looking a bit sour now. “I dunno. I hope they let us wander around soon. I’m going stark-raving looney in here.” He sips his klah again and shudders. “Shards, this is awful.” He glances over at V’delin once more, keeping a discreet eye on Imirath. “Igen deposited me here, yes,” he replies to the bronzerider’s query. “Or, rather, traded me in for something I’ve yet to learn of. My mother said something about knitting someone a scarf but I’m not sure what she was talking about.” He shrugs, looking into his mug. “What exactly can you put in this that will make it taste better? It certainly can’t make it taste any worse.”
V’delin rubs his arm with his free hand, smoothing goosebumps from the chill that must be forming beneath his weyrling attire. “Don’t think so, but it’d certainly be a welcome foray about now. Wouldn’t mind putting a little distance between me and him.” A quick tilt of his head indicates his Imirath, who continues to look mournful, turning his head sideways to look up at Rakenth and Cavoth to see what they think of him. Ven notes T’rien’s taken a sip, so he follows suit, managing not to further burn his lips or tongue, though he makes a displeased face. “It is. Gah, is there cinnamon over there? Or even sweetener? It’d have to give a better taste. Or any taste.” Then a laugh, the slim weyrling’s shoulders loosening somewhat. “Traded for a scarf. I like that.”
“There’s sweetener,” Rachele says, nodding towards the serving table. Some enthusiastic weyrlings have succeeded in making the area surrounding the sweetener jar look like a winter wonderland scene, granules sprinkled willy-nilly. Her grey-blue eyes fall to her own mug, the semi-brown liquid examined with a small frown. She decides now’s the time to hazard a sip, and the result is a small grimace, and a quick swallow. Trying to disguise her unpleasant expression, she looks at the far wall and ever so nonchalantly tugs her plait of hair over one shoulder to run her fingers through it. It’s knotty, and has become progressively less tidy and a bit dry and frizzy during weyrlinghood, with no time to pamper it and treat it. “Igenites need to know how to knit? Presuming your mother’s Igenite as well,” she murmurs at the far wall, lips still twisted into a bit of a grimace. Rakenth folds his forearms complacently, still watching the bronze, as though waiting for some intriguing clue about thicktail’s nature.
T’rien chuckles wryly, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. “She’s originally from Keroon. It might be warm on the ground at Igen, but it’s still cold in the air and *between*. Not to mention Benden is part of Igen’s sweep area.” He slips off the edge of the couch and makes his way toward the sweetener. A few spoonfuls and a twirl of a spoon later, he dares to take another sip. “Oh, ick. Now it tastes like tree bark with sweetener on it.” He wanders back, looking at Imirath, then V’delin. “You know, they have something that might help him out a bit. Get things moving, if you know what I mean?” He peers into his mug. “Or, you could just give him some of this. I’m sure this klah is capable of cleaning out some pipes. If I ever get put on tunnelsnake duty again, I may use it to force them out of their holes. Nothing could live in this.”
A short, sharp nod, and V’delin’s attracted to that sweeter immediately after T’rien’s moved away from it: anything to improve the horridly bland flavor of the beverage. His cup is set down amid the wonderland with the granules crunching underneath, and his own slovenly ladleing is unlikely to improve the situation. He scrapes some cinnamon from the breakfast table’s leftover rolls, drying and crusting now, and some of the frosting falls in as well. Imirath’s eyes drift closed, his still swollen tail stretching a little, tentatively, though the swelling makes it more closely match the rest of his stocky body. “He’s had his something already, last night. Spent the whole morning shoveling.” Disgusted, V’delin sips at the klah, laughing into it as T’rien describes things dying as a result of it, almost hard enough to chase it out his nose. “Ouch, stop that! All the sweetener does is make it burn.”
Rachele takes T’rien’s information with a small nod, indulging in a bit of a larger smile when V’delin chokes on the foul drink. She’s decided she’s had enough of it, herself, and rises to cross the barracks so she can abandon her mug next to the vat. She’s not the only one leaving barely sipped mugs there; hopefully the kitchen will understand their ire and give them better in the future. Hopefully. She returns to her cot wordlessly, drawing her legs up on it, folding them beneath the trails of her coat. She rewards Rakenth’s nuzzling snout with a kiss between his ‘ridges, and a skritch of his jaw. “Maybe if you write up a notice about wanting some more warm things, they’ll deliver them sooner rather than later,” she suggests, leaning forward to claim some of her notebooks from the end of her bed. Homework time.
T’rien shares the laugh, returning to his perch on the edge of the couch. “Sorry.” He sets his mug to the side, as if that’s the only safe place for it. Cavoth stretches out his neck to take a sniff and immediately snorts in displeasure. “Told you it was bad,” T’rien murmurs to him. The young man removes one of his gloves and wiggles his fingers a bit, rubbing off lints and assorted yarn fuzzies that have accumulated between his fingers. “Looks like he needs more,” he tells V’delin, a bit sympathetically. He snorts at Rachele’s suggestion, pointing at his mug. “Just like they had the decency to give us good klah? My guess is they’ll deliberately ignore requests for warm clothing, just to see how tough we are.”
Imirath, the frequently frothy, slavering dragon, parts his maw and pokes out his tongue, panting disenchantedly. Ven, meanwhile, is looking around for a napkin, kerchief, or what-have-you that he can use for nose-blowing. He locates a mostly-clean kerchief at last by rummaging in his pockets, and manages the feat one-handed while the other holds the attack klah at bay, pausing before the cup joins the other statement-making half-empties on the table to stare at Rachele and her apparent affection with her bond, jealousy perhaps causing the set to his jaw. “Bad is an understatement.” The cup goes down with a thunk, and he instead goes for a bucket of the set-aside drinking water, pouring some in a smaller bucket and taking it to Imirath’s side. The dragonet feigns indifference, then as soon as Ven’s back is turned, drinks thirstily. “Do we need to ask to go to stores? It’s not as though it’s outweyr.”
The girl laughs faintly, and belatedly, at the idea that they’ll be deprived cozy clothes in order to prove their mettle. She’s already rifling through her notes, though, looking for her last arithmetic page. Rakenth lowers his head to the bed, chin upon the coverlet. “Safest to ask one of the weyrlingmasters before helping yourself,” she murmurs, tapping her stylus against her lips as she hunches over her workbook. Tossing her frizzled plait over her shoulder again, she looks at the pair of boys and offers an apologetic smile. “I’m going to do my maths now,” she announces, excusing herself clumsily from the conversation.
T’rien decides that the klah isn’t going to taste any better sitting on the edge of his couch and fermenting, so he deposits the mug alongside the growing collection. He nods to Rachele in understanding, moving to stand beside V’delin and Imirath’s couch. “We could ask,” he suggests. “Or, just go get them ourselves.”
V’delin, standing near where Imirath is stretched out mournfully in his couch, mmphs, “Safest. Because we should always concern ourselves, now, with who we offend and who we don’t.” He just about growls at this sort of restriction, though he makes no direct move to break it, turning instead to watch Imirath drink. “Bout time you had some water. Told you you’d want some, after the morning you’ve had.” A slow sigh, then he folds his arms to regard Tirien, leaving Rachele to her studies without a renewed offer to help. “You think he needs another dose?” A fantastically unpleasant expression. “How can you tell?”
T’rien points to Imirath’s swollen tail. “I think he’s in for an unpleasant night, whether he gets another dose or not. Another purging might give you some peace and quiet tomorrow night, though.” His back is to the entrance, so he doesn’t see Jenna enter behind him. “I personally don’t care about who I offend. I just want to be warm tonight.”
Jenna drifts in, deliberately being unobtrusive. She’s caught sight of Imirath’s impending constipation, but waits, eyebrows arched, to see what V’delin does.
V’delin sighs, his eyes closing slowly. “Thought that one would do it. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable?” Imirath croons lowly, not all that happy himself. “Can’t say I want another morning shoveling like this one. Drink up, Imirath. Last thing we need’s you dehydrated on top of everything else.” Folding his arms, he rubs them again through his clothes. “We might as well make a trip to stores, look for some blankets and sweaters. Beats all of us coming down with something; it’d spread like fire on a grassy knoll in here.”
Jenna says mildly, “I hadn’t noticed it being so cold. Then again, my weyr’s a bit cozier than this barn you lot are bunking down in. Give you a hint: sleep with your dragon if you’re terribly cold. He’ll keep you warm enough. But definately look in stores. You two are about finished growing. You could look for some leathers while you’re at it. They usually keep me warm enough.” She approaches the pair. “So how are you four settling in?”
T’rien grimaces at the thought of getting sick. He’s about to say something when Jenna’s voice catches him off-guard. He jumps, turning around in surprise. “Shards!” he mutters, the word popping out of his mouth before he can catch it. With a sigh, he salutes the Weyrwoman. “I doubt anything will keep me warm enough if it gets much colder. Ma’am.”
V’delin startles as Jenna’s voice is heard, and then recognized. “It’s gotten more chill, m’am,” he reports, offering a salute as taught. “I’m afraid I’ve little interest in sleeping in his wallow at the moment, especially.” Imirath stretches out his long neck, then drinks some more.” Ven gives a quick look to T’rien: hear that? We’re approved by you-know-who to take a trip to stores. “Been better,” he shortly replies. “Though, been worse, too. How’re you, m’am?”
Jenna waves away the salutes, after a quick glance to P’draig’s office to make sure the door s shut. “I don’t stand on ceremony, weyrlings. and all that saluting makes me think you’re oing to poke your eye out. I know you have to, but if we’re not in a place where old eagle eye in there can see you, don’t worry about it.” She eyes Imirath, or more specifically, his tail. “And it’ll get colder, T’rien. We haven’t even had any ice yet. May get some snow this winter too. Be nice to see.” A slight pause and she asks, “How long’s his tail been like that, V’delin?”
T’rien shivers, looking miserable at the mention of ‘colder’ and ’snow’. “And here I thought it would be neat to see actual snow. I take it back. Give me a nice sand dune any day.”
Imirath props up his wing as Jenna approaches, familiar enough with her to have an association with her presence. “She didn’t ask for that, so stop it,” V’delin chastises. The wing droops, the dragon malcontent with the situation in general. “Yes m’am,” he murmurs, a small smile at her vehemence. “Long as we’ve extra layers, we’ll manage. Looks like more socks for you, T’rien.” A grin at the ones the weyrling wears, then a grimace. “Day or two. Gave him the treatment last night, he made more mess this morning than I thought ever possible.” A quick glance to T’rien, taking his advice into consideration. “You think he needs more?”
Jenna hms, squatting by the bronze, after a quick reach to rub eyeridges if he so desires. “I’m just going to check your tail, Imirath,” and she suits actions to words. Not so much with the ‘couchside manner’, is Jenna. “What’d you give him?”
T’rien takes a seat on his couch again. Cavoth scoots over closer, resting his head beside T’rien as he watches. “Maybe three pair,” he mutters, placing his hand on Cavoth’s head to offer him a scritch. The young brown sighs gratefully. “I think maybe I’ll look for some scented candles when we’re in the stores,” he says, eyeing Imirath’s tail again.
V’delin’s standing near his dragonet’s couch, the dragon within uncomfortably stretched out, his neck resting up and out of the couch, his tail somewhat swollen. “What one of those assistants gave me, did what I was told with it.” He doesn’t elaborate on that count, other than making a disgusted face. Imirath allows the contact, far-spread eyes pulling center to try to watch her hand, then to watch V’delin suspiciously as he’s handled. “You think they’ll actually help? They’d have to be pretty big candles.”
F’niah
Layers of lean muscle soften this man’s six-foot two-inch frame. Though wide shoulders skim to trim hips, and down through athletically-toned legs, it’s his hands that catch attention: overlarge like puppy paws. Silky bronze-brown hair has been cut knuckle-long all over his head. Eyes of muted green appraise the world from over an aquiline nose. A decidedly lantern jaw ends his not-unpleasant face, but the finishing touch is an air of near-constant alarm that bodes ill for breakables. Sef has the sort of face that ages well, though he’s probably between 34 and 39 Turns. His voice is usually a smooth baritone, though prone to cracking.
Over an ash grey shirt F’niah wears a black vest. It ties closed with a series of three Xs, the dangling tips of the laces trimmed with a flash of silver. Silver sparkles faintly at his shoulders as well in a peculiar sort of epaulet. The shirt is high-collared, with traces of Fort’s black and brown embroidered in an abstract pattern. The same pattern repeats at each cuff when the full fabric of the sleeve is pushed back. A deep comforting black makes up the hue of his trous, the fabric worked until it’s soft and nappy. They’re cut comfortably full over his hips and legs, almost requiring the braided sisal belt to hold them up. Each leg ‘breaks’ just at the top of his boots. On his hip is a simple twist of Fort’s brown and black, a strand of blue marking his dragon.
Saneth
Horizon’s purple-dusk is this dragon, caught at the hour between midnight’s tenebrous chill and day’s clear cornflower. From tip of chiseled snout to tiny spade of tail, his color hardly varies, making him appear, at first glance, a solid chunk of dragon. Upon closer study, he is actually quite thin, even scrawny, with contrails of pale ice carving thin streams down his neckridges and ribs. Small wings and athletic shoulders only augment his aerodynamic mien; his sails and spars are marbled with the same shimmering frost. Only at the tip of his muzzle and the ends of blunted headknobs do faint glints of periwinkle appear, melting icicles caught in an endless frieze. Carefully fitted over his lanky form are a comfortable set of flight straps - an unadorned pale grey weyrhide that is quite unobtrusive.
At a final length of twenty-four meters he’s smaller than some greens, but the depth to his chest suggests that he’s finished growing. Those experienced with dragonkind might estimate his age at about 20 Turns.
F’niah and Saneth enter the barracks - cautiously on the man’s part, jubilantly for the blue. “Didn’t I tell you to wait outside?” Sef asks, resigned, then shrugs at Saneth’s silent answer. Two more steps and they spot the little group around Imirath and offer a, “Evening,” and an aborted salute.
Jenna mms. “Linseed oil.” She gets awkwardly off her knees, thanks to that basketball of a stomach, and works her way to the supply cabinet. “He’s got Niyath’s tail, so it looks worse than it really is. And really, boys - have him bend his tail outside. No one wants to smell that.” She finds what she’s looking for and heads back to dose Imirath’s water bucket. To be on the safe side, before she pours some in, she sticks her hand in to taste it and make sure it’s not already dosed. Nodding in satisfaction, and oblivious to any shocked looks, she adds the oil to the water. “He needs to drink it all. So now, first lesson in dragon anatomy: constipation sucks. From the bellyache, and from the purge - Oh, evening Sef. Niyath says you were looking for me?”
T’rien looks over as F’niah and Saneth stroll in, offering him a salute, despite Jenna’s earlier advice. “I’m sure I can find something to mask that smell,” he tells V’delin.
V’delin shrugs, helplessly. “It was thick enough in the night, he couldn’t walk that far.” Imirath straightens, removing his rounded belly from where it drags on the ground, and noses suspiciously at his water and at the human’s hand when it dips in there. Fortunately, perhaps, he’s not been slavering so much of late, so it is mostly drool-free. “You heard her. Drink up.” Then a salute as Jenna speaks to the bluerider, Ven cringing as someone else hears of his little issues. “I’d appreciate that,” he murmurs sidelong to T’rien.
“Um,” the bluerider begins, looking uncertainly between bucket and bronze. Saneth, meanwhile, hunkers down and wraps his tail tightly around his haunches, the tip curling under his body. “Well yes, I… I needed to see a ‘healer. A dragonhealer, of course,” otherwise he wouldn’t be looking for Jenna, “But if you’re busy…?”
Jenna says pleasantly, “Not at all. Just giving the guys here a little anatomy lesson. Imirath’s got a bit of constipation - now, to keep it down in future, you need to see that he eats less, and drinks more. It’s quite common, really, V’delin. So what did you need a dragonhealer for, Sef? It’s not Saneth, is it?” She moves towards the blue, offering him eyeridge drubbings and automatically looking over his wings and limbs. “He’s not constipated, is he?”
T’rien grimaces at the thought of a grown blue dragon with thicktail. “We may need even bigger candles, in that case,” he mutters to V’delin. “At least we can go to the stores unmolested, eh?”
Jenna goes on rather blithely, “So what other issues have you lot,” she glances back at the weyrlings, “Had as far as anatomy and health concerns go? There’s Imirath’s wing, which, you may or may not have noticed, had ichor running through his veins. Green, not red, like a human’s. - Go when your mates are asleep, hm? Last thing we need is them charging through the caverns looking for you. - What else have you noticed?
The bronzeriding weyrling suddenly is delighted to see F’niah, especially once he’s indicated he needs to distract Jenna’s attention from his own troublesome Imirath. V’delin hangs his head a little with a humiliated enffff noise as she tells their visitor all about it, and scuffs at the ground with his boots. “Drink up, you hear?” he hisses that way before again turning his back on the soot-shaded dragon to smirk T’rien’s way, cheered at the thought that others, older dragons even, could suffer his torment. “Decent enough trade off, I’d say. It’ll be good to get out of here for a while. And yes m’am,” at her timing suggestion.
Saneth’s too busy eyeing Imirath’s bucket to notice the goldrider until it’s too late. Only once the drubbing begins does he try to pull away, and it’s stopped by the hissed, “Saneth!” “Uh, no ma’am. Jenna. Not that. It’s… oh, is this when you tell them about fellis?”
T’rien blinks a bit. “Fellis? That’s for pain, not thicktail.” He glances at V’delin and shrugs. Cavoth, for his part, makes to stick his nose in Imirath’s bucket of water, a move which is instantly stopped by T’rien’s hand on the closest neck ridge he can grab. “You do that and I’ll make you clean up the mess yourself!”
Imirath takes a test slurp at the water, the oil flavor spread out enough that he doesn’t really notice its taste. He dips most of his muzzle in, complacently enough, eyes whirling Saneth’s way possessively as he does so, then shifting that grunting bubbles-in-the-water blowing snort to Cavoth when he tries to share. Ahhhh, my water. Somehow it tastes better if everyone else wants it, and he tries to drink it up.
Jenna blinks at Saneth, “Goodness. You’re skittish today. My apologies, Saneth. - And they should know about fellis,” she breaks off at T’rien’s words. “Or maybe not. Fellis is highly poisonous to dragons. Numbweed and redwort work just as well on dragonhide as they do on our skin, though it takes a few more moments for numbweed to penetrate the outer layer and numb things properly. Now, another treatment for constipation is aloe juice, but as we’re not at Ista or Igen, it’s harder to come by here at Fort. You are both doing your exercises, correct? Strengthening legs and wings?”
F’niah offers a, “Sorry,” to the room at large and retreats to stand near Saneth’s head. “Maybe it doesn’t fix thicktail, but you still need to know about it. Anyway… um, Ma’am? I’m not telling Saneth because he’d fret. You know how he gets. But I think he ought to see a dragonhealer.” With a lightning-quick subject change that’s probably to forestall the imminent Saneth-sulking he adds, “Did you want Saneth to show them his wings?”
T’rien scratches at the back of his neck. “I didn’t know that,” he confesses. “Good information, that.” He smiles slightly at V’delin. “Want me to send home for some aloe juice? From what my sister said, it has the same effect.”
V’delin immediately agrees, “Sure are. M’am. Getting better all the time.” The mention of fellis’s danger to dragons has him pursing his lips, and filing away that little tidbit of information. “I didn’t either.” Of T’rien, he wonders after both Jenna and the brownrider weyrling have mentioned aloe juice, “Does he drink it? Or,” a gesture, suggesting a different type of application unelucidated.
Jenna heads off any Saneth-sulking by doing the immediate agreeing with his rider. “You can, Sef, please. - No, no, he drinks the aloe juice as well. What goes inhas to come out. Now, other major complaints you may have this early with your dragons are primarily hide and stomach related. Don’t overfeed them. Even if they insist they’re starving. And you absolutely cannot oil your dragon too much.” A pause, and her eyes go to one of the other greenriders listening in. “Okay, well, maybe you can, But as long as he - or she - is bathed daily, then no, you can’t over oil them. Itchy hide can soon crack, and that can be deadly when going between, or even in the upper air currents.”
Saneth has no time to sulk. He has -wings- to display! He’s prevented by the walls and ceiling from his usual showiness, but after a moment he manages to shove over and get one wing fully extended. The babies will just have to use their imaginations for his other. His bugle even has a decided air of superiority. Ta-DA! His rider winces at the sound, a grimace plastered on his face. Gosh, thanks, dragon.
Cavoth goes about showing off his wings and legs for the Weyrwoman, more than happy to oblige her. See how big he’s gotten? T’rien snorts good-naturedly. “Show off,” he chides him playfully. Cavoth warbles and knocks T’rien backwards onto the couch with his head. “Hey! Not now, you big oaf! The Weyrwoman is trying to teach us something!” He sits back up, running a hand through his hair to settle it back into place. “No, you were already oiled today. I’ll oil you again tomorrow.”
V’delin rubs at the scruff of his mustache, nodding wordlessly as Jenna explains. Imirath continues to hunker possessively over his water bucket, guarding it like a greedy canine, his stocky chest a good covering as he pauses in his gulping to admire the wingspan of the blue, then of his clutchmate, head tilting in fascination. “You were, too,” V’delin tells Imirath as he turns his angular head to nose Ven, the rider’s hand going to rub at his ear, to ward off that noise.
Jenna chuckles at Saneth and Cavoth both. “No, no, this is good. You can compare relative sizes and see how much more growing Cavoth - and Imirath too - will have to do.” She takes a moment to point out the leading and trailing edge, the lub, spar bones, fingersail, main sails, etc. “One thing, when you start flying, you’ll have to watch out for the forestay tip,” she indicates it first on Saneth, then on Cavoth, “Because a crash can easily break the small bones there. And you’ll lose some maneuverability.”
“A /lot/ more growing,” F’niah adds, one hand on Saneth’s leg. “Because they’re both gonna be plenty bigger than Saneth. But they won’t Search as well,” he adds in a semi-undertone, Looking meaningfully at Jenna in a way that suggests he’s trying to use his Amazing Psychic Powers to communicate something to her. In his normal voice he adds, “Saneth’s been lucky. All the times he’s gotten scored, he’s never done any serious damage to his wings. That used to happen a lot.”
T’rien runs his hand along Cavoth’s wingspan proudly. “I guess we won’t have to worry about scoring,” he muses. “That doesn’t mean we don’t have to be careful, though. Right, Cav?” Cavoth warbles in an affirmative, lowering his wings finally and tucking them back into place.
Imirath stretches out his wing again, glossy sails expansively trying to trip up his rider as Ven moves forward. Compare me, too! “Fold up a little so I can see the weyrwoman,” he tells the bronze, who cooperates a little, allowing V’delin to point at the same places on Imirath as Jenna indicates them, some help in remembering, then he’s distracted by looking at the older blue, scanning with narrowed eyes for signs of said ’scores.
Jenna nods. “Other issues will be talon loss, from ledge landings especially, but some have also lost them… in their… first hunt.” The words come slower as she attempts to decipher F’niah’s ‘meaningful’ look. Brows furrow. “What about searching, Sef?”
Saneth modestly tilts his wing so the babies can get a good long look at his oh-so wonderful self. No pushing, now, let those in the back see. While he’s distracted F’niah sidles closer to Jenna. “Good at Searching,” he repeats. “Only… not this time. No one Impressed. You see?” “Right!” he adds brightly. “And boy, will they complain first time they crack a talon. You’d think it’d never happened to anyone else. Ever.”
Through the entrance tromps in another weyrling, face covered in dirt - dirt and dust that perhaps would belong to firestone. Black attire seems to be grey at this point in time, his arms having a pasty look to them as well. At least someone has actually been working, though by the scowl etched on Sal’ros’ face, it appears as if the man had not a good day. Solath has been awake for quite some time, though only at his rider’s entrance does the brown really respond, lifting his head from his couch to give an unheard greeting, head tossed momentairly as well, dragon eyes showing signs of hunger. Sal’ros barely seems to notice, heading for his space as it may be, tossing off his shirt and using the inside to wipe off his face.
Jenna blinks at F’niah, still trying to puzzle out his code. And then, “Oh - Oh! I ouln’t worry bout that, F’niah. Not a whit.” She gives a pleasant nod to Sal’ros. “So, any questions? And this won’t be the last time we have a talk about anatomy, so don’t worry if you feel like you missed something.”
V’delin looks over Imirath’s wing to examine the show-off blue just beyond, and he chuckles as something the bronze says or asks brings a smile to his face. “No, but showoffs get attention,” he explains as Imirath again bends his head to the water bucket, sluffing into it noisily. “That’s been true of everything else so far. Only one in all of Pern.” Then the firestone monster scowls by, and Ven watches him, confused. “That’s what you get for being too good at your lessons,” he quietly calls Sal’ros’s way.
“Yes,” F’niah begins somewhat desperately, “Only it’s never happened before. He’s always been… you know.” Apparently dwelling on the ‘you know’ is enough to attract the blue’s attention, for the single wing lowers as he whuffs curiously toward his Boy. That causes Sef to whirl and announce loudly, “Nope, no one is as good as Searching as Saneth! And just -look- at those wings!” Which mollifies Saneth enough to hoist his wing back into display-height.
Jenna says in an undertone to F’niah, “It happens. Small clutch, lot of weyrbred were left standing. Don’t worry about it. Honest. Not Something to Dwell On.” A bit louder, “Lovely, lovely wings, Saneth. Thank you very much for demonstrating for us.”
Sal’ros didn’t even seem to notice anyone else in the barracks, it had become almost normal to have people around all the time - one learned to simply ignore them being there, after a time. So perhaps with a nudge from Solath and a snarky whisper down to the brown, does Sal’ros lift his head, hear that comment from V’delin, his eyes flashing over his shoulder as his chin nearly touches it. “Too good?” he spits out some of the grit in his teeth, “crackdust and broken shells..” he curses as he rummages through some other items he finally had transferred over from Ista, “what’d I’d give to shove that firestone sack…” he halts himself, trying to offer a friendly visage to the others but failing with his ghostly dusted face - now smudged lines of tanned skin showing through.
T’rien is so busy watching Saneth go to full extension again that he completely misses P’draig’s entrance. “Did he crack a talon or something?” he asks out loud, trying to parse out the interplay.
The blue smugly flips his wing back, folding it /just so/, and preens at the gathered crowd. All here to admire his wings, yes indeedy they are. “If you say so,” his rider says, not sounding one jot convinced. Then T’rien’s question distracts him. “Huh, what? Oh sure, Saneth’s done all sorts of things to his talons. Cracked ‘em, ripped some clear off… Makes you glad for numbweed, it does.” He misses the entrance and byplay of the others in his concentration.
V’delin scratches his head, watching the bizarre way F’niah isn’t quite saying what might be the trouble, eyes narrowing as he puzzles out, and finally figures out what he thinks might be the trouble. “If you weren’t so good at your lessons, you’d have fewer physical labors. You’d get to study instead.” As though that might be better. Jenna’s question about questions brings a headshake, him overwhelmed enough to not have any yet. Imirath whuffs between drinking slurps, still moving his swollen tail gingerly.
Jenna says firmly, “I do say so, Sef. Trust me on this one. So,” she turns to the weyrlings. “Questions? V’delin,” she adds, “If his tail gets thick after this one, and you’re carefully monitorng what he eats and drinks, we’ll need to look into this more. make sure it’s not a chronic condition. - Oh, that reminds me, do you all know what dehydration looks like in a dragon?”
T’rien frowns in a confused sort of way, still trying to figure out Saneth and F’niah’s interaction. With a shake of his head, he turns his attention back to Jenna. “I don’t,” he confesses. Cavoth lifts his head, first peering over at P’draig, then turning back to nudge T’rien in the shoulder. “What?” He looks and pales slightly, getting to his feet to offer up a salute.
F’niah glances sidelong at his clutchmate. “Behold the sounds of silence.”
P’draig ambles in quiet-like, blue eyes scanning the room, he nods politely Jenna’s way, and leans casually against the wall, listening in on the ‘lecture’. He doesn’t offer up anything additional as the Weyrwoman and bluerider speak.
V’delin’s eyes roll and he looks to the side as Jenna even suggests the condition could persist, an unsupressable ‘ugghh,’ escaping. “Yes m’am,” he grumbles. “I’ll watch it carefully.” For a moment, he looks like he’s considering giving Imirath a good kick in frustration, though his clenching fists absorb his ire and he takes a few deep breaths to contain it. “Uh, do they loll like a herdbeast that’s in need of water? Tongue out and dry, like that?”
Sal’ros isn’t paying attention to the ‘lesson’ going on behind him, hunched the way he is over his personal possessions, what remains of them that is. Scrounging out another shirt, a long-sleeved one that earns a wince for the colour, it being a dark red. Sighing, as if he had no choice, he throws the shirt over his head, pulling it down, fixing the collar afterwards. Solath finally irritates him enough that he shoves the scrap bowl towards the dragon, “Eat it then. Eat the sharding bowl too if it pleases you.” After managing to accept the shirt, he casually saunters away from the main group and scoops up a full bowl of cut meat - but one that wasn’t by his couch. Without a moment’s waste, he makes back to the brown and drops it front of the brown’s nose, the dragon looking up - the two sharing in some private conversation, earning a twitch of Sal’ros’ lip for all the effort.
Jenna smirks faintly at F’niah. “Gray tongue. Gray eyes. Gray tinge to their hide. Cracked and dry skin. Overall, gray means ‘ill’ or ‘depressed’, depending. So make sure that they get enough water.” She must have eyes in the back of her head, for she shifts, turning and nodding to P’draig. “Imirath’s constipation hasn’t gotten much better. I just gave him another dose of linseed oil in his water. V’delin said that one of the assistants told him to dose him last night as well.”
“Grey on a dragon is always bad,” F’niah agrees. Then he leans over to murmur something to Jenna before straightening again.
P’draig eyes Sal’ros for a moment, the shirt-change, the bowl of meat and he makes his way that way through the intervening cots, couches, Weyrlings and dragonets. “Hey there,” he says simply as he approaches. “How’s things?”
Jenna shakes her head to F’niah, murmuring something to him before turning to the room at large. “If there are no more questions, I’ll leave you lot alone for the evening. Oh, and P’draig, I said that T’rien and V’delin could go to stores when their mates are sleeping. Seems they’re utterly freezing here.” Her tone is amused, and she takes F’niah’s arm to go.
V’delin buries his face behind his hand, looking at the ground, at his leather boots, at just about anything as again his name is brought up in connection with that dragon’s problem. “Watch it, Sal’ros,” he warns, a little snappier than he usually addresses his friend. “Or yours’ll end up in the same place as -him-.” Then a pleased smile as the Weyrwoman reports about fetching warmer gear. Excellent. Himself, meanwhile, lowers his head to the water bucket and exhales, blowing bubbles in it and being entertained by them.
Sal’ros looks over his shoulder as someone approaches - not because he heard, but because Solath had something to do with it, the way the dragon is watching P’draig. Sal’ros gives a modest shrug of his shoulders, as if he really hadn’t put the energy into the gesture, turning so that he can talk to P’draig without insult of showing his back to the other man. In any case, Sal’ros mutters, “Fine.” That’s it, his eyes expecting, waiting, almost challenging and baiting P’draig to do something. Eyes flash towards V’delin, the only acknowledgement to the warning given, as it seems, he’s a little preoccupied with a ranking member of the weyr standing near him.
It takes F’niah a second, but then he extends his elbow for Jenna. “Glad we could help,” he tells the room vaguely, giving P’raig a vague sort of nod. “C’mon, Saneth.” The blue’s even faster out the door than the bluerider, galumphing with enthusiasm.
P’draig’s head swivels Jenna’s way and he nods: “Thank you, Weyrwoman” he acknowledges, modeling the politeness that is asked of all Weyrlings. He turns back as Sal’ros’ short answer is offered up and his hands dive into his pockets, the young Weyrlingmaster tipping his head to the side slightly as he regards Solath, wordless for the time being, just assessing the young dragon and his new rider.
V’delin moves toward his Imirath as the weyrwoman and bluerider leave, a small salute more for P’draig’s benefit than for theirs. “Careful,” he murmurs, watching Imirath drink, the words certainly for the dragon’s benefit and not his friend’s, though the eye-to-eye just beyond has him watching with sidelong glances.
“Y’know, you might want to think about using the work clothes,” notes P’draig, nodding at the shirt. “Save your stuff for later on, when it’s all …. a lot less messy.” He squints at Solath a bit more. “Looks like he’s growing well - any … digestive issues here?” His brows lift a little to underscore the question. Either he’s thick or he’s just ignoring Sal’ros’ confrontational attitude entirely.
“That’s my problem, isn’t it…” he lets a bit of his frustration of earlier events seep through his teeth, although a polite but obviously fake smile follows - almost a grimace if it were not for that tilting of the corner of his lips. “No,” he quips in about the digestive issue, a brow lifting on his head as he considers P’draig, before offering with a tight voice, as if to restrain the want to snap at the man in front of him, “What else?”
V’delin moves quietly toward the oil, returning to Imirath’s side with the pot and the brush, working the oil over his broad back and along his underbelly while the dragonet splashes his muzzle into the water, sousing Ven’s sleeve. He doesn’t seem to notice other than wiping absently at the water, his face turned mostly away from the two brownriders but his ears at attention.
“Yes, it is,” affirms P’draig, straightening up a bit. “And I’m sure you won’t like it a bit when you’ve got nothing clean left to wear and no one to but yourself to wash it for you.” He nods down at the food bowl. “Good appetite on him, how’s he adjusting to life in here?” he gestures around at the busy barracks and his eyes pause here and there, taking in different Weyrlings and their activities or lack thereof as some succumb to fatigue. They linger on V’delin and Imirath for a moment, a hint of a frown creasing his brow before his attention snaps back to Sal’ros.
If it wasn’t for P’draig basically blocking him in, he would have went straight over to V’delin and asked what he missed, but unfortunately, the other weyrling has to suffer in the moment of not being part of the conversation. Sal’ros continues to hold his stare, the defiant spark there although even if verbally he seems to be responding how he should be. “I’ve always washed my clothes, I would not put them in the hands of any other whom have to do their own as well. I do not depend on others to do my dirty work. Unlike some…” there he trails off, but the line of conversation was clear, an insult was intended to be written between the lines there. “Like any other dragon, I’d imagine,” Sal’ros doesn’t even glance back at Solath, not once.
V’delin continues the oiling, working the soothing liquid over Imirath’s wingjoints and using extra across the stitching that is healing well where he was shell-torn in the wingsail, then over his stubby neckridges. Ven raises his head, startled at Sal’ros’s belligerence in his hinted at insult. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak up, figuring it best to not involve himself in their discussion. Imirath, catching some of the uncertainty, raises his head from the water bucket and turns to more directly watch Solath, intrigued by his reaction to all this.
“It’s a simply thing Sal’ros, the first part of Weyrlinghood is exhausting. If you push yourself too hard, you won’t be able to keep up. It’s a balancing act. Use the help that’s provided while it’s necessary. You’ll be responsible for everything else and more soon enough. I’d also like to remind you of one of the rules of conduct: respect. You owe it to every person in this Weyr, even if it’s only the riders you have to salute.” That said he nods again at the bowl Solath is chomping out of. “Watch his intake, or he’ll be suffering as much as Imirath here,” he jerks a thumb slightly towards the bronze dragonet.
“And any other wouldn’t put the effort into making sure a stranger’s possessions are rightly cared after,” he tilts his head, “it reminds me of an age old adage - if you want something done right, do it yourself.” With that, he seems to wall himself up, if the arms across the chest were any indication. Sal’ros barely holds back a contemptuous laugh at P’draig, a soft snort though not retained. He turns his head then, his body following, “I salute no one, I am my own master..” with that, he walks towards his dragon, kneeling then to yank out roughly one of the pieces of meat that the brown was going to swallow without chewing. Apparently the first part of weyrlinghood hasn’t been that good on this man, no doubt he didn’t act this way when he was waiting for the eggs to hatch.
Imirath’s eyes whirl slowly, taking in this interaction and making what he will of it, fascinated by the levels inherent in the tones and physical language of their conversation. V’delin swallows, concentrating himself on not defending Imirath, or on not kicking Imirath alternatively. Instead, he works the oil in over the back and down toward his tail, working gently when Imirath complains. “Shh,” he quiets the dragon, though the whisper seems to emit in surprise at Sal’ros’s blatant actions. “Ya gotta work the system, man. Remember?” he quietly speaks to his friend.
P’draig just shakes his head a little. “That’s not how it works in the Weyr. We’re a team, from the Weyrleader on down, and there’s also a clear chain of command that starts with the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman and goes on down from there. Right now, Weyrling, once you’re done tending to Solath, you owe me twenty push ups.” He doesn’t shout or make angry faces, he just states it as a fact, face unmoving.
Sal’ros catches the whisper from Ven, and after a moment’s consideration, he grips Solath’s mouth closed with both hands, “Listen to me,” the brown appearing calm, “chew, or you don’t eat at all.” Releasing his grip on the dragon’s muzzle, the brown does as ordered, making it painfully obvious that he’s chewing - showing his food off as he goes. Rolling his eyes, Sal’ros nods at Ven, as he stands up, straightening his shoulders as his gaze flashes back over to P’draig. “Sir,” a sharp salute even if there’s a mocking look held behind it, “Sir, forgive me sir. Sir, I forgot I meaning nothing, sir. Sir, I forgot that impressing a brown means I can never be on top of the command sir. Sir, I forgot I can be only a grunt sir - weyrlingmaster - sir. Sir I forgot that men who ride bronze are more important sir, and must be followed no matter how dense, sir. I forgot I should obey like a trained canine sir.” All this time he’s holding his ground, then continues with that arrogant twist on the respectful title of ’sir’ -”Push ups sir, so my nose can be rubbed in dirt some more sir? As you say, sir -” and if that wasn’t bad enough, he makes sure to add one final crisp, “Sir” to get the point across. Sal’ros goes down anyways to do as ordered, in light of his fury that wells inside his chest, a few good push ups would help to put it all to good use.
V’delin grimaces, ducking his head as he does so, that face of someone who just can’t quite stand guys who don’t get good and angry and do some yelling and breaking things. He continues working the oil into Imirath’s tail, gently pressing on it to see if the thickness is subsiding any. The punishment doled out to Sal’ros brings a quick raising of his head, blue eyes startled, and he shakes his head and bites his lip as the insults come forth from his friend. “Dense?” he repeats, folding his arms and spreading the oil over his work clothes. Imirath nudges him, a reminder of his own advice, and he pipes down.
It probably takes a lot of effort for P’draig to remain impassive though he’s doing a decent enough job of not showing it. The observant however might notice a tell-tale hint of pink in his ears. “If that’s what you really think Sal’ros, you’re not going to get very far, either as a Weyrling or a rider” continues the Weyrlingmaster in that same even tone of voice. “However, I’m really not in the business of training canines. I’m in the business of training riders. Just remember that next time you feel like getting something off your chest. Besides being good exercise, laps around the Bowl are sometimes a good way to burn off some steam. I suggest you add one to your morning routine - it’ll give you time to think things through before you mouth off again. Also, report to my office later when Solath is resting. I want a word with you in private.”
Sal’ros makes push-ups almost seem effortless, but if anyone noticed, his arms held most of his muscles, it was no wonder he could easily lift himself about like he was. At the finished twenty, he doesn’t look up, angrily eyeing the knotch in the floor underneath him, glaring at it. “I’m going far, but not how you think…” he mutters under his breath, probably loud enough though that P’draig could hear it. Solath was not really eating at this time, his muzzle hoisted out of the bowl, observing but not doing much more than that - at least that’s how it appears on the outside. “Mouthing off, or speaking freely?” Sal’ros shifts his eyes up then towards P’draig, still in the push-up position, “those of power quell the voices of those whom they control..” but then he does a few more push-ups under his own devices, adding a loud and rich ‘YES SIR’ to P’draig’s final command.
V’delin, hailing from the rich Bitran traditions, is observant, catching both the flush to the young Weyrlingmaster’s ears and the ease with which Sal’ros performs his first task. Ven’s lips purse, Sal’s words still stinging and ringing in his ears, and he turns his shoulder deliberately not looking. Imirath tilts his head toward Solath, offering an investigative croon of inquiry his way.
P’draig folds his arms across his chest now, mirroring Sal’ros’ previous position. “There’s speaking freely the way we did in the Living Cavern over a mug of klah, and there’s being unspeakably rude and starting to upset some of your clutchmates’ dragonets. The lessons in the early part of Weyrlinghood are about mastering self-control, Sal’ros and understanding your new bond with your life partner. Are you up to the challenge?” asks Paddy both brows uplifted. Around the room some of the more sensitive young dragons have begun to shift restlessly or in one case, a small blue is starting to warble nervously, a high pitched sound that could verge on keening. “You said you have no master but yourself, so prove it. Master yourself, Sal’ros,” concludes the marginally older brownrider. His voice never wavers from the steady tone he’s adopted though there’s a slight tension across his shoulders and a strain in the leather of his boots as if his toes are gripping tightly to the floor through them.
Sal’ros pauses in his own self-punishing push-ups, enough to hear over his angered breathing and the nagging of a second mind in his voice. “So I can be like everyone else and blindly obey…” he mutters to himself. Solath just yawns, taking it all in stride and curling up back on his couch, offering nothing in the way of comfort for the other dragons either, just settling down for the night. Finally, he pushes up from the ground, stands, eyes P’draig, then shrugs, “I have nothing to prove. No any reason to prove it, to you, or anyone like you.” He points a finger to flip near the shoulder knot, “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go deal with my own digestive issues.” Before P’draig has a chance to do or say otherwise, Sal’ros moves around him and heads for the latrines..
P’draig just shakes his head again a few times, watching Sal’ros stalk off and moves on to the Weyrling with the near-keening blue, offering soft words of encouragement and some pointers to help the lad soothe his lifemate. In fact he checks in with every pair before he eventually leaves for the confines of his office, where it’s highly likely he finally lets himself punch a pillow or two to let off his own steam.
V’delin pushes Imirath’s nose down, as though to dissuade him from involvement in business not his own. He rolls his eyes as the familiar refrain of ‘lessons to learn self-control’ come in to play. The noise from the other dragonets seems to fascinate Imirath, and he joins in, more for the racket and to be part of what’s happening than out of dismay at Sal’ros’s outburst. “Stop that,” Ven chastises. “Mind your own troubles,” he nudges the bronze, shaking his head but biting his lip even more firmly, intently finishing up the oiling and muttering to himself about dense brownriders.