A Multi-Purposed Bath
Who: Ch'dais, Nessila, R'vain, Valandys
When: 12:51 on day 23, month 3, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
What: Blood, riders and Caucus student come together in the dragon baths and "enjoy" a conversation with each other.
Hot Springs
This large natural cavern is heated by the same mechanism that warms the hatching sands. Fed by a spring, the waters that fill the center bowl are warm enough to steam and deep enough that a bronze might almost float after following the gentle slope down into the pool. There is room enough there for several dragons, provided they mind their wings.
To the right of the entrance tunnel, a second pool has been hollowed out of the rock. It's much smaller than the first and is intended for use by the human residents of the Weyr. Alcoves over the pool hold extra towels and pouches of 'sand.
Glowbaskets have been raised on poles around the lip of the larger of the two pools. They end three-quarters of the way into the cavern, leaving the rest in perpetual shadow. The rear of the cavern is gloomy, its wall broken by a number of small crevasses.
Contents:
Arinth
Aneleth
Bowl (B)
It is 12:51 on day 23, month 3, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It is currently early spring. It's a soggy spring day, overcast and prone to drizzles. The sky is a bumpy canvas of grey and white, hiding the sun and ensuring that temperatures range towards cool rather than warm.
Valandys
Valandys' features are simply drawn with soft curves and a strong bone structure, her skin the color of sun-warmed copper. There is sharpness to be found only in the thin bridge of her nose, and her lightning-quick smiles. Set deeply enough to seem always in shadow, her eyes are black, but bright with intelligence and calm. She wears her equally dark hair parted in the center and drawn back to a thick bun secured with red and yellow enamelled pins.
Her healthy frame is draped in attire suitable for cold weather wear, provided she remains inside. A long-sleeved white blouse is tucked into the waistband of a black overskirt. The underskirts are less bland in shade; when she walks, flashes of red and yellow and orange can be seen, matching the gauzy scarves she has wrapped around her hips, her throat and her head. The scarves have fringe beaded with tiny bone beads, dyed in natural colors, and these beads match the clacking array of bracelets decorating her wrists.
The bright red and golden yellow knot at her shoulder declares her origin as Igen Hold. The crosspoint of the knot serves as a bed for the beaten-copper pin of the Caucus.
Ch'dais
Tall and robust, the young man seems well-suited to northern climes. He stands like a sea-swept promontory, hardened even as he is smoothed by the battering of wind and wave; his body is labor-firm, his arms sheathed in the corded curve of muscle. Harsh features make him look more rugged than handsome, from the awkward break of his nose to the pronounced hollow of his cheeks. Still in all, some thought lurks beneath the turbid waters of his grey-green eyes, and his hair is a wild profusion of auburn, falling about his shoulders where it isn't haphazardly braided in order to clear his vision. The same ruddy color descends in sideburns, gathers about his lips in a stubbled beard. The man moves easily, balanced regardless of his ground or seat.
His flying leathers may once have been black, but they've long since weathered to a spider's web of cracked charcoal. Wan grey surmounts the elbows and shoulders of the jacket, takes on a silver sheen in the animal fur sewn into the neck; the same hue shows in his pants at the knees and on the insides of his thighs. Heavy boots and a broad riding belt-- worn when needed, and as often draped absently over one shoulder-- complete the ensemble. The sole article of color is provided by his shoulder knot: two braided, bone-clasped loops of vibrant blue and black, interwoven with a thin cord of bronze.
It's been a morning of rope-drills for Arinth, and the dragon's hide shows it. Here and there the pine-needle texture of his flanks is marred by drifts of stone-dust, charcoal over tawny bronze; his blunt muzzle, almost a brilliant platinum when clean, is smudged black. But the beast seems happy for all of this. He burbles softly, his prodigious frame keeled over at the edge of the dragon pool, belly and left haunch presented to his keeper. Or keepers, in this case, for the bronzerider Ch'dais has company this afternoon. As he tosses his riding jacket aside, bends to cup warm water in double-palms, he casts a glance past his bicep at the dark-haired girl who joins him by the waterside. "Again, Valandys, I'll tell you that you don't have to do this." It's a feeble and half-smiling reproach. "You mustn't neglect your studies."
She's unwinding the multitude of scarves that cloak her body. Hair, throat, hips, slowly they're uncovered and left bare. The bracelets follow soon after, wrapped in the delicate fibers with their vibrant colors, and set with the discarded jacket to avoid a soaking. "I will tell you that I would very much like to do this," Valandys counters quietly, moving to stand beside the man. Her eyes travel the exposed canvas of Arinth's barrel, provoking a little smile. "This will be study of a sort. Weyr relations, mm? If you teach me well, I might take a better grade. You will have helped me, you see?" She cups her hands beneath her elbows, now looking back and forth to take in the whole of the bronze's bulk. "There is so much of him... how do you do this alone, Ch'dais?"
"I have large hands." He shares Valandys' survey of the blocky bronze, his contemplative expression serving almost to mask the mirth that echoes beneath his reply. "See?" Ch'dais reaches out to encircle her upper arm, a grip like warm stone; gently he positions the maid before a prominent scorch-mark on Arinth's belly, just above the waterline, then steps past her to fetch rags and 'sand, hitching up his sleeves as he goes. "And Arinth is very fond of lying on his side and doing nothing." The bronze hoots at this, a sound that rolls about the Igenite's feet and ankles, one great eye trained upon her. "How /are/ your classes going? Is your tutor minding his manners?" Far too casual, this.
Valandys makes some soft sound of amusement, a chuckle that's kept deep in her chest as he moves her into place for the labor to come. "-I- think you earn such rests," she murmurs to that watchful eye, rewarding Arinth's attention with another of her smiles. Her hand reaches out, a single fingertip being used to sketch a shape in the charcoal marring that warm bronze hide. Initials, a glance would show that shape to be, the start of a 'V'. "They go well now... my grades have improved and Instructor Sefton has been a gentleman," she goes on, the subtle currents of her voice continuing to betray the amusement bubbling beneath her serene surface. It's an unkind emotion to feel given what she knows of the bronzerider's feelings, but she seems to find it impossible to hide completely. "I think he finds himself distracted with classwork and his soon to be bride. She is... she is a woman who strikes me as needing much attention. How are your duties going? Have you spoken with G'thon recently?"
Arinth rumbles at the girl's touch, a mild, pleased sound that nonetheless sets up a potent shiver of bronze beneath her fingers. Ch'dais, returning with a large sack in one fist and a pair of towel-sized rags draped over the other forearm, gives his partner a narrow-eyed look before finding a smile for his assistant. "Young Lady Bailie of Fort? From what I hear, she'll craft attention where it isn't forthcoming. No worries there." Apparently the bronzerider is in good spirits. He offers Valandys one of the lengths of coarse cloth, then bends to open the sack by his booted ankle. "I wouldn't say recently," he continues, fishing out a palmful of 'sand. "He's given me a free hand in setting out the fighting wings, and I've done my best to deserve it." A pause. "Why?"
The bronze's buzzing earns him the press of her entire hand against that char-brushed hide, the shape of palm and fingers obscuring the single letter she'd managed to enscribe before being taken by whimsy. When Ch'dais returns, Valandys is giving open vent to her amusement- she's laughing, softly, and shaking her head up at Arinth. Accepting the cloth from his rider- and sharing that same smile with the man- the girl wipes her hand clean of smudges and waits for the distribution of cleaning sand. "I was not sure how much oversight he would insist on having." It's a quiet answer, a diplomatic answer, and she pauses again before continuing on with her explanation. "Why did he choose you for the knot, Ch'dais? Do you know? He said that it was an unusual honor to grant to one as young as you are."
Fingers curl carefully over that dollop of cleanser, tenting it. Ch'dais straightens, holds the maid in the corner of his grey-green eye as he steps once into the shallows by Arinth's side. "Because I'm the best man for the job?" It's an unusually equivocal statement for him, laced with undertones of dark humor. The bronzerider sweeps his arm violently, a motion akin to throwing a stone as far as he can; 'sand spatters in a broad arc across the bronze's char-smudge. "It /is/ an unusual honor. One that a more senior rider might've taken advantage of."
R'vain arrives from the bowl.
R'vain has arrived.
The light of her amusement fades, replaced with a subtle discomfort. The rag is twisted between her hands, her weight shifts on her feet. "If he did not -want- someone who would take advantage of it, Ch'dais..." Valandys hesitates again, spending that moment of silence chewing on her lower lip and lacing words together. The arrangement of what she's trying to say can be seen taking place behind her eyes, distracting her from watching the spattering of Arinth with sand. "I am not experienced in such things but why would he complain that he would prefer more than just committment to duty from you? He said as much to me. We were interrupted, he had no chance to say more and I could not question him." She speaks quietly with Ch'dais at the pool's edge, the breath of her words hardly stirring the steam that rises up around the pair, and the great sooty bronze that lolls in the water before them.
"He said that, did he." Ch'dais' answer rolls like thunder over a distant mountain crag-- soft, portentous, dark as the furrow that weaves across the bronzerider's brow. Muscles knot along his massive forearm as he grasps his own rag for use. The Igenite gets a glance of mild surprise, turbid with the man's thoughts, before he bends to soak his cloth in the water-- the motion shields his expression in a wilderness of braids. "Perhaps G'thon's after a man who /wants/ to take his Weyr from him, but won't out of sheer courtesy. I wish him luck in the search." He sets to scrubbing Arinth's blackened belly with subdued energy. "It's an ugly business." He might be talking about bathing Arinth, but it doesn't seem likely.
It could certainly be said that for all his wanting, R'vain hasn't tried to do some things he probably could have, possibly should have, if he had so much wanting in him. In some men, however, such lack of action is deemed not courtesy, but cowardice - and so might the Weyrlingmaster be called a coward. More lately, however, 'an ugly business' describes him better. He needs a bath, that much can be said. And he's found the caverns in which such needs may be most succinctly and simply met, so he's got his feet under him and his wits about. In fact there's a dark gloomy kind of awareness to him, a dark and rotting glare with which he sears the ground before his boots as he walks, a sober dourness. Still, there's the matter of his hair, red-fire in a horrible mess not at all enhanced by whatever dire substance has caused it to mat. Hardly a few paces in he sheds his jacket into a corner where it lies in a heap crowned by his ill-kept knot and its tangled tassels; then, R'vain stalks toward the water.
"It is." What can Valandys do but quietly agree with the bronzerider's assessment? She spends her breath in a sigh, eyes cast to the rock beneath her feet to avoid the embarassment of having shared gossip. It does little good, that avoiding. Embarassment finds her anyway, balancing against the discontent she shares with Ch'dais for G'thon's speaking so of him. It tints her cheeks a deeper shade and leaves her to turn for a moment to compose herself. And, in that moment, a gaze lifted by chance brings the approaching weyrlingmaster into view. "Ch'dais," the Igenite murmurs, letting the cloth dangle from her fingers as she reaches to to set them against his working elbow. Having alerted him to the other's presence, she turns herself and finally sets that cloth to Arinth's belly.
Ch'dais pauses the work of his hands at the girl's touch, her soft summons. He casts a glance over the curve of one shoulder, beaded braids snaking across the expanse of his back with the motion. When he catches sight of their new company, his lips fix in a look of studied patience; wrinkles print the corners of his eyes. Less subtle is the massive dragon's reaction-- he blows out a sudden, fierce snort of breath that stirs the mist about rider and Caucus girl into a dissipating whirl. "R'vain," the bronzerider calls gruffly, echoing in the vast chamber. "Hard morning poring over your lessons, I expect." Yes, he says it with a straight face.
The steam is what alarms the Weyrlingmaster, what sends his chin jerking upward and pauses his hands in their work at the buttons of his shirt. He opens shirts, apparently, from the bottom up, so the tails are untucked and a trace of stomach apparent; perhaps that's his cause for delay, given the flicker of surly emerald that takes in Ch'dais' dragonbathing assistant. "You'd only wish lessons came in the form of /hidework/ at this phase, /sir./" R'vain changes his course only enough to head for a part of the dragon-pool rim several paces off from the bronzepair and Caucus student, pretending at modesty by putting the beast between himself and the woman, something not accomplishable if he were to bother with the smaller waters meant for humans. Then it's back to peeling clothes. With a grimace he takes care to slip the shirt off in such a way that its association with what's become of his hair is minimal. "Could stand a morning pouring," he informs his rippling reflection beneath his breath.
Valandys may try to be the very image of ladylike modesty, and so avoid gossiping or stealing glances at those intent on a cleansing dip, but today seems to find her hardpressed to manage either. The gossiping has been accomplished, and now she steals glances from the corner of her eyes until R'vain's own repositioning of himself makes this impossible to manage. But those few glances were enough to accomplish her goal, leaving her asking in quiet horror, "What does he have in his hair?" There's a purpose to asking this, an ulterior motive intended to distract the men from whatever enmity swirls between them. Through the curiosity, the surprise, the subsequent questioning, she continues to work that cloth over the bronze's hide, smearing 'sand into the streaks marring that surface and generally creating a mess that will clear upon rinsing.
Ch'dais watches the Weyrlingmaster to his place at the pool's verge, eyes half-narrowed, their hue by glowlight the gunmetal grey of breakers beneath a storm. He drops his gaze, measures the distance back to Arinth's bulk across the stone that parts them, and then-- apparently deciding that R'vain's far enough away for comfort-- resumes his work on the bronze's hide with vigor. "Hatchlings can be messy," he answers charitably enough, giving the maid a significant look over his arm. "Sometimes they take more water than they ought to." A pause, and then, more loudly, "Feeding and oiling and all manner of chaotic feelings, yes. The weyrlings must be keeping you busy."
Nessila arrives from the bowl.
Nessila has arrived.
R'vain
Short-cropped hair of bright red wreathe the top of this man's head like a dazed halo, cut one or two inches from his skull, with scruffy sideburns fighting their way down jawline in a rough, careless shave. His face, and one could probably safely assume the rest of his body, is covered in a plethora of red freckles across fair skin. His forehead is large, expressive bushy red eyebrows looming over clear pale green eyes. A beaky nose is centered upon his face, leaning slightly to the right as if it had been broken once or more before. Below lies a thin-lipped mouth, surrounded by a scruffy goatee of darker red hair. All in all, his face holds a rough, brooding air. His body is lean, muscular, and roughly made, as per the rigors of many years of dragonriding, standing at a good 6'3" in height. He appears to be around 31 turns, 9 months, and 13 days old.
R'vain's attire is wholly casual: in the summer, a dark burgundy, long-sleeved shirt is tucked carelessly into form-fitting breeches of a light tan, which are then tucked into black boots that come to mid-calf. The tie at his throat weaves between four eyelets on either side, not even bothered to be tied off. In the winter, he usually sports dark brown riding leathers - jacket and pants - lined with finely woven wool, and the same black boots. Underneath the jacket, a light beige tunic. He also wears a tiny, thin gold loop through his right ear. Upon one shoulder, he sports the black, blue, and bronze knot of High Reaches' current Weyrlingmaster, and on the opposite shoulder, when wearing his leathers, is the badge for his weyr - a black mountain range on a blue background - sewn.
Nessila
This lady is of slightly over average height, at about five feet ten inches. Her figure is not exactly athletic, but she isn't out of shape. In fact her shape is very pronounced, a rather voluptuous hourglass set of curves. She is what some might consider to be slightly plump in areas such as bosom and posterior, but her waist is slender, suggesting that this is an effect she has worked to achieve rather than the result of merely having too many pies on her platter.
Her face is rather long, with a slightly pointed chin. The profile is aristocratic, with a very straight nose and high cheekbones. Her eyes - a deep, clear blue - are wide and intelligent, while her mouth, which is rather full-lipped, is usually pulled into a politely interested smile. Her hair is a rich, deep red-gold, and has a slightly natural wave to it. She clearly spends a great deal of time on it. At a guess, you might say she was She is 30 turns, 0 months, and 7 days old.
She is dressed in a black swimsuit. Actually, it is a one piece outfit that fits her rather well developed curves snugly. It displays cleavage (but not TOO much) and is quite high on the leg, but not in a tasteless manner. It is matched with a sarong skirt affair, and her hair is tied back into a loose runner tail of coppery curls. Her skin is very pale, and her legs are quite sturdy of thigh but graceful of ankle.
Ch'dais' explanation of the matted, natty, filth-crusted mess which is R'vain's normally startlingly fine red hair is, at best, charitable. The Weyrlingmaster sheds boots and socks last and, after having remarked a bit sourly, "There's thirty and three of 'em - had you noticed?", falls into the water from an abrupt forward drop. Here, in the pool made for dragons, there's depth enough to assure he's not going to crack his head on the rock below-- more's the pity-- but he stays submerged for a few long seconds, a mild thrashing of the water's surface testament to his efforts to clear the muck from his hair. Then he surfaces, tossing back the locks to keep their still-somewhat-grisly tendrils from his eyes, and paddles back to the rock-rim for a handful of sand. "Th'lady got any other questions th'wingleader will be so good as to save me answering?"
"More water than... oh." However unsympathetic a figure R'vain is, Valandys can't prevent a wince as she realizes just what is likely matted into that tangle of fire-red hair. The cloth in her hand now gritty with 'sand and soot, she steps back from the edge where she and Ch'dais are standing, after a last firm pat of Arinth's belly. "I think he can rinse this part now, Ch'dais," she says, neatly avoiding- for the moment- the weyrlingmaster's own pointed question. The pause allows her to drift towards the bronze's tail, where there's more room to kneel and dip down to reach clear water in order to swirl the rag about to clean it for the next bout of scrubbing. With enough distance placed between herself and R'vain as a result, she's more comfortable with raising her voice to respond to him herself, "I apologize, Weyrlingmaster. I meant no insult... I doubt anyone could miss so many new dragons swelling the ranks, though."
Into the heat of the cavern comes a swishing, red-gold headed figure. Bearing with her a small bottle of oil, some towels, and apparently a large goblet of wine - all carefuly balanced. Thus armed, Nessila seeks a quiet spot where she can partake of the steam without being overly disturbed by others. She finds herself a pleasant spot to bask, and sits, partaking of her wine with every sign of pleasure
"Your hair's a stinking mess, R'vain," Ch'dais calls, doing his best to hit a note of jovial good-fellowship. It's a bit off. "Take my answer and be happy with it." The man offers a wan smile, half-hidden by the fall of his hair, and gives the bronze a few last scrubs before slapping his sodden rag over his shoulder, wetting the coarse brown cloth of his shirt. "Go on, you," he rumbles to the bronze in answer to Valandys' opinion, and the great beast shifts his weight, sinks into the pool to wash sand and smudge from his belly; the motion sets up a rippling that finds R'vain where he floats, and Nerissa where she sits-- the latter unnoticed as yet. "And I've had the count, yes. But I'll have to come round and see how they're getting on, since you've asked." A pause, and then reluctantly, "Have you met R'vain, Valandys? She's one of our Caucus students." This, somewhat pointedly, to the other man.
R'vain palms up the sand and applies it without hesitation to his head, rubbing it into the mess already made of his hair so as to make a larger mess still-- but one which will more readily abandon his scalp under pressure of another dunk. "I take none," he informs Valandys, speaking up so his voice carries through the steam and air past Arinth's bulk to the woman on the other side. For Ch'dais, a less charitable tone: "I suppose it's your due, wingleader. Come by anytime - I'll be glad to put you to work." One friendly jab deserves another; never mind the point of the knife. "Don't rightly know we have. Shame. Study hard, miss Valandys," the Weyrlingmaster obligatorily adds, and whatever is said most immediately next he will surely miss. He tosses himself back in the water, submerging again to shake more of the mess from his locks.
Valandys is not so unobservant as to miss Nessila's entrance. As she climbs to her feet, sopping rag dangling heavy from her hand, her gaze happens upon the older woman. Her knees are bent to create the effect of a polite dip, a gesture echoed in the nod and servant's smile she offers the stranger before her regard returns to the bronzerider's standing- and soaking- nearby. "I met the Weyrlingmaster during the first fall, over Tillek," she puts in quietly once their banter has ended. She wrings the cloth out as she speaks, sending water to spatter against stone and the hem of her layered skirts. If R'vain misses that answer, all the better. "He was... supervising candidates, with those of us who had volunteered to help the healers."
Nessila catches conversation and lifts her head. She sees who is present and fidgets a little, not being used to being present with both students and...rather...wet...riders. She is resolute, however, and lifts her hadn in recognition "Well met!" she calls, befire starting to oil down her legs delicately.
Ch'dais steps back to give the bronze room enough to wallow. The massive creature bulks large in the steaming pool, his bronze hide cleaner now but ringed with floating bits of char. The acrid tang of burnt firestone hangs faintly in the air. "Thank you for that, R'vain," Ch'dais rumbles back, paying little mind to whether the Weyrlingmaster is in any position to hear. "I've never been afraid of a little hard work." Unlike some people, whispers that faintest of stresses on the first word. Something about Valandys' observation catches his attention, and he spends a moment studying her expression-- green eyes thoughtful-- before he shifts his gaze to the call of the etiquette Instructor. "Lady... Nessila," he greets, looking on in mild bemusement at her choice of dress, oiled legs, goblet and wine. The bronzerider casts a sidelong glance at the skirted Igenite, arcing a puzzled brow.
R'vain resurfaces in a spraying of relatively clean water, head turning, hair swinging. He lifts his hands to squeeze out clinging dampness, then nudges himself a chest-deep step again toward shore to gather up a second round of the sand. Remarks about prior meetings and hard work seem to have been lost to his rinse, so he's got a clear mind to address the image of Nessila-- she's right along his line of sight, from the pool's rim to the sand to the towels and past to the place she's set up her strange lounging-- with a broad grin full of white teeth and a tip of his head. "Lost, Lady?" Which at least puts the Weyrlingmaster and the first wing's leader in apparent agreement on the Nerat lady's choice of venue for her drinking. Even R'vain doesn't appear to have wine in the baths. At the moment.
Lady Nessila? The face was unknown but the name isn't, and it's a name with attachments that cause Valandys' spine to stiffen, her bearing becoming slightly more formal. She puts a damp hand up to her uncovered hair and glances towards the scarves bundled near the wall beside Ch'dais' riding jacket, both look and gesture full of embarassed regret. "Well met, Lady Nessila," the student echoes the bronzerider. The look she gives Ch'dais is subtle, veiled with turns' worth of imprinted manners- it's a look that says the quirks of the Blooded are not to be remarked upon, emphasized with a shake of her head. So naturally, R'vain's greeting of Nessila is enough to draw a look and a blink. He didn't. He did. He -is-. Oh, dear. Valandys retreats back towards Arinth's head, asking Ch'dais as she goes, "Is he ready for us to begin work on the rest of him? I still smell the firestone."
Nessila smiles quite happily "Not at all thank you. This is an excellent spot, so long as I am not in your way. The steam is very good for the skin, you see, and a little wine every day aids the circulation no end. I shall not be here long, I assure you. I do trust that this isn't an awful breach of weyr protocol....it is an area I am not familiar with, but at home I would take the steam baths if I could at least every other day" She remarks not if she sees Valandys motions. Either too full of herself, or too polite
Ch'dais spends a moment interpreting that alien glance of warning from Valandys, working it across crooked lips, faintly raised brows. It seems at first that he won't take the hint, but by the time he glances back at the red-haired Neratese, he's rallied to offer her what would pass as a polite smile-- a little curl beneath his ruddy beard. When R'vain speaks, however, the burly bronzerider must actually put his hand over that smile to stop any sound, lowering his head with a soft clatter of braids; he turns the gesture into rub of his chin with the back of his hand, seeks solace in an examination of his bronze. When the dragon burbles in confusion, stirring the water around his head, it's almost too much, but Ch'dais tightens his jaw and grates a mild, "Let's have at the neck, Ys." He takes another handful of 'sand, then wades back in to foam another long smudge beneath Arinth's throat.
"It's not a breach of protocol, Lady, yet." R'vain's cheshire-wolf grin makes up only half of the too-sweet, too-kind tone in his words; the other half comes from his glee in adding that last 'yet' to his reply. He bows his head again to the lady there with her wine and her oil, the gesture a poor disguise for a perhaps-flattering sweep of emerald eyes over shining legs, then turns about in the water so Nessila has just the view of his back while he re-washes his hair. The grin, for being hidden from her, only gets worse. "I'm sure the Weyr is all too willing to share its steam with you as much as you like."
It's the long-necked brushes for Valandys then. The cloth is left to create a puddle at pool's edge as she goes to fetch one of the bristly scrubbing implements for use on Arinth's neck, her reach being nowhere near as impressive as Ch'dais'. The travel there and back to the rack holding the tools allows ample time to hear R'vain continue his conversation with the instructor, and even take a few good looks at the man's expression. Regaining the bronze's side, she lowers her own voice to address Ch'dais alone. "He should not speak to her so. It isn't proper," she murmurs, her concerns half-hidden beneath the scritching sound of the brush being applied to Arinth's sandy hide. "Look at his smile. She is going to find offense in it if she notices."
Nessila looks at the back of the washing R'vain and sniffs slightly "Please do tell me when I cause offence. I would hate to think I hadn't noticed." She sips down her wine and then stretches to lie back, though her eyes watch the group with the dragons still. Her ears are keen and she looks Valandys up and down thoughtfully. She didn't catch the words, but she was sure the comment was about her in some way. "Excuse me, haven't I seen you around the Caucus classroom now and then?"
"If a wherry lands on the hatching sands..." Ch'dais speaks it softly, a grate of sound beneath the flex of his bicep as he reaches up to scrub with his rag at the streaks of shadow beneath Arinth's throat. The bronze, for his part, seems to be enjoying the attention immensely, thick neck outstretched, all but oblivious to the surrounding conversation. Ch'dais essays an amused quirk of the lips for his companion, and then-- gathering that this is not perhaps what the Igenite wishes to hear-- sobers sufficiently to intone, "She'll be fine. Even R'vain won't dabble in Blood on a whim." And if he offends her, Ch'dais' officious attention to the business of bathing suggests, so much the better.
"It would hardly be my place, Lady, to tell you. I am but your servant." R'vain submerges again to strain water through his hair and this time, when he emerges, the washing has done its work: sodden flames wreathe his head, and as he shakes them they begin to lift and curl. He makes cursory work of scrubbing sideburns, jaw, hands and arms, turning while he does so to carry on conversation facing the Lady Nerat, though with his head downtilted in attention to his bath. "And hardly so well schooled in manners as - well. For example: a student of the Caucus."
A soft huff of breath answers Ch'dais, Valandys making her opinion of his response known in that way. "You think he wouldn't? How much do you wager he has had to drink so far today? I think the truth depends on the answer to that," she murmurs. Then she catches her lower lip between bright teeth, setting her strength into the task of scrubbing the grime from happy Arinth's hide. This labor distracts the Igenite to the point of almost missing Nessila's query, distance and the steamy acoustics of the cavern almost sending her into rude territory. She reappears at Arinth's tail, the brush gripped in a fist and braced against the stone floor, her other hand pushing stray wisps of damp hair back from her face. "Beg pardon, Lady Nessila." She pauses, stealing a look at R'vain. "Yes, madam, the weyrlingmaster has the right of it. Igen Hold has sent me to attend although I have not been enrolled in the courses on etiquette and decorum."
Nessila lets out a pelasant laugh as she lies back and closes her eyes "No servant of mine is a rider. I would never presume at all to that degree of impropriety. I am merely very lucky to be allowed to be at the weyr at all, I suppose. And if it is manners you wish to learn, you should merely enquire...I already have more than one private student as well as those the Caucus deems necessary. That also applies to you, young lady. No lady of any real station can have too many lessons in fine manners, in my opinion"
Ch'dais slops his rag vigorously until it's greyed with soot from the hulking bronze's body. "Lady Nerat shows quite a well-oiled thigh for a woman offended by such advances," he half-whispers, a parting shot before the girl is called into conversation with the etiquette Instructor. At the mention of real ladies, fine manners, he almost, /almost/ snorts; nostrils flare, but the bronzerider blows it out as a silent breath, slapping the rag back over the large, soapy mess of his shoulder. Arinth dips his head into the pool's water, dislodging 'sand and grime from his neck.
One in the basket. R'vain's chin comes up and he offers the Lady a far keener, subtler grin-- no sodden smirk, this-- through which he agrees, "I should indeed. Doubtless my instruction to Reaches' weyrlings could be improved by my own greater understanding of etiquette." Despite some turns in the post, the Weyrlingmaster is apparently all too willing to improve his technique. But he hasn't been underwater just recently, and slicks a green slide of a glance Ch'dais' way. "Wouldn't you say, Wingleader?"
Valandys lapses into a silence that would seem uncomfortable resting on anyone else's shoulders. It's obvious that the girl is trying to find the proper response, but it takes several seconds before the words present themselves. "I beg your pardon, Lady Nessila," she finally says with downcast eyes, voice almost delicate in the steam-clogged air of the springs. "I am afraid that I am no lady, nor do I have any station to speak of. My mother is Headwoman of the Hold, and not a member of its Blood. But I thank you for your offer, it is most generous and one that I am sure the Weyrlingmaster appreciates." That she manages this without glancing once at Ch'dais is a feat in and of itself. A look for R'vain, on the other hand, can't be avoided; her black eyes betray little of the thoughts between them but they linger a touch longer than polite behaviour would ordinarily dictate.
Nessila lifts her head in amusement "I am quite sure that etiquette lessons are not required for senior bronzeriders, sir. Although you would be most welcome if you did wish to attend." The girl's words cause a raised brow however "Dear girl, Blooded ladies are not the only ones who need such skills. A Headwoman needs to have good manners, and if you wish to rise in your own station, then such classes would be essential. Do you not, for example, have any aspirations to rise above your current status?"
"Can't fathom what you'd learn." At least Ch'dais doesn't finish the thought-- 'from her'-- but it's there between his teeth, bitten off and struggling to be free like some live prey. The big man swallows it, thickly, looking between Valandys and the high-minded Neratese with eyes gone hard as shale. It's the latter who receives the majority of this warm attention, before the bronzerider turns abruptly to slap his bronze on the side. "Out of the pool, you. We're done here." Arinth rumbles in mild surprise, but the waters roll as he begins to dislodge himself from the murk he's created.
"You are too kind, Lady," and if the rest hasn't been horrible enough, set it all to rest with the notion that the Weyrlingmaster may actually have some slipping grasp on when enough is enough. He nods a bow of his head again in-- apparently-- gratitude to the Lady Nerat. Then he's striding through the water to the very edge, stretching an arm out long and bending his chest low over the rock to snare up a towel. Vanity: it goes first for his hair. As he rubs it about his head he half-turns to eye Ch'dais, who now gets to be the target of the wolf's-teeth grin, an expression camoflauged from the Lady Nerat by the towel's tails curtaining his face.
"I..." Valandys fetches up there, showing the first glint of awkwardness as she struggles to find an answer that won't reflect badly on the Lady asking all of the questions. "I apologize, madam," she eventually decides on, sinking into a proper curtsey with the long handle of the scrub-brush rising up beside her like a spear. "It isn't for those like me to have aspirations. Beyond..." She hesitates again, and this time her gaze steals towards Ch'dais before returning to Nessila. On that return, it sweeps over R'vain; his smile is noted, and her lips are pressed into a prim line. "My family serves, madam. We serve well, and my manners are sufficient for that purpose." Arinth saves her the trouble of further reply by stirring as he does, passing between her and the lounging noblewoman. The time bought allows Valandys to rise and quietly step past Ch'dais to return the brush to its rack.
Nessila seems that she is well settled, but her own repose is short lived, as a rather flustered looking messenger girl - a maid of some description - comes in and finds her quickly. A message is delivered to the effect that Lady Sian requests her attendance to discuss a certain matter as soon as possible. That said, Nessila packs her things up and wipes her legs down before rising "I am sorry I must leave you. But do consider the offer anyway, young lady. It can hardly hurt." She nods politely before gliding away to attend on the Lady Regent.
Nessila has left.
Ch'dais watches Lady Nerat make her exit, lips half-parted on words that can't be framed in any way quite right for her spectacle. To judge from the drawn set of his brow, they wouldn't have been kind words. But as Arinth lumbers past, interposing first the shadow of his haunch and then the pyrite slither of his ridged tail, the bronzerider's view is cleared sufficiently to glimpse R'vain's smirk in the corner of his eye. Ch'dais' jaw tenses. The glance he returns from beneath the serpent-strands of his braids is not anger, although there is that; it isn't concern, but that, too, may be seen. It's an eddy of grim recognition, grey-green, awareness that the Weyrlingmaster has found, in his own way, a chink in the armor. And then he looks to her, resettling her long brush. He collects jacket and bright scarves, strides to take Valandys gently by the elbow. "Thank you for helping, Ys, but you should be back to your studies," he intones, a little too quickly. And then, raising his voice for the other man, "R'vain. You smell better." It's a farewell of sorts.
It might be expected that Valandys would be somewhat subdued but her composure is quickly recovered. Calm is a formidable armor. After replacing the brush in the rack, she turns just in time to find her elbow swallowed by Ch'dais' large hand, and though he's gentle the suddenness of it causes her to slowly blink up at him. "It's alright," she tells him quietly, beneath the rumble of his compliment to R'vain. "It is what I am, and what she is." Her smile seeks to fill the last chink, to smooth over any lingering ruffled feelings even as she reaches out to take the bundle of scarves and bracelets from his other hand. Having them to unwrap and slip on, to rearrange along her arms and shoulders and head, give her something to focus on while trying to avoid looking at R'vain. There's a stiffness to her posture now though, and haste in the steps that carry her in Arinth's wake, at Ch'dais' side, out of the heat of the baths and into the drizzle of the spring day.
While R'vain's eyes remain sharp upon the other bronzerider and his smirk stays all too keen, he raises his own voice just enough to make it clear that it's the Caucus student to whom he speaks. "I'm certain the Lady means no harm. Surely she knows no way but that to which she was bred." Bred: like a runner. The Weyrlingmaster leaves off at last his knowing focus on Ch'dais and turns to climb up out of the water, flipping the towel artfully from head to hips to become a wrap there. A few moments more finds him dressing, blithe and self-satisfied, even humming a little beneath his breath.
When: 12:51 on day 23, month 3, turn 1 of the 7th Pass
What: Blood, riders and Caucus student come together in the dragon baths and "enjoy" a conversation with each other.
Hot Springs
This large natural cavern is heated by the same mechanism that warms the hatching sands. Fed by a spring, the waters that fill the center bowl are warm enough to steam and deep enough that a bronze might almost float after following the gentle slope down into the pool. There is room enough there for several dragons, provided they mind their wings.
To the right of the entrance tunnel, a second pool has been hollowed out of the rock. It's much smaller than the first and is intended for use by the human residents of the Weyr. Alcoves over the pool hold extra towels and pouches of 'sand.
Glowbaskets have been raised on poles around the lip of the larger of the two pools. They end three-quarters of the way into the cavern, leaving the rest in perpetual shadow. The rear of the cavern is gloomy, its wall broken by a number of small crevasses.
Contents:
Arinth
Aneleth
Bowl (B)
It is 12:51 on day 23, month 3, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.
It is currently early spring. It's a soggy spring day, overcast and prone to drizzles. The sky is a bumpy canvas of grey and white, hiding the sun and ensuring that temperatures range towards cool rather than warm.
Valandys
Valandys' features are simply drawn with soft curves and a strong bone structure, her skin the color of sun-warmed copper. There is sharpness to be found only in the thin bridge of her nose, and her lightning-quick smiles. Set deeply enough to seem always in shadow, her eyes are black, but bright with intelligence and calm. She wears her equally dark hair parted in the center and drawn back to a thick bun secured with red and yellow enamelled pins.
Her healthy frame is draped in attire suitable for cold weather wear, provided she remains inside. A long-sleeved white blouse is tucked into the waistband of a black overskirt. The underskirts are less bland in shade; when she walks, flashes of red and yellow and orange can be seen, matching the gauzy scarves she has wrapped around her hips, her throat and her head. The scarves have fringe beaded with tiny bone beads, dyed in natural colors, and these beads match the clacking array of bracelets decorating her wrists.
The bright red and golden yellow knot at her shoulder declares her origin as Igen Hold. The crosspoint of the knot serves as a bed for the beaten-copper pin of the Caucus.
Ch'dais
Tall and robust, the young man seems well-suited to northern climes. He stands like a sea-swept promontory, hardened even as he is smoothed by the battering of wind and wave; his body is labor-firm, his arms sheathed in the corded curve of muscle. Harsh features make him look more rugged than handsome, from the awkward break of his nose to the pronounced hollow of his cheeks. Still in all, some thought lurks beneath the turbid waters of his grey-green eyes, and his hair is a wild profusion of auburn, falling about his shoulders where it isn't haphazardly braided in order to clear his vision. The same ruddy color descends in sideburns, gathers about his lips in a stubbled beard. The man moves easily, balanced regardless of his ground or seat.
His flying leathers may once have been black, but they've long since weathered to a spider's web of cracked charcoal. Wan grey surmounts the elbows and shoulders of the jacket, takes on a silver sheen in the animal fur sewn into the neck; the same hue shows in his pants at the knees and on the insides of his thighs. Heavy boots and a broad riding belt-- worn when needed, and as often draped absently over one shoulder-- complete the ensemble. The sole article of color is provided by his shoulder knot: two braided, bone-clasped loops of vibrant blue and black, interwoven with a thin cord of bronze.
It's been a morning of rope-drills for Arinth, and the dragon's hide shows it. Here and there the pine-needle texture of his flanks is marred by drifts of stone-dust, charcoal over tawny bronze; his blunt muzzle, almost a brilliant platinum when clean, is smudged black. But the beast seems happy for all of this. He burbles softly, his prodigious frame keeled over at the edge of the dragon pool, belly and left haunch presented to his keeper. Or keepers, in this case, for the bronzerider Ch'dais has company this afternoon. As he tosses his riding jacket aside, bends to cup warm water in double-palms, he casts a glance past his bicep at the dark-haired girl who joins him by the waterside. "Again, Valandys, I'll tell you that you don't have to do this." It's a feeble and half-smiling reproach. "You mustn't neglect your studies."
She's unwinding the multitude of scarves that cloak her body. Hair, throat, hips, slowly they're uncovered and left bare. The bracelets follow soon after, wrapped in the delicate fibers with their vibrant colors, and set with the discarded jacket to avoid a soaking. "I will tell you that I would very much like to do this," Valandys counters quietly, moving to stand beside the man. Her eyes travel the exposed canvas of Arinth's barrel, provoking a little smile. "This will be study of a sort. Weyr relations, mm? If you teach me well, I might take a better grade. You will have helped me, you see?" She cups her hands beneath her elbows, now looking back and forth to take in the whole of the bronze's bulk. "There is so much of him... how do you do this alone, Ch'dais?"
"I have large hands." He shares Valandys' survey of the blocky bronze, his contemplative expression serving almost to mask the mirth that echoes beneath his reply. "See?" Ch'dais reaches out to encircle her upper arm, a grip like warm stone; gently he positions the maid before a prominent scorch-mark on Arinth's belly, just above the waterline, then steps past her to fetch rags and 'sand, hitching up his sleeves as he goes. "And Arinth is very fond of lying on his side and doing nothing." The bronze hoots at this, a sound that rolls about the Igenite's feet and ankles, one great eye trained upon her. "How /are/ your classes going? Is your tutor minding his manners?" Far too casual, this.
Valandys makes some soft sound of amusement, a chuckle that's kept deep in her chest as he moves her into place for the labor to come. "-I- think you earn such rests," she murmurs to that watchful eye, rewarding Arinth's attention with another of her smiles. Her hand reaches out, a single fingertip being used to sketch a shape in the charcoal marring that warm bronze hide. Initials, a glance would show that shape to be, the start of a 'V'. "They go well now... my grades have improved and Instructor Sefton has been a gentleman," she goes on, the subtle currents of her voice continuing to betray the amusement bubbling beneath her serene surface. It's an unkind emotion to feel given what she knows of the bronzerider's feelings, but she seems to find it impossible to hide completely. "I think he finds himself distracted with classwork and his soon to be bride. She is... she is a woman who strikes me as needing much attention. How are your duties going? Have you spoken with G'thon recently?"
Arinth rumbles at the girl's touch, a mild, pleased sound that nonetheless sets up a potent shiver of bronze beneath her fingers. Ch'dais, returning with a large sack in one fist and a pair of towel-sized rags draped over the other forearm, gives his partner a narrow-eyed look before finding a smile for his assistant. "Young Lady Bailie of Fort? From what I hear, she'll craft attention where it isn't forthcoming. No worries there." Apparently the bronzerider is in good spirits. He offers Valandys one of the lengths of coarse cloth, then bends to open the sack by his booted ankle. "I wouldn't say recently," he continues, fishing out a palmful of 'sand. "He's given me a free hand in setting out the fighting wings, and I've done my best to deserve it." A pause. "Why?"
The bronze's buzzing earns him the press of her entire hand against that char-brushed hide, the shape of palm and fingers obscuring the single letter she'd managed to enscribe before being taken by whimsy. When Ch'dais returns, Valandys is giving open vent to her amusement- she's laughing, softly, and shaking her head up at Arinth. Accepting the cloth from his rider- and sharing that same smile with the man- the girl wipes her hand clean of smudges and waits for the distribution of cleaning sand. "I was not sure how much oversight he would insist on having." It's a quiet answer, a diplomatic answer, and she pauses again before continuing on with her explanation. "Why did he choose you for the knot, Ch'dais? Do you know? He said that it was an unusual honor to grant to one as young as you are."
Fingers curl carefully over that dollop of cleanser, tenting it. Ch'dais straightens, holds the maid in the corner of his grey-green eye as he steps once into the shallows by Arinth's side. "Because I'm the best man for the job?" It's an unusually equivocal statement for him, laced with undertones of dark humor. The bronzerider sweeps his arm violently, a motion akin to throwing a stone as far as he can; 'sand spatters in a broad arc across the bronze's char-smudge. "It /is/ an unusual honor. One that a more senior rider might've taken advantage of."
R'vain arrives from the bowl.
R'vain has arrived.
The light of her amusement fades, replaced with a subtle discomfort. The rag is twisted between her hands, her weight shifts on her feet. "If he did not -want- someone who would take advantage of it, Ch'dais..." Valandys hesitates again, spending that moment of silence chewing on her lower lip and lacing words together. The arrangement of what she's trying to say can be seen taking place behind her eyes, distracting her from watching the spattering of Arinth with sand. "I am not experienced in such things but why would he complain that he would prefer more than just committment to duty from you? He said as much to me. We were interrupted, he had no chance to say more and I could not question him." She speaks quietly with Ch'dais at the pool's edge, the breath of her words hardly stirring the steam that rises up around the pair, and the great sooty bronze that lolls in the water before them.
"He said that, did he." Ch'dais' answer rolls like thunder over a distant mountain crag-- soft, portentous, dark as the furrow that weaves across the bronzerider's brow. Muscles knot along his massive forearm as he grasps his own rag for use. The Igenite gets a glance of mild surprise, turbid with the man's thoughts, before he bends to soak his cloth in the water-- the motion shields his expression in a wilderness of braids. "Perhaps G'thon's after a man who /wants/ to take his Weyr from him, but won't out of sheer courtesy. I wish him luck in the search." He sets to scrubbing Arinth's blackened belly with subdued energy. "It's an ugly business." He might be talking about bathing Arinth, but it doesn't seem likely.
It could certainly be said that for all his wanting, R'vain hasn't tried to do some things he probably could have, possibly should have, if he had so much wanting in him. In some men, however, such lack of action is deemed not courtesy, but cowardice - and so might the Weyrlingmaster be called a coward. More lately, however, 'an ugly business' describes him better. He needs a bath, that much can be said. And he's found the caverns in which such needs may be most succinctly and simply met, so he's got his feet under him and his wits about. In fact there's a dark gloomy kind of awareness to him, a dark and rotting glare with which he sears the ground before his boots as he walks, a sober dourness. Still, there's the matter of his hair, red-fire in a horrible mess not at all enhanced by whatever dire substance has caused it to mat. Hardly a few paces in he sheds his jacket into a corner where it lies in a heap crowned by his ill-kept knot and its tangled tassels; then, R'vain stalks toward the water.
"It is." What can Valandys do but quietly agree with the bronzerider's assessment? She spends her breath in a sigh, eyes cast to the rock beneath her feet to avoid the embarassment of having shared gossip. It does little good, that avoiding. Embarassment finds her anyway, balancing against the discontent she shares with Ch'dais for G'thon's speaking so of him. It tints her cheeks a deeper shade and leaves her to turn for a moment to compose herself. And, in that moment, a gaze lifted by chance brings the approaching weyrlingmaster into view. "Ch'dais," the Igenite murmurs, letting the cloth dangle from her fingers as she reaches to to set them against his working elbow. Having alerted him to the other's presence, she turns herself and finally sets that cloth to Arinth's belly.
Ch'dais pauses the work of his hands at the girl's touch, her soft summons. He casts a glance over the curve of one shoulder, beaded braids snaking across the expanse of his back with the motion. When he catches sight of their new company, his lips fix in a look of studied patience; wrinkles print the corners of his eyes. Less subtle is the massive dragon's reaction-- he blows out a sudden, fierce snort of breath that stirs the mist about rider and Caucus girl into a dissipating whirl. "R'vain," the bronzerider calls gruffly, echoing in the vast chamber. "Hard morning poring over your lessons, I expect." Yes, he says it with a straight face.
The steam is what alarms the Weyrlingmaster, what sends his chin jerking upward and pauses his hands in their work at the buttons of his shirt. He opens shirts, apparently, from the bottom up, so the tails are untucked and a trace of stomach apparent; perhaps that's his cause for delay, given the flicker of surly emerald that takes in Ch'dais' dragonbathing assistant. "You'd only wish lessons came in the form of /hidework/ at this phase, /sir./" R'vain changes his course only enough to head for a part of the dragon-pool rim several paces off from the bronzepair and Caucus student, pretending at modesty by putting the beast between himself and the woman, something not accomplishable if he were to bother with the smaller waters meant for humans. Then it's back to peeling clothes. With a grimace he takes care to slip the shirt off in such a way that its association with what's become of his hair is minimal. "Could stand a morning pouring," he informs his rippling reflection beneath his breath.
Valandys may try to be the very image of ladylike modesty, and so avoid gossiping or stealing glances at those intent on a cleansing dip, but today seems to find her hardpressed to manage either. The gossiping has been accomplished, and now she steals glances from the corner of her eyes until R'vain's own repositioning of himself makes this impossible to manage. But those few glances were enough to accomplish her goal, leaving her asking in quiet horror, "What does he have in his hair?" There's a purpose to asking this, an ulterior motive intended to distract the men from whatever enmity swirls between them. Through the curiosity, the surprise, the subsequent questioning, she continues to work that cloth over the bronze's hide, smearing 'sand into the streaks marring that surface and generally creating a mess that will clear upon rinsing.
Ch'dais watches the Weyrlingmaster to his place at the pool's verge, eyes half-narrowed, their hue by glowlight the gunmetal grey of breakers beneath a storm. He drops his gaze, measures the distance back to Arinth's bulk across the stone that parts them, and then-- apparently deciding that R'vain's far enough away for comfort-- resumes his work on the bronze's hide with vigor. "Hatchlings can be messy," he answers charitably enough, giving the maid a significant look over his arm. "Sometimes they take more water than they ought to." A pause, and then, more loudly, "Feeding and oiling and all manner of chaotic feelings, yes. The weyrlings must be keeping you busy."
Nessila arrives from the bowl.
Nessila has arrived.
R'vain
Short-cropped hair of bright red wreathe the top of this man's head like a dazed halo, cut one or two inches from his skull, with scruffy sideburns fighting their way down jawline in a rough, careless shave. His face, and one could probably safely assume the rest of his body, is covered in a plethora of red freckles across fair skin. His forehead is large, expressive bushy red eyebrows looming over clear pale green eyes. A beaky nose is centered upon his face, leaning slightly to the right as if it had been broken once or more before. Below lies a thin-lipped mouth, surrounded by a scruffy goatee of darker red hair. All in all, his face holds a rough, brooding air. His body is lean, muscular, and roughly made, as per the rigors of many years of dragonriding, standing at a good 6'3" in height. He appears to be around 31 turns, 9 months, and 13 days old.
R'vain's attire is wholly casual: in the summer, a dark burgundy, long-sleeved shirt is tucked carelessly into form-fitting breeches of a light tan, which are then tucked into black boots that come to mid-calf. The tie at his throat weaves between four eyelets on either side, not even bothered to be tied off. In the winter, he usually sports dark brown riding leathers - jacket and pants - lined with finely woven wool, and the same black boots. Underneath the jacket, a light beige tunic. He also wears a tiny, thin gold loop through his right ear. Upon one shoulder, he sports the black, blue, and bronze knot of High Reaches' current Weyrlingmaster, and on the opposite shoulder, when wearing his leathers, is the badge for his weyr - a black mountain range on a blue background - sewn.
Nessila
This lady is of slightly over average height, at about five feet ten inches. Her figure is not exactly athletic, but she isn't out of shape. In fact her shape is very pronounced, a rather voluptuous hourglass set of curves. She is what some might consider to be slightly plump in areas such as bosom and posterior, but her waist is slender, suggesting that this is an effect she has worked to achieve rather than the result of merely having too many pies on her platter.
Her face is rather long, with a slightly pointed chin. The profile is aristocratic, with a very straight nose and high cheekbones. Her eyes - a deep, clear blue - are wide and intelligent, while her mouth, which is rather full-lipped, is usually pulled into a politely interested smile. Her hair is a rich, deep red-gold, and has a slightly natural wave to it. She clearly spends a great deal of time on it. At a guess, you might say she was She is 30 turns, 0 months, and 7 days old.
She is dressed in a black swimsuit. Actually, it is a one piece outfit that fits her rather well developed curves snugly. It displays cleavage (but not TOO much) and is quite high on the leg, but not in a tasteless manner. It is matched with a sarong skirt affair, and her hair is tied back into a loose runner tail of coppery curls. Her skin is very pale, and her legs are quite sturdy of thigh but graceful of ankle.
Ch'dais' explanation of the matted, natty, filth-crusted mess which is R'vain's normally startlingly fine red hair is, at best, charitable. The Weyrlingmaster sheds boots and socks last and, after having remarked a bit sourly, "There's thirty and three of 'em - had you noticed?", falls into the water from an abrupt forward drop. Here, in the pool made for dragons, there's depth enough to assure he's not going to crack his head on the rock below-- more's the pity-- but he stays submerged for a few long seconds, a mild thrashing of the water's surface testament to his efforts to clear the muck from his hair. Then he surfaces, tossing back the locks to keep their still-somewhat-grisly tendrils from his eyes, and paddles back to the rock-rim for a handful of sand. "Th'lady got any other questions th'wingleader will be so good as to save me answering?"
"More water than... oh." However unsympathetic a figure R'vain is, Valandys can't prevent a wince as she realizes just what is likely matted into that tangle of fire-red hair. The cloth in her hand now gritty with 'sand and soot, she steps back from the edge where she and Ch'dais are standing, after a last firm pat of Arinth's belly. "I think he can rinse this part now, Ch'dais," she says, neatly avoiding- for the moment- the weyrlingmaster's own pointed question. The pause allows her to drift towards the bronze's tail, where there's more room to kneel and dip down to reach clear water in order to swirl the rag about to clean it for the next bout of scrubbing. With enough distance placed between herself and R'vain as a result, she's more comfortable with raising her voice to respond to him herself, "I apologize, Weyrlingmaster. I meant no insult... I doubt anyone could miss so many new dragons swelling the ranks, though."
Into the heat of the cavern comes a swishing, red-gold headed figure. Bearing with her a small bottle of oil, some towels, and apparently a large goblet of wine - all carefuly balanced. Thus armed, Nessila seeks a quiet spot where she can partake of the steam without being overly disturbed by others. She finds herself a pleasant spot to bask, and sits, partaking of her wine with every sign of pleasure
"Your hair's a stinking mess, R'vain," Ch'dais calls, doing his best to hit a note of jovial good-fellowship. It's a bit off. "Take my answer and be happy with it." The man offers a wan smile, half-hidden by the fall of his hair, and gives the bronze a few last scrubs before slapping his sodden rag over his shoulder, wetting the coarse brown cloth of his shirt. "Go on, you," he rumbles to the bronze in answer to Valandys' opinion, and the great beast shifts his weight, sinks into the pool to wash sand and smudge from his belly; the motion sets up a rippling that finds R'vain where he floats, and Nerissa where she sits-- the latter unnoticed as yet. "And I've had the count, yes. But I'll have to come round and see how they're getting on, since you've asked." A pause, and then reluctantly, "Have you met R'vain, Valandys? She's one of our Caucus students." This, somewhat pointedly, to the other man.
R'vain palms up the sand and applies it without hesitation to his head, rubbing it into the mess already made of his hair so as to make a larger mess still-- but one which will more readily abandon his scalp under pressure of another dunk. "I take none," he informs Valandys, speaking up so his voice carries through the steam and air past Arinth's bulk to the woman on the other side. For Ch'dais, a less charitable tone: "I suppose it's your due, wingleader. Come by anytime - I'll be glad to put you to work." One friendly jab deserves another; never mind the point of the knife. "Don't rightly know we have. Shame. Study hard, miss Valandys," the Weyrlingmaster obligatorily adds, and whatever is said most immediately next he will surely miss. He tosses himself back in the water, submerging again to shake more of the mess from his locks.
Valandys is not so unobservant as to miss Nessila's entrance. As she climbs to her feet, sopping rag dangling heavy from her hand, her gaze happens upon the older woman. Her knees are bent to create the effect of a polite dip, a gesture echoed in the nod and servant's smile she offers the stranger before her regard returns to the bronzerider's standing- and soaking- nearby. "I met the Weyrlingmaster during the first fall, over Tillek," she puts in quietly once their banter has ended. She wrings the cloth out as she speaks, sending water to spatter against stone and the hem of her layered skirts. If R'vain misses that answer, all the better. "He was... supervising candidates, with those of us who had volunteered to help the healers."
Nessila catches conversation and lifts her head. She sees who is present and fidgets a little, not being used to being present with both students and...rather...wet...riders. She is resolute, however, and lifts her hadn in recognition "Well met!" she calls, befire starting to oil down her legs delicately.
Ch'dais steps back to give the bronze room enough to wallow. The massive creature bulks large in the steaming pool, his bronze hide cleaner now but ringed with floating bits of char. The acrid tang of burnt firestone hangs faintly in the air. "Thank you for that, R'vain," Ch'dais rumbles back, paying little mind to whether the Weyrlingmaster is in any position to hear. "I've never been afraid of a little hard work." Unlike some people, whispers that faintest of stresses on the first word. Something about Valandys' observation catches his attention, and he spends a moment studying her expression-- green eyes thoughtful-- before he shifts his gaze to the call of the etiquette Instructor. "Lady... Nessila," he greets, looking on in mild bemusement at her choice of dress, oiled legs, goblet and wine. The bronzerider casts a sidelong glance at the skirted Igenite, arcing a puzzled brow.
R'vain resurfaces in a spraying of relatively clean water, head turning, hair swinging. He lifts his hands to squeeze out clinging dampness, then nudges himself a chest-deep step again toward shore to gather up a second round of the sand. Remarks about prior meetings and hard work seem to have been lost to his rinse, so he's got a clear mind to address the image of Nessila-- she's right along his line of sight, from the pool's rim to the sand to the towels and past to the place she's set up her strange lounging-- with a broad grin full of white teeth and a tip of his head. "Lost, Lady?" Which at least puts the Weyrlingmaster and the first wing's leader in apparent agreement on the Nerat lady's choice of venue for her drinking. Even R'vain doesn't appear to have wine in the baths. At the moment.
Lady Nessila? The face was unknown but the name isn't, and it's a name with attachments that cause Valandys' spine to stiffen, her bearing becoming slightly more formal. She puts a damp hand up to her uncovered hair and glances towards the scarves bundled near the wall beside Ch'dais' riding jacket, both look and gesture full of embarassed regret. "Well met, Lady Nessila," the student echoes the bronzerider. The look she gives Ch'dais is subtle, veiled with turns' worth of imprinted manners- it's a look that says the quirks of the Blooded are not to be remarked upon, emphasized with a shake of her head. So naturally, R'vain's greeting of Nessila is enough to draw a look and a blink. He didn't. He did. He -is-. Oh, dear. Valandys retreats back towards Arinth's head, asking Ch'dais as she goes, "Is he ready for us to begin work on the rest of him? I still smell the firestone."
Nessila smiles quite happily "Not at all thank you. This is an excellent spot, so long as I am not in your way. The steam is very good for the skin, you see, and a little wine every day aids the circulation no end. I shall not be here long, I assure you. I do trust that this isn't an awful breach of weyr protocol....it is an area I am not familiar with, but at home I would take the steam baths if I could at least every other day" She remarks not if she sees Valandys motions. Either too full of herself, or too polite
Ch'dais spends a moment interpreting that alien glance of warning from Valandys, working it across crooked lips, faintly raised brows. It seems at first that he won't take the hint, but by the time he glances back at the red-haired Neratese, he's rallied to offer her what would pass as a polite smile-- a little curl beneath his ruddy beard. When R'vain speaks, however, the burly bronzerider must actually put his hand over that smile to stop any sound, lowering his head with a soft clatter of braids; he turns the gesture into rub of his chin with the back of his hand, seeks solace in an examination of his bronze. When the dragon burbles in confusion, stirring the water around his head, it's almost too much, but Ch'dais tightens his jaw and grates a mild, "Let's have at the neck, Ys." He takes another handful of 'sand, then wades back in to foam another long smudge beneath Arinth's throat.
"It's not a breach of protocol, Lady, yet." R'vain's cheshire-wolf grin makes up only half of the too-sweet, too-kind tone in his words; the other half comes from his glee in adding that last 'yet' to his reply. He bows his head again to the lady there with her wine and her oil, the gesture a poor disguise for a perhaps-flattering sweep of emerald eyes over shining legs, then turns about in the water so Nessila has just the view of his back while he re-washes his hair. The grin, for being hidden from her, only gets worse. "I'm sure the Weyr is all too willing to share its steam with you as much as you like."
It's the long-necked brushes for Valandys then. The cloth is left to create a puddle at pool's edge as she goes to fetch one of the bristly scrubbing implements for use on Arinth's neck, her reach being nowhere near as impressive as Ch'dais'. The travel there and back to the rack holding the tools allows ample time to hear R'vain continue his conversation with the instructor, and even take a few good looks at the man's expression. Regaining the bronze's side, she lowers her own voice to address Ch'dais alone. "He should not speak to her so. It isn't proper," she murmurs, her concerns half-hidden beneath the scritching sound of the brush being applied to Arinth's sandy hide. "Look at his smile. She is going to find offense in it if she notices."
Nessila looks at the back of the washing R'vain and sniffs slightly "Please do tell me when I cause offence. I would hate to think I hadn't noticed." She sips down her wine and then stretches to lie back, though her eyes watch the group with the dragons still. Her ears are keen and she looks Valandys up and down thoughtfully. She didn't catch the words, but she was sure the comment was about her in some way. "Excuse me, haven't I seen you around the Caucus classroom now and then?"
"If a wherry lands on the hatching sands..." Ch'dais speaks it softly, a grate of sound beneath the flex of his bicep as he reaches up to scrub with his rag at the streaks of shadow beneath Arinth's throat. The bronze, for his part, seems to be enjoying the attention immensely, thick neck outstretched, all but oblivious to the surrounding conversation. Ch'dais essays an amused quirk of the lips for his companion, and then-- gathering that this is not perhaps what the Igenite wishes to hear-- sobers sufficiently to intone, "She'll be fine. Even R'vain won't dabble in Blood on a whim." And if he offends her, Ch'dais' officious attention to the business of bathing suggests, so much the better.
"It would hardly be my place, Lady, to tell you. I am but your servant." R'vain submerges again to strain water through his hair and this time, when he emerges, the washing has done its work: sodden flames wreathe his head, and as he shakes them they begin to lift and curl. He makes cursory work of scrubbing sideburns, jaw, hands and arms, turning while he does so to carry on conversation facing the Lady Nerat, though with his head downtilted in attention to his bath. "And hardly so well schooled in manners as - well. For example: a student of the Caucus."
A soft huff of breath answers Ch'dais, Valandys making her opinion of his response known in that way. "You think he wouldn't? How much do you wager he has had to drink so far today? I think the truth depends on the answer to that," she murmurs. Then she catches her lower lip between bright teeth, setting her strength into the task of scrubbing the grime from happy Arinth's hide. This labor distracts the Igenite to the point of almost missing Nessila's query, distance and the steamy acoustics of the cavern almost sending her into rude territory. She reappears at Arinth's tail, the brush gripped in a fist and braced against the stone floor, her other hand pushing stray wisps of damp hair back from her face. "Beg pardon, Lady Nessila." She pauses, stealing a look at R'vain. "Yes, madam, the weyrlingmaster has the right of it. Igen Hold has sent me to attend although I have not been enrolled in the courses on etiquette and decorum."
Nessila lets out a pelasant laugh as she lies back and closes her eyes "No servant of mine is a rider. I would never presume at all to that degree of impropriety. I am merely very lucky to be allowed to be at the weyr at all, I suppose. And if it is manners you wish to learn, you should merely enquire...I already have more than one private student as well as those the Caucus deems necessary. That also applies to you, young lady. No lady of any real station can have too many lessons in fine manners, in my opinion"
Ch'dais slops his rag vigorously until it's greyed with soot from the hulking bronze's body. "Lady Nerat shows quite a well-oiled thigh for a woman offended by such advances," he half-whispers, a parting shot before the girl is called into conversation with the etiquette Instructor. At the mention of real ladies, fine manners, he almost, /almost/ snorts; nostrils flare, but the bronzerider blows it out as a silent breath, slapping the rag back over the large, soapy mess of his shoulder. Arinth dips his head into the pool's water, dislodging 'sand and grime from his neck.
One in the basket. R'vain's chin comes up and he offers the Lady a far keener, subtler grin-- no sodden smirk, this-- through which he agrees, "I should indeed. Doubtless my instruction to Reaches' weyrlings could be improved by my own greater understanding of etiquette." Despite some turns in the post, the Weyrlingmaster is apparently all too willing to improve his technique. But he hasn't been underwater just recently, and slicks a green slide of a glance Ch'dais' way. "Wouldn't you say, Wingleader?"
Valandys lapses into a silence that would seem uncomfortable resting on anyone else's shoulders. It's obvious that the girl is trying to find the proper response, but it takes several seconds before the words present themselves. "I beg your pardon, Lady Nessila," she finally says with downcast eyes, voice almost delicate in the steam-clogged air of the springs. "I am afraid that I am no lady, nor do I have any station to speak of. My mother is Headwoman of the Hold, and not a member of its Blood. But I thank you for your offer, it is most generous and one that I am sure the Weyrlingmaster appreciates." That she manages this without glancing once at Ch'dais is a feat in and of itself. A look for R'vain, on the other hand, can't be avoided; her black eyes betray little of the thoughts between them but they linger a touch longer than polite behaviour would ordinarily dictate.
Nessila lifts her head in amusement "I am quite sure that etiquette lessons are not required for senior bronzeriders, sir. Although you would be most welcome if you did wish to attend." The girl's words cause a raised brow however "Dear girl, Blooded ladies are not the only ones who need such skills. A Headwoman needs to have good manners, and if you wish to rise in your own station, then such classes would be essential. Do you not, for example, have any aspirations to rise above your current status?"
"Can't fathom what you'd learn." At least Ch'dais doesn't finish the thought-- 'from her'-- but it's there between his teeth, bitten off and struggling to be free like some live prey. The big man swallows it, thickly, looking between Valandys and the high-minded Neratese with eyes gone hard as shale. It's the latter who receives the majority of this warm attention, before the bronzerider turns abruptly to slap his bronze on the side. "Out of the pool, you. We're done here." Arinth rumbles in mild surprise, but the waters roll as he begins to dislodge himself from the murk he's created.
"You are too kind, Lady," and if the rest hasn't been horrible enough, set it all to rest with the notion that the Weyrlingmaster may actually have some slipping grasp on when enough is enough. He nods a bow of his head again in-- apparently-- gratitude to the Lady Nerat. Then he's striding through the water to the very edge, stretching an arm out long and bending his chest low over the rock to snare up a towel. Vanity: it goes first for his hair. As he rubs it about his head he half-turns to eye Ch'dais, who now gets to be the target of the wolf's-teeth grin, an expression camoflauged from the Lady Nerat by the towel's tails curtaining his face.
"I..." Valandys fetches up there, showing the first glint of awkwardness as she struggles to find an answer that won't reflect badly on the Lady asking all of the questions. "I apologize, madam," she eventually decides on, sinking into a proper curtsey with the long handle of the scrub-brush rising up beside her like a spear. "It isn't for those like me to have aspirations. Beyond..." She hesitates again, and this time her gaze steals towards Ch'dais before returning to Nessila. On that return, it sweeps over R'vain; his smile is noted, and her lips are pressed into a prim line. "My family serves, madam. We serve well, and my manners are sufficient for that purpose." Arinth saves her the trouble of further reply by stirring as he does, passing between her and the lounging noblewoman. The time bought allows Valandys to rise and quietly step past Ch'dais to return the brush to its rack.
Nessila seems that she is well settled, but her own repose is short lived, as a rather flustered looking messenger girl - a maid of some description - comes in and finds her quickly. A message is delivered to the effect that Lady Sian requests her attendance to discuss a certain matter as soon as possible. That said, Nessila packs her things up and wipes her legs down before rising "I am sorry I must leave you. But do consider the offer anyway, young lady. It can hardly hurt." She nods politely before gliding away to attend on the Lady Regent.
Nessila has left.
Ch'dais watches Lady Nerat make her exit, lips half-parted on words that can't be framed in any way quite right for her spectacle. To judge from the drawn set of his brow, they wouldn't have been kind words. But as Arinth lumbers past, interposing first the shadow of his haunch and then the pyrite slither of his ridged tail, the bronzerider's view is cleared sufficiently to glimpse R'vain's smirk in the corner of his eye. Ch'dais' jaw tenses. The glance he returns from beneath the serpent-strands of his braids is not anger, although there is that; it isn't concern, but that, too, may be seen. It's an eddy of grim recognition, grey-green, awareness that the Weyrlingmaster has found, in his own way, a chink in the armor. And then he looks to her, resettling her long brush. He collects jacket and bright scarves, strides to take Valandys gently by the elbow. "Thank you for helping, Ys, but you should be back to your studies," he intones, a little too quickly. And then, raising his voice for the other man, "R'vain. You smell better." It's a farewell of sorts.
It might be expected that Valandys would be somewhat subdued but her composure is quickly recovered. Calm is a formidable armor. After replacing the brush in the rack, she turns just in time to find her elbow swallowed by Ch'dais' large hand, and though he's gentle the suddenness of it causes her to slowly blink up at him. "It's alright," she tells him quietly, beneath the rumble of his compliment to R'vain. "It is what I am, and what she is." Her smile seeks to fill the last chink, to smooth over any lingering ruffled feelings even as she reaches out to take the bundle of scarves and bracelets from his other hand. Having them to unwrap and slip on, to rearrange along her arms and shoulders and head, give her something to focus on while trying to avoid looking at R'vain. There's a stiffness to her posture now though, and haste in the steps that carry her in Arinth's wake, at Ch'dais' side, out of the heat of the baths and into the drizzle of the spring day.
While R'vain's eyes remain sharp upon the other bronzerider and his smirk stays all too keen, he raises his own voice just enough to make it clear that it's the Caucus student to whom he speaks. "I'm certain the Lady means no harm. Surely she knows no way but that to which she was bred." Bred: like a runner. The Weyrlingmaster leaves off at last his knowing focus on Ch'dais and turns to climb up out of the water, flipping the towel artfully from head to hips to become a wrap there. A few moments more finds him dressing, blithe and self-satisfied, even humming a little beneath his breath.