Log: Nabol's Harvest Festival

[milaninc]

Who: Ajatha, Anvori, Carobet, I'stark, L'vae, Leova, Milani, Persie, Rorkes, Ulestien, Whitchek, NPCs by Leova: Nealla and Peach-Skirt
When: Afternoon, 10/22/19
Where: Orchards, Nabol Hold
What: Apple picking and other merriment at Nabol's Harvest Festival



Orchards, Nabol Hold(#1216RJ)
Situated near the main Hold, down a gentle slope in an insulated valley lies Nabol's vast fruit orchards. Apple trees dominate the landscape, though sections, delineated by sturdy wooden fences, are portioned out for plums, peaches, cherries, and pears. Dark, fertilized earth is well tended and cared for beneath the trees, while the free space of grassy knolls roll downward into the orchards. In the distance is an apple refinery, where overripe fruits are sent to be pressed into ciders, both hard and not.
The apple harvest is in full swing, large baskets placed at intervals along the fences and throughout the acres of apple trees. Carts line the entrance to the apple orchards, some meant to travel up to the refinery, while others return to the main hold. The colors in the orchard are changing from green to the warmth of autumnal reds, oranges, and gold.
The sky is clear today. The air remains cool and damp, but the weather is overall pleasant today.

The day is sunny and cool but pleasant with a little breeze winding through the leaves. There's some dampness on the ground from recent rainfall, but it's drying out under the effects of the sun. Music lilts through the air from up nearer the Hold and the scent of food cooking wafts as well, though down here amongst the trees, the sweetness of fresh and rotting fruit both dominate. There's candidates and residents from the Weyr spreading out under the trees already looking for fruit to gather.

A bluerider deposits a gaggle of candidates off near the orchard, and Carobet is among them. Gone are the ugly work clothes that so plagued her just this morning. She's in her element, in one of her nicest dresses, her hair let loose again around her shoulders. It takes mere moments of her being on the ground, and she's got a glass of cider and a freshly-picked apple, one in either hand. She pauses under an apple tree, taking in the sights and smells and-- *crunch*. That's a tasty apple.

Standing near a large barrel, Milani is pouring fruit from her apron into the barrel itself. She looks up as that dragon lands and waves energetically towards the rider, cups one hand around her mouth as the last of the fruit falls into the barrel. "Thanks so much!" she calls over and then waves the candidates over. "Over this way!"

Among the gaggle of candidates, Lest is looking about idly as they land. It's when Milani calls does he start to venture over that way. He tucks his hands in his pockets and hums idly as he walks. And, he's taking his time getting over towards the Headwoman.

The soft thump of the sound of shoes hitting the ground next fills the air with a light swish of skirts getting smoothed as Ajatha alights from her seat atop the dragon that carried them over and turns her head toward the call with a clack of those ever-present beads in her hair. Fresh as a newly-opened flower, her skirt flutters just a little in the grasp of the breeze around her legs, all modest and everything else good in life while her toes turn that way to catch up to Lest and amble at his side over toward the barrels. Leisurely, watch the activity around them.

Carobet gathers with the rest of the candidates near Milani, finding herself somewhere among the middle of the group. Suddenly worried that she'd helped herself too early to the fruit, she makes quick work of that apple, dropping the core to the ground and stepping on it with the sole of her shoe. "Lovely day for the festival, isn't it?" She muses to the candidate beside her, a short brunette. La la la.

"Oh it's really great, yes," Milani says with a beam around at the environs and the good weather. "All right, candidates, you owe me twenty apples off the ground before you get to go up to the hold for all the fun," she notes chipperly. "Shouldn't take too long!"

Ulestien tilts his head towards Ajatha as she joins him and he grins in her direction before continuing at his slow paced walk. A glance towards Carobet before he's looking Milani again. "Twenty.. Just picking them up and tossing them somewhere?" He asks, brows lifting slightly.

Ajatha cants her head with a lazy wink at Lest and tosses her head just a fraction to get her hair from clonging to her shoulders, flipping it behind her absently. Drawing up, she lets a wry grin span her mouth. "Probably into a basket, or an apron, then the barrel. Not somewhere, if 'somewhere' is the ground. Twenty isn't so bad."

With one arm crossed over his chest and the other attached securely to a mug of hot apple cider, the non-child friendly kind, Anvori watches the spectacle below his perch. How he managed to get up a tree without spilling his drink is a feat to be admired, but there he is, with his legs dangling and those avid hazel eyes fixed first to Milani and then the candidates she directs. It's with bemusement that he watches Carobet bite and then drop her apple, as if the tell-tale missing piece wouldn't indicate /someone/ having enjoyed too early and then drifts to find Ulestien and Ajatha. "Or," he offers, "Toss them up to me and I'll find a sure place to put them." All twenty times however many candidates' apples. Pity, they aren't cherries.

As she crushes the apple core beneath her foot, Carobet looks down at the shoes she's donned for the day. /Nice/ shoes. Not apple-gathering shoes. Oh, conundrum. She slips them off her feet, hooking each by a finger in one hand. Hearing a familiar voice, she turns around towards Anvori in his perch. "Toss them up? And where should we aim?" Ten points for the drink, fifty for the bartender!

"Knock me out of the tree," begins Anvori, his tenor pitched low with the tease laden within matching the crinkles about his smiling eyes, "And there could be a reward." But how can a tiny little apple knock a grown man out of a tree? Right? Smug in the knowledge that he's offered the impossible, the barkeep stretches his arms back, mug and all, with his legs carefully hooked about the branch: wouldn't do to just fall out and make it easy.

Ulestien grins at Ajatha, "what, we'd pick them up and drop them?" He asks, shaking his head at her with amusement. When Anvori offers and he grins, more so as Carobet asks her questions of him. "Try not to hit him in the head, I imagine..." He trails off, "or not." And now, the man begins looking for an apple that can knock the other man from the tree.

Tapping on the edge of the barrel, Milani winks at Lest. "You have to come put them in here and they have to be /usable/ fruit, so they can have blemishes, but like, no worms, no big bruises and not eaten," the headwoman instructs with a nod for Ajatha's correct guess. Anvori's voice makes her head swivel though and she smiles up at the bartender-up-a-tree. "Hey there, Anvori!" she says brightly. "You can't have all the apples, but some of them will probably come bar-wards as cider!"

Ajatha purses her mouth with a sideglance up at the fellow bartender. "A reward, huh? Would that be a spiked drink when we were least expecting it, back at the Weyr?" She does consider him and then the branches of his purch at length, calculation flashing ever so briefly in her eyes. "Find a good, stout apple, right for the head. Bet Iszy could knock him out, after a few hard apples to the head." There's a pause that stills her head half way in it's tip to the side, a quick thought drawing an innocent little grin to her mouth as she leans to murmur to Ulestien.

Ajatha mutters to Ulestien, "... sauce... at..."

Carobet ventures out beneath the apple trees, eyes looking out for usable fruit, bare feet nearly tiptoeing over the ground. And, aha, there's a nice one! She picks it up, hefting it in one hand, and grins mischievously back towards her fellow candidates. And she aims: not for Anvori's head, but just above it and to the right. Her strategy? Try to get him to grab for it, and upset his balance that way.

Ulestien grins at Milani and nods. "Right, ma'am... Right after I knock him out." Because Anvori offered. Jathi earns a nod of agreement. "Nice firm one, yup." But her whispered comment has him laughing. "Go find one and I'll see if I can get him with it." A nice apple is found. And instead of gathering, he's chucking it right at Anvori.

Milani sticks by the barrel as the others go-awandering though her hand lifts to her mouth as they start looking to knock Anvori out of the tree. "Oh shells, well if it's not one thing it's another," the headwoman says with a little shake of her head and a look upward at the bartender, brows lifted. For her part, Millie's bending to pick up an apple that dropped near her feet to put into the barrel. The cool, crisp air and the sunshine make it a nice autumn afternoon with music filtering down from the hold along with the scent of food cooking. Earlier candidate arrivals will know that they owe Millie twenty apples in the barrel before they can join the party.

For Ajatha there's that turn of his head, dry humor deepening those crinkles as his eyes all-but disappear. "And woe to the Weyr with no more Snowasis if my head gets anymore damaged than it already has. Four brothers. Older. Bigger. And I've still alive! You'll have to do better than that." Anvori's preoccupation with responding to Ajatha causes him to miss the apple that zips past his stretched right arm until it's too late and instead of him /grabbing/ for it, it happens to glance near his hand and knocks the cider out of it. Mournful eyes watches the mug and cider tumble to shower the ground and then turn wide and reproachful at Carobet. "Snugglebunny. Did you /really/ have to do that? That was good hard cider."

Just one? No, Ajatha's hunt turns up what happens to be two of those special kinds of ammo: not-so-bright appleflesh that disappears in the crook of her arm. Bending for another, she straightens with a narrow-eyed smirk up at Anvori. "Oh, threatening woe to us, if we do bonk one off your head hard enough to do that, and then saying we can't, all in the same sentence. My, my. Just asking for it now, aren't you." Returning to Lest's side, she passes off one of the apples, those juicy, not-so-red ones. Her own's taken up in a careful finger-wrapping grasp with a half-narrow of an eye for aim. Letting it fly, there's power - she -does- have a great arm - and it's headed right for the tree trunk - half an inch above Anvori's head.

Ten points! Carobet looks quite pleased with herself as she watches the cider tumble, but at the words "good hard cider," her expression turns mournful to match. That /was/ good cider, come to think of it. "I'm sorry," she says up to Anvoti-in-a-tree. "I didn't mean to." Which is true, she meant to see him tumble out of the tree completely. As Ajatha lets her apple loose, she raises her eyebrows, impressed. "Nice one!" And there are apples still to be gathered, so her eyes turn back towards the ground. There's one! Two!

Threatening? Those puppy eyes turn from Carobet to Ajatha, the latter candidate's words enough to elicit a low chuckle from the Snowasis' proprietor. "Doll. If you hit my head and knock me out of the tree, who'll put in the orders for our home within a home and keep the drunkards inebrieted? Or unload the dragons in the morning or mix you such appealing drinks if my head's irreparably damaged? I'm just thinking about how all of you will suffer through a winter without liquor." With a half inch above his head, he doesn't even have to duck, and without the mug of cider he's aiming to protect, it's an easy reach for him to catch it. "Thanks!"
Anvori did that.

"And if you want to replace his cider, Carobet, pick up apples faster so you can head up to the Hold and buy him a new mug," Milani calls over teasingly as she leans back against the barrel, arms folded to observe the hijinks. "He does have a point about the drinks. He's responsible for my liquid breakfast days!" Big eyes. More kidding around.

No bartender, no drinks. As limited in her consumption as she might be for the moment, that's an, er, sobering thought for Carobet. And so with a final, badly-aimed apple that purposefully grazes Anvori's leg, she's off to focus on gathering those eighteen more apples. Seventeen! Sixteen! "Yes, ma'am!" She calls to Milani, as much laughter in her expression and voice as there is in the headwoman's.

Too bad the one Ajatha flung is a rotten one. Probably selected purposefully, just to see it get messy up there. And he catches it. Oh, poo. She bares her teeth in a wide smile, nonetheless, and lifts her slim shoulders in a lazy shrug. "Oh, I can -always- have someone return to Ista for me. The Sandbar takes care of its best bartenders, y'know. All I gotta do is wait a few hours." The non-rotten ones she's plucked can go in the barrel, so there's at least four!

"I thought Kip was the Sandbar's best bartender?" Milani quips over Ajatha's way, toe nudging at a little hussock of grass near her foot. She waves as Carobet heads off after more apples and tilts a look over at LEst. "Found any good ones yet, Lest?"

"Then go," is Anvori's simple response to Ajatha; all smiles despite the rotten apple now in his hand. "Ista's welcome to you, miss." But without the mindhealer to torment, Anvori tires of having apples chucked at his head and it's an easy swing down, particularly once he's tossed the rotten apple towards Ajatha's head in a lazy arc while she's busy putting her non-rotten ones into the barrel. "Hey, red," is his greeting finally called to the Headwoman, long, leisurely strides gaping the distance between him and Milani.

Ulestien is grinning at Ajatha, tsking as she hands him that nasty apple. But, Anvori jumps down and he's tossing aside the rotten apple then going about his search for /good/ apples. Away from Ajatha should she get hit with that rotten one. Ick. "Nothing too good." He shrugs, but, maybe he's not looking /that/ hard.

"Best bartenders, plural," Ajatha tosses back with a beam at Milani and plucks up another few apples, though as she straighens to drop more of them into the barrel, she turns just in time to utter a deliberate, laughing yelp and duck that lobbed apple sailing for her head. "Go? Me? No, no. Just for the alcohol at the Sandbar. I think I might stick around here a little longer. Family, and all that lot, y'know." Straightening again, she's eyeing after Lest, the traitor, and ambling back toward more of the fruit on the ground.

"Hey hot stuff," Milani greets the bartender as he strolls near, very obviously admiring that leisurely stride of his. "Barrel's about half-full, might actually have a whole one just for the Snowasis if they keep it up," she says with a nod towards the candidates and a ready smile for Anvori as he nears. "Keep looking!" she encourages Ulestien though with a thumbs up. "I do like to go down there for drinks, but visiting Anvori for one of his specialties is definitely my favorite," the headwoman claims.

Anvori, ever helpful, takes a detour on his way to Milani, his quiet steps stopping just by a slightly muddy, but otherwise seemingly perfect apple. Though he could surely reach down and pick it up himself, he calls out, "There's one here," a beat passes, his dark head cocked to Milani in efforts to recall a name, "Lest. Lest?" His ever-so-adult-like duty done, with hands to hips, he turns to regard the Headwoman and flashes a quicksilvered smile up across at her. "You have to be truly Reachian to get one of my drinks these days though."

Ulestien shoots Jathi a teasing grin, but continues his apple search. "Will do, ma'am." Towards Milani and he offers her a smile as well. And then Anvori is offering an apple. So, he meanders over and picks it up, and then slowly he's looking it over. Then, he moves to put into the bucket. "Thanks." For Anvori. To the next one!

"I am nothing if not /truly/ Reachian," Milani quips back Anvori's way, tilting her head to the side just a little, hands dropping back to prop on the barrel's edge. "Save me a dance for later, Anvori?" she requests lightly.

Ajatha glances over, too, toward Lest as everyone's attention focuses on him for the moment with a shake of her head. "Lest wouldn't find a runner, if it was coming straight at him, sometimes. Remembering one of your books in your mind, Lest?"

Whitchek has been here the whole time, really. Honest. It probably helps that he's making a real effort to keep a low profile here. Of course, there's apple-gathering to be done, but for some reason he seems to spend more time looking around like a hunted creature than actually gathering or socializing or anything else.

Ulestien gives Jathi a look. "Are you sure you don't mean one of the others? Betegal? Whitchek?" A shake of his head and he's rolling his eyes at the other candidate." Oop, there's Whitchek and he goes to find that next apple, one is found and he looks it over. It's clean and he pops it into another barrel!

Ajatha makes a face at Lest. "Actually. True for most of you boys, though it's certainly not a book that would occupy their minds - unless it was fear of Tiriana's throwing on at them, in Bet's case. Whit's.. Who knows." Whit? Wherewhowhat? Plucking at her skirts, she sidesteps around a muddy place and gives a little... hop over another, in order to snap up an apple.

Coming back from the far side of the orchard with two apples in hand for Milani's barrel, Whitchek is just close enough to catch his name, looking around wildly for a moment--and then spying where it came from, noticing that it was candidates and not strangers, and ambling in that direction. "I'm what?" he asks, aggressively casual, that determined sort of 'I'm really not that curious what you're saying about me' kind of air.

"Thank you, Whitchek," Milani addresses the arriving candidate with a smile. "Everything okay over in the far reaches of orchard land?" she quips with merry humor to him, though she hasn't left off her leaning position against the edge of the barrel. She shoots a curious look towards the other two candidates then leans closer to Whit. "Something about Tiriana?"
.
Anvori's return is marked with two baskets of food. His departure? Well, it was earlier, ill-timed, with a quick smile of acknowledgement for Milani's request. But otherwise, it went, hopefully, unnoticed. "Victuals for the hard working candidates." Corn on the cob, beef and vegetable pasties, and a thermos of something steaming. Is it alcoholic or not? Is it soup or a drink? Oh the possibilities.

Ajatha straightens up at the sound of Whitchek's voice and eyes him up and down. "You're.. you." And that is saying something. "Oh, Tiriana came into the barracks one night and made a big bluster about us not impressing her. And that if we don't impress her, that we wouldn't do an egg touching. Lest was reading, and she swiped the book and threw it at Betegal. He didn't like it so much. He ran off."

Ulestien grins, waving towards Whitchek before he's finding another apple. "Yeah, I don't think we impressed her much, either." A glance towards Jathi and he wrinkles his nose. "I do not have books on my mind all the time, mind you." And another apple is plucked up and settled into the barrels.

"Aren't you just the most thoughtful?" Milani directs towards Anvori as he returns and hikes he brows at Ajatha. "Really? Well, Tiriana can be a little temperamental," Millie has to agree, head nodding a couple of times. "Generally speaking it's a good idea to be very polite and keep your head down around the Weyrwoman."

"I don't think there's anything we could do to impress her," Whitchek opines, then giving Ajatha a sort of sidewards look: "Well, yes. I'd hope so. Is someone wandering around pretending to be me?" Maybe that wouldn't be a bad thing. Maybe then whoever he's afraid of would seize on this false-Whitchek and the day would be saved. "I think she works okay if you just sort of... let it go. If you make a fuss, she makes a fuss. She makes a fuss anyway, but if you don't let it bother you, it passes." Maybe he has learned somethign after all.

"If not books, then girls," Ajatha compromises with Lest halfways and takes up a lean against a tree trunk. "No, I rather think we didn't. 'Specially since she kinda left abruptly. Guess we'll see." She doesn't even smile there, though she does arch a look at Whit. "Shells, but I hope not. One of you is enough to deal with. Two would be just plain nuts."

"That's actually very, very smart," Whitcheck, Milani tells the candidate with a nod. "A lot of Tiriana's attitude is just fuss, exactly," she smiles at him again, pushes away from the barrel to wander up the line of trees a little. "That way you definitely don't get books launched at your head." There's a barrel of apples standing under a tree and candidates keep bringing more and more over to fill it. An instruction went out earlier that twenty apples were to be paid by candidates into the barrel before they can go up to the Hold where music plays and food is readily available, the smell of pies currently wafts through the trees.

Lips pressed thin for a moment--"I don't know about definitely. Probably, at least." Whitchek is not willing to go so far as to say Tiriana *definitely* won't do anything, especially when it comes to assault. Ajatha's comment is barely paid any attention at all, and he wanders back out to hunt down more apples.

The picnic baskets of food are set beneath a shady tree, and after opening the tops to procure himself a leg of fried chicken and a wrapped corn cob, Anvori straightens to make his way towards the Headwoman. "Sorry about that earlier," he imparts lowly to the red head. "Trade talk, y'know. There's apparently a Hold secret recipe for the hard cider they brew here." And of course chasing a pretty skirt into the main hold will make answers flow readily; though not so readily for that pretty-faced mournful look he gives Milani. "Chicken? Corn? Either or."

"Here, let me..." Sounding a couple of rows over, L'vae's voice trails off as he reaches fingers out to pluck a leafy twig from pale blonde hair. "I don't think we were supposed to bring half the tree along," he adds laughingly while holding up the mini-branch in front of his grin for inspection. Not that he's done any better. Sure, there are apples in the basket slung over one arm, but is almost seems as if there are more leaves in his hair. Additionally, a leggy bug that he's unknowingly picked up is creeping its way up the back of his shirt.

"You just want me to bite into your cob," Milani teases Anvori with a wink, and aims to steal the chicken leg from him, face mischievous. "And well, okay, maybe not /definitely, but --" But Whit's ducking after more apples. "I'm going for pie after we're done here," she notes with a little gesture around the area, "and I still need an answer about that dance I was asking for."

Anvori, holdbred good boy that he is, has the grace to feign a blush at least, for the benefit of Milani's amusement, but the easy arm that loops about her waist once she steals away the chicken leg paired with the wink-preceded leer says otherwise. Laughing merrily, with only the slightest hug in the form of a one-armed squeeze for her before releasing, the bartender takes one step back and waves the left behind cob in warning at the headwoman. "How do you know my dance card's not already full?" Amusement knits his brows together. "And after a comment like that, why I declare." Making light of the best of Nabolese belles, the dark-haired Tillekian pretends to toss his not so long hair in a huff.

Persie reaches up to her hair like she might be able to help with the extraction of that little branchlet, her mouth open as she smiles and her eyes bright as they watch the twig come into sight. Her focus shifts from the greenery to the man grinning behind it. "Hey, that's my bit of tree. You don't need anymore." One glance at L'vae's head and it's her turn to reach ginger fingers for the leaves in his hair. She tuts at him, adding in wistful sigh for drama's sake. "What would your mother say?"

"Alight, alright," L'vae relents and at first makes to replace the twig into her hair. But he's just playing, and ultimately offers it out to Persie as if it were a fine sprig of flowers instead of just a little bit of branch and leaf. He tips his head a little so she might more easily de-foliage him. "She would probably get after Ralli for teaching me bad habits," the brownrider muses, "spending all that time with those dirty trees." It's the belle-of-the-ball phrase in a familiar masculine voice that has grayed hazel eyes to the headwoman and bartender by the barrel. For the moment, Lou just offers a grin towards them while leaning further in towards Persie. "Looks like there's food. Are you hungry?"

Chicken duly stolen, Milani takes a bite or two. "Oh, good stuff," she says, leaning into that brief hug with a friendly grin. "That's why I was asking you to save me one," she quips back and giggles at the dramatic impersonation. "Nice," she tells him and then waves as L'vae and Persie approach. "Hey Lou! CHicken!" the leg waved too for that matter and then a nod for Persie. "Persie."

The gleam of Anvori's eyes is one that speaks much of his 'we shall see' and c'est la vie attitude in general. He won't commit to saving that dance, but surely there'll be a dance later for the girl whose cheek he reaches out to tweak. But for now, he's striding away to the beckon of a large man on the other side of the orchards, where crates of apples are being roped together and hauled. Not scrawny, but certainly not the burly orchard workers who do this work on a yearly basis, the Tillekian almost-fisherman is more than happy to help, even if help might be just to hold a rope in place.

Persie takes the spring and twists it between her fingertips. She even tries to add L'vae's bit of leaf to make a bouquet, but it just flutters uselssly to the ground. "Poor Ralli. Now she's getting blamed even when -I'm- the bad influence." But the brownrider is looking toward the crowds, toward the food, and when he leans near, Persie leans in too. "Are we going to sneak up on it? The food?" she wonders in a whisper. After all, he's started it with the leaning, like it's all a covert operation. Her eyes skim past the fare to the headwoman who is giving her that civil nod. "Maybe you should go first." She steps behind L'vae, ready to use him as a human shield, and that's when she lets out a high pitched squeak. She's not the only one behind him.

"It's her lot in life, I'm afraid," L'vae says sadly to that first sentiment, his sympathy for his sister quite ruined by the big smile he's still got on. But, covert! Still leaning, "that way we won't but the candidates onto it before we get there." Wise nod. But for all that, he raises his voice anyway to return Milani's greeting. "Afternoon, Millie. Seems like things are coming along pretty well?" L'vae starts to twist on a heel to double check that that candidates and apples are still streaming steadily towards the large barrel. That's when he really realizes that Persie has moved behind him. Freezing and sending a confused look around and upwards, "what, what is it?"

"See you," Milani says to Anvori brightly as she takes another bite out of that chicken leg which then promptly gets waved around as L'vae approaches and asks that question. "Getting there, barrel's ... nearly three-quarters now. I think that last batch ought to about do it as soon as those candidates are done," the headwoman announces cheerily. Persie's high-pitched squeak earns widened eyes. "Are you okay?" This to the blonde.

Persie reaches to stop L'vae by the back of his shirt. "Don't move," she tells him, even if he's already frozen. She has very important information for him, information that needs to be delivered in a low, quiet, serious voice. "You have a stowaway." Of course, all the low, quiet and serious stuff is somewhat marred by the laugh that follows. "Oh, he's cute, too! Hello there, Mister Buggy. Taking a nice ride? He doesn't look like a bitey kind, L'vae. He looks like a hoppy kind. I think you're safe." But Milani has looked Persie's way and even asked a direct question and so with a nervous inhale, the greenrider answers. "He has a bug."

"Excellent," L'vae replies to Milani while still holding Very. Still. "And we have more, to help get there faster." Okay, the basket he's carrying might get a little swing to punctuate that. But, by this time, the brownrider's brow-furrowed focus has shifted over his shoulder to try and glimpse at what Persie's got there. "Stowaway," he echoingly murmurs, only a little concerned. The curl that tugs faintly at his lip says that he doesn't exactly agree with the greenirder's 'cute' assessment, even if the Mr. Buggy is the hoppy kind. But that inhale of the blonde's manages to trump his squeamishness. Brow knitting further in confusion his focus shifts up to Persie's face, and then turns across to take in Milani.

"A bug?" That makes Milani blink and then she can't help but burst out laughing. "Well then, best help the bug back home right? Because I'm guessing you don't mean he has a cough or a cold," the headwoman says and takes a few steps to peer curiously over L'vae's shoulder at his stowaway. "Think he likes chicken?" this seriously, to Persie.

Persie doesn't notice much of anything for a moment, not Milani's comments or L'vae's attempts to twist and see her face. She's too busy carefully holding the brownrider still by the back of his shirt and attempting to coax Mr Buggy onto that bit of leafy twig she's still holding. "Come on. Just a few more steps," she urges him in a whisper. Success must occur, since she lets go of L'vae. Now she's looking down at the leggy bug. "I don't think he eats chicken," she answers with the shake of her blonde head. "Probably just leaves. And pretty boys." That's for L'vae who's getting a quick, teasing smile. Rather unconsciously, Milani's closeness has the greenrider taking a sideways step away.

When Persie lets go of his shirt, L'vae uses the freedom to shift into a better position in which to view his stowaway. Or maybe he's just trying to get out of being stuck between his two friends, because he's still got a bit of a confused cast to his expression. "That so?" he says with a chuckle to the greenrider's last. "Do you think he'll take it alright, when I have to tell him he's not exactly my type?" A playful wink helps punctuate the question. "Maybe corn?" To Milani, "there's corn, too, isn't there? I thought I saw Anvori brandishing a cob at you." The brownrider lifts up on his toes to peek towards the picnic baskets.

"Ah well, no sharing with the bug then," Milani says with another brandishing of that chicken leg and a smile. "Poor bug, you're turning him down, Lou! And he's got such good legs too!" She nods more seriously though, either ignoring the subtle tension in Persie or not aware of it. "Corn on the cob and other yummy treats. Come have some?"

Persie holds the twig and bug out for L'vae to get a better look. "I bet he's too small to have very big feelings. He'll probably be happy just to be friends. Do you think he'll hang out with us or is he gonna hop away? It might be sort of fun to keep him. Maybe have a little glass jar or something. Though I suppose he'd be sad and die." Her lip catches in her teeth and she glances toward the headwoman. Corn? Persie nods. "Okay." Her eyes dart toward L'vae, though, checking for something.

"Yes, and so... many of them," is L'vae's tenuously positive response to Millie's admiring of Mr. Buggy's gams. He tries not to lean away too noticeably when the greenrider holds the little guy up on his twiggy perch. "Well, if he just wants to hang out," the brownrider notes acceptingly. And as for keeping, "I can't imagine he would like a trip between very much. Besides, he probably has family..." somewhere out here, says a wave of his hand. Lou is moving again, his grayed hazel gaze lingering on Persie even as he's answering Milani's invitation. "Love to. Yes?" Smiling, back to Millie, "just going to drop these off." The basket is lifted again in emphasis. And the bucket is on the way, really, so he starts off in that direction to dump out the apples before heading for those picnic baskets to see what he can find.

"Probably happy enough to head on out," Milani says with a grin for Persie. "Though you know, buggy-the-pet, kind of has a ring to it." Her head tilts towards the baskets under the tree. "Over there, if you're hungry. There's no plates though." As L'vae moves towards the barrel of apples, Millie sweeps a gesture with her chicken-leg-holding-hand. "C'mon, Persie."

Persie does a poor job of hiding the distress that flickers over her face when L'vae moves off with his basket of apples. Her eyes are still on his back even as her feet obediently start to follow Milani. "I shouldn't just put him down here. The bug." With her teeth pinching her lip and her shoulders rolling awkwardly against the tension, she keeps her focus on her new little friend. "I wouldn't want him to get trampled or something. I probably can't take him home with me. I think L'vae is right about going between with him."

"No plates?" The playfully horrified phrase is called back over his shoulder as L'vae walks off. Apples in bucket? Check. Basket left to benefit any candidates who may wish to use it? Also check. But then, he almost trips over one of the smaller girls as he turns away. It'll take a moment more over here making smiling apology before the brownrider can make it back over to the greenrider and the headwoman.

"Maybe in that tree there?" Milani suggests to Persie, trying to make her voice as reassuring and non-threatening as possible. "Here you go, chicken, corn on the cob, beef and vegetable pies and I think there's cookies too." She pops open basket lids and pokes around a little, looks up at L'vae as he draws near and smiles. "What suits, Lou?"

Persie swallows and she lifts her pointy chin a little higher. "Corn on the cob sounds good. Isn't it a little late in the season?" The twig, with the bug, gets tucked delicately behind her ear and she brushes her hands off on her trouses before reaching for a piece of that corn. For all that she's trying not to inspire reassuring, non-threatening tones, there's a wariness that's still in her eyes, a bit of 'help me' when she looks at L'vae.

"Mm," L'vae steps up and leans over the open baskets to peer inside. "I do like cookies! But I think corn on the cob for me, too." And so right after Persie, he reaches in to fish a cob out for himself. Smile twitching a bit under that look of the greenrider's. Fingers splaying out, he maneuvers it carefully between thumbs and forefingers to angle for a bite. "So," he starts, bright gaze shifting between the blonde and redhead. "Think we're going to have any trouble with this lot of candidates tonight? Any of them seem prone to drink too much cider? I don't remember anyone getting too wild from the group we had that last time. Right?" Brows go up - because one of them would surely know better than him.

"Not really, still harvest time," Milani says with a grin and angles the basket for both green and brownriders. "Probably a couple, actually," Millie says about the candidates and looks around through the trees. "But it's all right. They'll just pay for it bad heads in the morning and I'll be sympathetic and give them tea and still send them off to chores," she says with a wink. "And last group ... hmm P'ax and Kas maybe."

"At least it's cider and not... whiskey or something, right?" Persie puts on a smile, it even seems to be relaxing a little. At least until she squeals and starts frantically trying to pull the twig out from behind her ear. "Oh! Oh oh! I'm not a leaf!" She stands there, holding the twig in one hand, the corn in the other, blinking at Milani and L'vae. "It bit me," she says in disbelief.

L'vae tsks. "You're too nice, Millie. You should give them no tea and make them go clean the big bangy pots in the kitchens, or something." He takes a careful nibble of his corn, nodding concession to Persie's first point. "I don't remember those two do..." but his musing is cut off by the greenrider's squeal. Like a true gallant knight he - well, no, he takes a wary step back. "/Bit/ you?" Consternation lines his features as he tilts a scanning look to the ear the twig was behind. "Where'd he go? Is he in your hair?"

"Whiskey ... maybe up at the -- wha!" As Perise squeals and bats at the wig. "It did? Oh no!" Milani reaches forward, counter to L'vae's step back to try to help out either by removing the twig or the bug. "Um ... no, no bangy pots. I mean if the eggs rock that wouldn't be much good for the candidates."

The bug, it seems, is still on the stick, but Persie is turning her head to display her ear to Milani's helpful attention. "You can't see anything can you? Right on the top of my ear?" There's nothing there, of course. Just ear. And she looks past the headwoman to that scaredy-cat brownrider. "Your bug is mean." Now it's -his- bug. Persie's two-cents on the candidate chores? "If they're hungover you should just make them clean the latrines."

"They won't likely rock tomorrow," L'vae point out, even as his nose is wrinkled up and he's squintingly still scanning for Mr. Buggy. "Oh, no, wait, there he is." His usual pointing fingers are occupied with corn, so he uses a pinky instead. "On the stick." Helpless, "I'm sorry." About 'his' mean bug. "But latrines. There's an idea. At least when they get sick," /when/, "they'll already be cleaning up." Bright side!

"Nothing there, Persie, so as long as Buggy-man isn't hanging out in your hair, you should be fine," Millie reassures. "Might want to put that stick down though, just in case." The shadows are starting to get a little long under the trees and the barrel is filling up. "And I'd save the latrines for the seven /after/ the hangover," the headwoman adds laughingly. "They're about done down here, just need to have the brawny men haul the barrels in and we can all go you know, do something more civilized, like dance!"

"I think that maybe I should go put this bug in a tree like you said," Persie decides, twisting the twig again to make that poor bug spin around and around. Meanwhile, she also takes a bite of her corn. "I'll see you guys later, alright?" she says around the mouthful, waving with her cob. "And hopefully there won't be any hungover candidates and you won't have to worry about punishing anyone at all." She nods once to herself and then smiles uneasily at Milani and L'vae in turn before she's off to deal with her bug problem.

"Maybe that's best," L'vae agrees with the greenrider, nodding. "Catch up with you back at the Hold, Persie!" He frees one hand to give her a proper wave, returning her uneasy smile with an encouraging one. He waits a minute, nibbling some more kernels off the cob, before turning a quizzical look back to Milani. He takes a breath. Stops. Smiles. "It sounds like it'd be a good time to go pick up Malton, if everyone's going to be heading up to the party soon." Another pause, while he wavers back to questioning, "is it just me, or was Persie...?"

"Okay, Persie," Milani says with another reassuring smile. "Just don't let him bite you again." Millie watches the greenrider off, then turns slightly towards L'vae. "Oh yes, definitely. That must be going well then?" The headwoman asks with an eager spark in her eyes. That last question though nudges the edge off her smile a little. "Mm. She was. A'son ... " she says lightly as a single word explanation.

"Think so," L'vae replies brightly, trying hard not to grin too big. Too much danger of food in teeth, not pretty. But the last, it puts a small furrow in his brow as he glances off after Persie. "What?" The single word, the name, isn't enough for things to be immediately clear. "Are they friends, or..." but, catching up, grayed hazel eyes shift back to Milani. "Oh." His mouth pulls a little to one side. More gently, "are they? That would make sense, then."

Munching on the rest of her chicken leg, Milani gets most of the meat off while L'vae is talking. There's a deliberate lob of the bone into a pile of leaves. Good compost you know and she reaches into one of the baskets for a napkin to wipe off her hands. "I haven't asked Ays lately," the headwoman says calmly enough, "but it seems likely."

L'vae has no good reply, so just settles for a big sighing breath. "Well." He tries adding a smile. "I should get going, so I can get back. Do you think?" He points with his pinky to that basket. "I could steal one of those napkins?" Because he's not quite done with his corn yet, and apparently intends to take it with him. "I promise I'll get it back to the Weyr."

Milani laughs and passes L'vae one of those napkins, nods. "Here, it's from the /Hold/ though so just drop it up at the Gather when you come back," the headwoman notes to the brownrider and leans over to kiss his cheek gently. "Go and come back quick. I want to meet this infamous harper of yours. And I want some dancing."

"Oh," L'vae replies sheepishly as he takes the napkin. "Well, that's easy enough." There's a moment of juggling, where he's balancing corn cob and leaning to accept that kiss and dabbing the napkin at his mouth before aiming his own friendly smooch at Millie's cheek. "Yes, ma'am," the brownrider says happily. And, gallantly, "there /will/ be dancing." The flutter of the napkin makes his bow that much more of a spectacle. And with that, he takes off through the trees heading for his rangy brown.

Whitchek has been barely-visible today, except occasionally as an anxious face appearing now and then in the milling people going here and there. Not exactly a celebratory presence by anybody's definition of the word. But now he emerges again, if only because food is a sort of necessary evil, picking about for something to eat and... quite possibly talking to himself, if not loud enough to actually overhear.

The baskets are still there with a dwindling supply of fried chicken, corn on the cob and beef and veggie pasties. There's hot cider in the thermos but that's almost gone and Milani is consolidating items from basket to basket for the trek back up to the Hold as more and more candidates leave the area having gotten their twenty in and headed up to the party.

As Milani goes to put things away, Whitchek pulls them out again--but barely anything, compared to his usual eating habits, which is to say only a couple of those pasties. "I think I might head back, if I can find a ride," he says, offhanded. "Do you know anybody who might be leaving soon?" Of course, having perhaps just missed someone who was. "I know it's early, but--"

Looking up, Milani seems vaguely amused by those removed items and pauses for a moment, upending one now-empty basket to let the crumbs fall out. "Already? But Whitchek, there's going to be dancing and bobbing for apples and a hayride," the headwoman says gently and tips her head to the side a little, regarding him closely. "L'vae just left to go to Harper a little bit ago. Hmm, P'zel might be heading off with some of the younger candidates who're tired."

"I'm not much of a dancer," says Whitchek, taking a bite out of one of the pasties, chewing in lieu of having to say more than that right away. "Or an apple-bobber. Or..." He trails off, but one gets the idea. "But definitely not a dancer. And these kinds of things always make ne anxious." Although this seems to be a level of anxiety outstripping, say, the clutching party.

"Mm, but you could be a sitter, on a wagon?" Milani suggests mildly though there's a twinkle of teasing in her eyes. "Do you like to people-watch at all?" she asks next from her spot by the food baskets under a tree. The shadows are starting to grow long as the afternoon winds down and more people drift up to the dancing square or to line up to take the hayride around the fields. "Anxious. Because of the weight of expectation or jus t... a lot of people?"

Whitchek has snagged a repast from the baskets in the middle of the packing-up and sits down with it at last, with a healthy distance between him and the headwoman. "Sitting I can do, but I don't find hay especially exciting." He pauses for just a moment. "Expectation? I don't know about that. It's just a lot of folks." Another glance around. "And stuff going on that--" That he probably doesn't want to know about, even at a place like this.

Milani tucks two of the baskets closer together, stacks the first and second into each other, then sits down, legs folded beneath her tailor style and shoes doffed, set aside. The headwoman's hands drop atop her knees and she fixes Whitchek with a curious look. "I know other people who aren't really into big crowds. But. Stuff. Like?"

Some folks, maybe not the same folks as mentioned earlier, wander down arm in arm from the Hold: a gaggle of girls in their next-to-nicest skirts, and boys that might be the brothers and cousins of some and persons-of-interest of others. But before they get to the dancing part of the entertainment, there's gawking to be had like there is every Turn, at the visitors from the Weyr that just might wear or say or even /do/ something scandalous enough to add to the winter's store of gossip.

Whitchek's look says that 'stuff' probably includes even so much as headwomen with their shoes off, but he very properly keeps his eyes turned after that in the opposite direction. Chewing. Chewing is a great distraction from having to say things. "Immoral behavior," he settles on, as an answer goes. Looking away, he does manage to catch sight of some of the gawkers... which means looking back to Milani again so that his face is turned away. "You know."

At least it's autumn so Milani's not wearing short shorts. Just you know, regular old pants. For apple picking. Those bare feet though, one is tucked under the opposite leg, the other finds a home in the crook of her knee, lotus-style. Flexible kinda. "Immoral behavior," she echoes very solemnly, nodding a few times. "So ... you mean, drunkenness and making out in dark corners, and possibly, even sex-against-a-wagon?" Innocent blinking. Like Milani has /never/ of course, /never/ done any of these things.

Autumn or no, I'stark is dressed in clothing which is ripped here and there, as if he's been out, somewhere, having a wrestling match with a sticker bush, and broad swaths of his torso are visible, along with more than one gash, which has only recently stopped bleeding. And he's dirty. Looks like the sticker bush may have had a firm rooting in dirt which was only happy to join in the fray. Indeed, it is dirt that the bronzerider's wiping from his face with a piece of his ragged tunic that he's just now ripped off for that express purpose. He stops a reasonable distance away from the others who are here, and considers them briefly before his stark, blue gaze is pulled to the refinery in the distance, and he narrows those eyes, muttering something to himself.

The group slows further, in fits and starts, looking and looking and giggling on the side, that last mostly the girls. Mostly. I'stark with all his ripped clothes and bleeding distracts more than the young-man-looking-away, and there's a pause for genuine gawking and a wave or two.

Cheeks and ears go a bit red, but Whitchek manages to nod respectably. "Exactly those sorts of things," he tells Milani. "People sneaking off, and... all sorts of disreputable behavior." He clears his throat and then takes another bite, notices the very tall bronzerider but, without recognizing, doesn't make any move to greet just yet. Let the Holder kids pay their attention there, don't draw any of it this direction.

"Sneaking off. Right. So ... running back to the Weyr, is that just /leaving/ or sneaking off?" Milani asks quite seriously and rummages in the nearest basket for a stray cookie to munch on. No really. She's quite serious. There's giggling though and some waving and the headwoman beams, lifts a hand and waves. "Hi there! Cookies?" she offers to the young ladies then her head goes a-tilting at I'stark. "Good gracious me, I'stark. Whatever happened to you? Fall into a bush?"

"I was dumped into one, but... yes..." I'stark looks down, wiping futilely at a bloody little streak on his abdomen, noting as he does, "Tekarath decided I wanted to show up here for whatever reason. So he ah..." his smile is barely wry as he looks up, pocketing the filthy scrap of cloth, "....dropped me off. He doesn't believe in subtlety. At any rate... does anything need to be carried to wherever whoever is doing whatever?"

For someone who's spent some turns at Nabol, the harvest festival provides an opportunity to catch up with old friends that Rorkes and his family have been taking advantage of most of the day. But now, as it grows later, the harper has strolled away from the majority of the partying to have a quieter conversation with another young woman--sneaking off, in effect. They part awkwardly, with the girl heading back to the party, and Rorkes continuing deeper into the orchard, stopping when he catches on to voices nearish now that his attention is free. "Evening?" he ventures.

Pasties still in each hand, Whitchek maintains to Milani, "Leaving. Not sneaking off by any stretch, or I'd have someone to sneak off with, wouldn't I?" That iron-clad logic, there. He looks I'stark up and down as the man's name is brought into the conversation: "You look like... uh, yeah. And your dragon did that?" A little bit of hesitance at the last. The kid's been getting used to this whole candidacy idea, bit by bit, but if dragons are going to go off trying to kill their riders, that might change his opinion of the whole concept.

The group of young holders dithers, and there's a collective murmuring before a pair of girls flourishes their way up to Milani and her companion with a single dark-haired young man as escort. One in peach, one in blue, the girls glance back over their shoulders in near-unison, just to make sure everyone knows just how brave they are, and the blue-skirted girl pronounces as how they would be delighted, /delighted/ to share some of those cookies, thank you. Meanwhile, peach-skirt is making eyes at the bronzerider: "My, they sure do grow them tall up at the Weyr!"

"/Tekarath/ did, well my my, I think I have the first aid kit around here somewhere, only I was thinking it'd be for bug bites and stings, /not/ bushes trying to eat people alive," Milani notes and her legs unfold as the headwoman aims to push back up to her feet and go a-rummaging in her things. She casts a grin over her shoulder at Whitchek. "Good point. Unless you have a sweetheart back at the Weyr," she informs him with a hint of cheek in her voice. Straightening again, Millie beams at the holder girls. "Cookies right in that basket there, do help yourselves. I'm Milani, the Weyr's Headwoman, this is Whitchek, one of our fine candidates, I'stark, rider of bronze Tekarath." Beat and her head hanging over to the side. "Journeyman Rorkes, harper. Good ... you're right, I guess it's mostly evening already."

"It's the milk," says I'stark, "Drank a lot of milk as a boy. But my other brothers got most of the muscles," notes the whip-framed bronzerider, "But at any rate..." he looks over to a basket, skirting over to pick it up, and taking one of the apples and polishing it on a clean spot he's managed to find on his tunic, "Too bad Tekarath can't sew." And then to Whitchek. he actually winks, "Oh, you should see when he's really trying to teach me a lesson, rather than trying to be--" he holds up his apple-holding hand to make a quotation gesture with two fingers"--nice. What's your name, friend? He squeezes out to the fellow before Milani mentions something about a first-aid kit, "No, no, no first aid needed. I'm fine, but I hear rumor that there's -food- to be had. Can I eat this?"

For Milani, as she recognizes him, Rorkes has a small grin, offered up as he comes over. "Yes, I think it is. At least out here under the trees; it's a little lighter back that way." And he gestures vaguely at the party in the more open spaces. "You mind if I join you? It's been a long day--too many old friends, and now they want a turn on the stage, too. I didn't prepare for all this," he notes, with a shake of his head, mouth twisting wryly. "How are all you? Did we get the harvest all in yet?"

"Well, there's, um, er, um--" The approach of the girls gets Whitchek decidedly pale, and the introduction only makes it worse. Madilla does have a name. He just can't think of it in the face of all this stress. "Madilla," he finally seizes on. "But it's not like that. No nasty sneaking-off. She's a good girl, Madilla," he adds hastily, barely bobbing a nod to peach-skirt and blue-skirt. Maybe if he doesn't look directly at them, he can escape this unharmed.

Peach-skirt looks properly dazzled, pretty much ignoring cookies and headwoman alike in favor of admiring, "Why, you have..." but whatever I'stark has, it goes unsaid as he moves onward for that apple and talking for... Whitchek? Whitchek? Of all people? She lifts her delicate chin and turns back to take her escort's arm. Meanwhile, blue-skirt brightens her smile once she hears it's the headwoman they're talking to. and lowers herself enough to reach for the cookies with a sweet, "Thank you." And then she adds, "Whit, /darling/. Why, we didn't expect to see /you/ back." In the background, there's more murmuring going on, Whit's name featuring prominently only to be taken over by Rorkes, one young miss blowing the harper a kiss with a, "Miss you! The new journeyman isn't /nearly/ as nice!" In the back, several others make the trek towards the dance floor, some out of boredom, others undoubtedly to share the news.

Milani has that kit in her hands and advances on I'stark. "You're bleeding," she points out. "A little numbweed on the scratches will make for less stinging and help stop the bleeding," the headwoman continues with a tone that brooks no argument. "There's some chicken and corn left in that basket, mostly cookies in that one," Milani points out. "Otherwise, bring your marks up to the baker's stall nearer the hold," she says with a gesture in that direction. "You're welcome, certainly, Rorkes. I'll be heading up soon. Don't want to miss out on the dancing myself," Millie says cheerily. Briefly she shoots Whitchek a look but she only says lightly: "Yes. She's a very, very good person, Madilla is."

"Well, I bleed all the time, " says I'stark, though he's bright enough, apparently, to say that as he just stands there, basket under one arm, apple in the other hand, and lets the Headwoman do whatever it is she wants to do. He fills the empty space by noting, "Right. Marks. Good plan. Too bad Tekarath didn't think about that." His voice, painted a baritone hue, indicates that the absurdity of his present situation isn't lost on him. "So yeah... I'll just... get tended to, and I'll go see about grabbing part of my stash. Maybe someone of the bronze variety will know I'm put out with him, and might even meet me on the way, unless he'd like to try washing his own back for a bit."

A cough, a blush, an attempt to clear the throat, and Whitchek manages just barely to sputter something polite to the girls: "Uh, right. Well, you know, festival, and all..." He still doesn't do a great deal of looking at them. To Milani, he adds, "She *is*," like he's thankful for the acknowledgement. Because, of course, Madilla is a good person, and she likes him, and therefore that must make him a good person, right?

Blue-skirt deigns to stay by Whit and smile, and smile. "How have you been, Whitchek? Have you gotten very used to the Weyr? Your family must be so proud. Really, no one could have imagined the heights to which you have ascended." Since Milani's moved on to I'stark, she can smile at him that much more, while peach-skirt hangs back with their friends.

The kiss makes Rorkes flush slightly, though he's smiling as he glances down. "Ah. Well. He's a good man," he says finally, which is apparently the best he can come up with on that front. "I hope you're both well? It's good to see you again, at any rate." Of course, his expression when he glances back at Milani and Whitchek is right on par with Whitchek's awkward one, and the harper quickly queries, "I'll probably go back up in a little bit, and then maybe I can play you a little something, Milani. You prefer the fast songs or the slow ones?"

There's more giggling from the girls for the harper's sake, and the same daring miss who missed him calls, "Thank you! Remember to say hello when you're done," a glance at Milani, a little sniff, "... working." She doesn't wait for an answer, however, before all-but-skipping onward.
Daub, daub, daub. Un-shy, Milani aims numbweed at each of the larger scratches on I'stark's chest and then squints. "Any others I should take care of?" she asks, while she's got the pot out and oiled fingers. "A little bit of both, Rorkes," she tells the harper, tilting a look over at him with a smile. "Like to get the feet and the blood moving, and then relax a little too," the headwoman claims. That sniff from the giggly girls just earns a sweeter than sweet smile. "You know, a man's work is never done," she says chipperly.

Hard to ignore someone who's talking to you so directly, and so Whitchek is forced to actually look at blue-skirt, try to smile. "You could tell them that. The Weyr is... an adjustment. But I'm not counting on anything, you know, uh..." He rubs the back of his neck with one hand. "I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name?" A little bit of a frowning look towards Milani and the bronzerider, but it's first aid. It should be okay.

"No, that should be fine," says the bronzerider, who looks over his shoulder and notes, to Whitchek, "I'stark. Pleased to meet you, and all that." A friendly sort, it seems, there's not an ounce of disingenuous color to those words, "Actually, whatever Tekarath aimed me for, I think it was some sort of healing plant. Dragon's tongue? I really need to get up to snuff on my herbology, but yeah..." he inclines his head, and disengages, dropping the unpaid-for apple in the basket and then hilding out said basket to Whitchek, "Would you mind carrying this up there? I really didn't plan ahead, and I need to go grab some marks. Oh, and learn from my mistakes and all that." Wry smile, with a little bit of sardonic tossed into the tone.

Blue-skirt puts her hand to her mouth in mock shock: forgotten so soon? "Nealla," she says. "Is there anything else that you would like me to tell them?" she invites of Whitchek, smiling enough for the both of them, refusing to recognize his glance to the side.

Capping the jar back up, Milani tucks it away in that little kit and wipes her fingers clean on a cloth from inside of it. "You bet, hope none of those leave permanent marks. Some of those healing plants are wicked until you distill their parts down into useful things," Millie says wide-eyed. For the apple, the headwoman laughs. "You don't have to pay for those, they're the gatherings from the ground, help yourself. It's all coming up to the Weyr anyway to be made into apple sauce and apple butter and cider." She cocks her head a little does the headwoman, listening to the back and forth between blue-skirt and Whit over yonder while she re-closes the first aid kit and moves to tuck it back in with the rest of her things.

"I don't think they're actually here," says Whitchek, like this is the only good news he's had all day, maybe all month. "It was, er, metaphorical. Nealla." I'stark's request is only half-heard, but seized on anyway. "Carrying... what? Up where? I can carry things, of course." He could juggle if it meant getting away from the girl in the blue skirt. "Sorry," he tells her, before even getting an answer. "Duty calls."

And his wounds having been tended to -- and stomach growling -- I'stark takes his leave after handing off the basket and thanking Whitchek. He stalks away with an eye to the sky as he heads off in what is the general direction of the weyr proper. In the fading light... just out... there, a bronze speck can be seen, getting larger as it approaches, and I'stark, muttering a 'Good call, you shiny git'... sets into a jog, disappearing as he crests a nearby hill.

Nealla sighs prettily, but she'll survive. "How very brave of you, Whitchek," to carry a basket! Possibly even up a hill! "Don't worry, we'll be watching out for you. Won't we," and she doesn't have to glance at her remaining friends to get a haphazard chorus of agreement. When he leaves, she and the others will go to, but after looking back... just in case.

"Might be able to catch a lift back with him when you bring him the basket," Milani points out to Whitchek as she finishes tidying up. "Otherwise, here come the troops to get the barrels," as she points out a little phalanx of brown, blue and green. "Well then. I'm off up to enjoy some dancing. If it's not your speed, do have a good evening back at the Weyr," the headwoman wishes the candidate sincerely. She waits until the apple bearers have landed though to go point out what needs to go back to the Weyr, then she's grabbing the baskets Anvori brought down earlier to take up to the Hold with her before diving into the rest of the festivities with both feet forward.

Basket is eyed once it's in-hand: "What, er--" But I'stark is gone before Whitchek can get the clarification out, so he turns to Nealla instead: "Did you get what he wanted with this? And what do you mean, watching out for me? I don't need watching out for," added defensively. And then Milani's going, too, before he can properly ask, "Bring who the basket where?" Lost. So utterly lost.