Of mudbaths, remembering names, and work ethics

[noleepackrat]

Nolee, V'lano, Cynara, later H'rel

V'lano
Tousled, sometimes fly-away curls frame a sun-drenched face made rough over the bridge of the nose and above generous brows from much time out of doors. Dark, expressive eyes framed by lashes too long for a young man's face are brilliant and sparkling most times, though traces of a deeper dullness can rarely be found. His nose is a little narrow, but the even, smooth lips beneath it are not unpleasing, and a frame of smoothly curled hairs in the brackets of his mouth sets it off to advantage. His hands are slender and as expressive as his eyes, softened by much time in dragon-hide oil. He appears to be somewhere in his early twenties.

A simply-made shirt of undyed linen, loosely laced twice at the throat, flows over his sinewy arms and even chest. It offers little purchase for the bronze-threaded Weyrsecond's knot of Telgar, and badges have been disposed with entirely in favor of keeping the fabric lightweight. Trousers of the same sort of linen, crisp but loosely fit and cuffed just above the sandaled feet, serve to double the image of a rider at leisure. (+detail V'lano)

NW Bowl, Ista
Rain has dampened the bowl, leaving the ground muddy. Several weyrlings complete evening chores or consequences while others frolic in the humid mudbath. Among those is Nalaieth, nearly indistinguishable from her brown siblings after a contented wallowing. Nolee sits nearby, staring outward toward the golden sunlit outlines of the corral fences, a needle and a strip of leather resting in unmoving hands. Her eyes are blank, her expression one of shell-shocked fatigue.

Finally. It is in the expression on his face, the shape of his grin and the glitter of his eyes, the lazy slop of his riding jacket over one arm, the mud on his good boots. Finally back to Ista, finally here to see what's become of his lifemate's offspring in the time since he's seen them last. Volath is nowhere in sight; V'lano trods toward the barracks-most edge of the bowl alone, on foot, and comes to rest with an elbow upon the corral gate to admire the young dragons at play. A heady sigh escapes him and only makes his grin wider for its sound. Only after that pleasant, long moment staring does he realize another human present, and turn that bright smile on her. Once turned, it seems strangely fixed.

Said other human is eating a meal of fishrolls and greens, curled up against the shoulder of one of the young dragons, although right now, faceted eyes are concealed behind all three sets of lids...clearly, the weyrling dragon is, if not actually asleep, at least dozing. Cynara catches that odd gaze, and she lifts her head to look towards the approaching male.

Nolee continues staring toward the corrals, the shadowy shape of another person outlined in shadow finally registering in her mind. Slow blinks of her wide brown eyes register awareness, and some dull level of recognition, of the other figure, her hand raising to rub at her eyes. Nalaieth rolls onto her back, tail stretched carefully to the side, limbs up in the air: look at your dragon's babies! How well we sleep, like Marsath! How well we balance while wallowing in the mud!

V'lano's frozen smile fixed on Nolee - and it remains there a moment, while the weyrling rubs her eyes. At that, the smile turns slightly crooked, a little softer, a little less strained. "Evening," he tells her, and turns to offer the same greeting to Cynara and her blue, out of the mud-wallow. Hitching both elbows up on the gate behind him, he lifts a boot-heel to the bottom rung and looks for all the world like a farm boy done good there, grinning like a fool. "Sorry it's been so long. I don't think I've even spoken to you since that time before the hatching. Below the galleries." That's to Cynara, plainly, and the bronzer dips an almost apologetic nod.

Cynara grins. "I'll be nice. I'll not remind you of any...oh, incorrect predictions." Of course, the entire Weyr is glad that prediction's wrong, or would be if Cynara had spred it around. Which she hasn't. Marsath's outer set of lids slowly open, creeping upwards, and then he warbles.

Nolee blinks slowly as though just coming to, and she pushes herself slowly, tiredly, to her feet, mud dripping from her legs to pool at her feet, though she fails to notice that or the trail she's spread along her cheek. "Evening?" Nolee replies questioningly, then looks to Cynara for affirmation. "It's evening? Not before dawn?" A wan smile, grateful. "No running." Her smile spreads slightly, then, hesitantly, as though she should know better but just can't quite, "You two know each other?" Nalaieth lifts her head, tipping it backward to better see the warbler and his companions, and is silent, watching.

The bronzerider takes this opportunity to fix Cynara with his smiling stare. "On the green egg? I don't recall predicting anything about anything else. I might have made some -warnings- ... and I stand by them." He holds that stare upon her for a moment longer, then turns his gaze toward the dragons at play in the mud, seeking out one of their number - but not, apparently, finding that one. "Nae - Er. M'yr's bronze, if I recall correctly." A beat. To clarify, glancing at the bluerider weyrling sidelong: "The egg, of course." Another beat, then, to Nolee: "Yes. She was a candidate." Obviously. And as if he knew, somehow, -all- of the candidates. And then his eyes are on Nolee, challenging.

Cynara hrms. "We don't /know/ each other, but we did talk a few times." She reaches up to scritch the nearby eyeridge, almost automatically. "Still not sure how a bronze /fit/ in that egg, mind." Marsath warbles to Nalaieth, then his eyes drift dangerously close to closed again.

Nolee looks again toward the sunset, judging it, then nodding as though it confirmed the answer to her question: set, not rise. "We can sleep soon." A joyous respite, and it brings a wider smile. "Warnings?" Distracted from her efforts to retrieve his name from the ether, she squints toward Cynara. "The egg was a candidate?" Another rub of her eyes while Nalaieth rolls over onto her side, her neck still craning backward, interested. Nolee gives Cynara a pleading glance: who is this guy, again?

"Can't say I understand that myself. He must have been pretty tightly packed." V'lano's expression eases as the rest of the play's not taken up. The softening of his mouth, the warming of his eyes - it's timed alongside a flick of a glance Cynara's way, but he looks right back at Nolee, which might make her think she's off the hook. Not so fast. "Having trouble getting enough sleep, there?" Almost teasing, there's yet something edgy about his voice, even accusatory.

Nolee will get little help, because Cynara's nudging her dragon up. "Talking of sleep, I'm going to get Marsath back to our couch while he's somewhat awake, V'lano." She pops a salute off to the bronzerider, before she and her lifemate duck into the barracks, although the end of a teal-blue tail remains visible for surprisingly long.

Nolee's squint continues, as does her hopeful expression, and it lingers all through V'lano's reply and his question to her; in fact, she misses its arrival. "Hunh?" Bleary-eyed, her eyes track along with Marsath's movement, watching until the tail's gone. "Yeh. We get up before Mr. Sun, which really isn't right unless we're supposed to go fishing, and I don't think we're allowed to sleep. It's in the rules or something." A broad yawn comes almost painfully, and she rubs her hip gingerly, thinking. "V'la--oh. I met you before, maybe." Catching the edge there, she scratches her head, mildly worried. "Did I forget it was my turn to shovel your dragon throwup or something? Cause you look like my Pop when he's angry."

Noteniath wings his way down to a smooth landing, his lean brown form settling into a spot a few lengths from the barracks.

The bronzerider does not offer the graciousness of a reply until Nolee's almost spilling out his name - she gets quite the grin for that near-success, however. "You'll get to go to bed earlier when they're grown," V'lano assures, something merry in his eyes. "I won't promise you get to get up later, but it's possible." He leans a little onto the elbow closer to the weyrling, turning so more of his weight's on that part of the corral-gate against which he's leaning. Though his gaze stays on the muddied, brown-turned Nalaieth, his voice takes on a conspiratory tone, like he's offering precious advice: "I'd suggest you might try to remember your queen's father's rider, but it'd make me sound even more full of myself than I'm supposed to be."

Nolee manages a tiny smile, her brown eyes softening and losing some of their tired hazy glaze, the girl stretching cautiously against the protestations of her unused-to-hard-(or any)-work body. "We do? At least there's that to look forward to. All I keep hearing is how much work it is, and how if we're not ready, we'll hammil-ate the Weyr. Like other people will judge us if I can't run laps as fast as M'yr. Or Lirit." A complaining sigh, and a few steps against the evening's rays toward the corral gate. "I've been trying to learn all the names, but there are so many--You would?" Nalaieth preens, stretching her agile neck and coming slowly to her feet, quite the unbecoming little roly-poly thing. Nolee misses the point. "Why? Is he mean?"

H'rel makes his way down his lifemate's straps, before quietly strolling toward the corrals as he observes the two already gathered there in conversation. He's quiet at first, having caught a few curious words from the distance, listening in as he approaches.

"No one's going to be humiliated - " V'lano pronounces the word a little carefully, with a little emphasis. "- if you can't run as fast as they. But you -will- need to do your best, if I remember I'sai right. And the names - well, that'll only humiliate you in the end, if you don't learn them." He offers Nalaieth a wide, crooked grin. "He's not mean. Your lifemate's sire is worth remembering, though. You might rely on the connection later."

Nalaieth watches a small blue firelizard wing its way toward her, and her nose raises as though she were trying to kiss at him as he passes. Seeming to know her, he alights on her back, displacing some of the disguising mudbath she'd been treating her hide with, and her multifaceted focus turns toward H'rel with a whuffle, then toward her clutch's sire's rider, piqued interest. "Hyooo-mill-eee-ay-ted," Nolee repeats dutifully as though by rote. H'rel's arrival causes her to smack her own forehead, then she salutes both men just in case. "Sir, and sir--hey." V'lano's given a betrayed look, her mind working. "You told me his name was S'ir. I remembered that and got hammilated for it."

H'rel gives a polite, nod to the young gold before turning his attention back to the weyrling and clutchsire, "Good evening, Nolee, V'lano." the brownrider says, returning Nolee's salute with a sharp one of his own, a well-practiced gesture, even while mid-stride. "Humiliation is unavoidable, from the day one is born until the day one dies." he says with a faint grin formed on his otherwise neutral face. "I hope you're both well, this evening?"

"Sir," V'lano echoes by rote, blinking at H'rel's sudden - from his perspective, given he was so focused on Nolee and her muddy dragon - appearance. "Ah, one of I'sai's, then," he immediately notes of the man's knot, and grins, immediately at ease - the privilege of a full rider, to slump against the corral gate so leisurely in the presence of a weyrling trainer. "Bright outlook. -- Did I tell you that? I think you might have misunderstood," the bronzer tells the weyrling sideling, eyes sparkling.

Nalaieth's sound fades, the dragonet standing staunchly with a firelizard shoulder ornament until Nolee's momentary good cheer drops and her shoulders sag. "You're like a fortune-teller, the way you have all these sayings." Her eyes brighten slightly toward H'rel, again hopeful. "Do you know any good ones? That'd make my evening well, even though V'l--(mumble)'s been telling me stories." She gives said V'l(mumble) a betrayed look, then it's quickly back to H'rel. "Like, 'when the sun rises, the weyrlings will sleep,' or, or 'Weyrling dragons will hunt on their own tomorrow and there'll be no more muck after tonight."

H'rel chuckles quietly, moving to stand a few paces away from a point right between the other two, hanging back as he contemplates a proper response. "The only constant in your first turns as a dragonrider is that there are no constants. When you're used to cutting apart your lifemate's meal, she'll be able to tear into it herself soon after. When you've settled into cleaning the barracks, she'll decide she prefers things cleaner, herself." he chuckles, though his expression darkens just a touch. "With fall finished, most of my old words of wisdom are... best left to rest."

"I'm absolutely certain I never said you could sleep at dawn or that they'd hunt on their own tomorrow," V'lano muses, switching which boot is kicked up against the lowest rung of the corral gate, scuffing mud onto the toe of the other. "And I hope you wrote them all down somewhere before you put them to bed," he adds, twinkling dark eyes on the brownrider then. "Hate to lose their value."

"At least you aren't laying anymore people to rest from getting all burned up by Thread," Nolee's oblivious youthful enthusiasm points out. "Oh! That reminds me. I was working on making sewing lines." A pointed look toward V'lano: see? I -did- something. "And I wanted you to look, see if the stitches are straight, only--" A dejected look around. "I lost it. In the mud." Or perhaps Nalaieth and her firelizard friend have found it and are playing a strange tug-of-war with it. "Not those stories. About S'r being Weyrlingmaster when it's really his twin brother I-sigh. Oh! I thought of another constant! Someone's -always- telling you what to do."

H'rel is about to respond to V'lano's remark about his words in regards to thread, before Nolee's remark reaches his ears and he clears his throat slightly, "Indeed." he says somberly, silenced for a few more moments as he folds his hands in front of himself, "That, Nolee, would be a constant whether you're a Weyrling or not. Though should you ever find yourself Weyrwoman, you may manage to finally escape such a fate. If not for her." he says with a hint of a returning smile, a finger gesturing to the mud-covered golden dragonet.

V'lano raises his brows at Nolee's pointed look - as if he's impressed! - and then waggles them, as if he's not. Teasing, entirely. He pushes himself off of the gate, plunking the lifted boot into the mud, and sloshes out toward Nalaieth and her blue pet, as bold as anything. "Stitches won't be straight after soaking and drying, if it was leather," he muses, halting a few feet off from the weyrling gold with an offering hand outstretched. "You'll get good practice at it, at least." He presumes, anyway, smirking a bit. While his hand waits for the young queen's interest, his shoulders roll in a luxuriant stretch.

Nolee tilts her head, "I heard that she has more work than anyone else. And she never gets to go outside, except to pick needlethorns like everyone else." A knowing nod. "So I don't want that job. I'd rather fly in a wing, like Lellery, or Lirit, or the lady with the boat and the boots. Especially if it means I can avoid sewing. Or carrying heavy things. Or getting up early." The dragonet, meanwhile, realizes she's being discussed and approached. She ends the tugging game, holding out her prize and her muzzle toward the smirking rider, and sniffs him.

H'rel simply watches V'lano approach the young gold, moving over to look into the stables himself - as if seeking out whatever must have been interesting enough for people to congregate near the fence. He turns his head, saying with a little smile, "I believe, Nolee, that you will need to have some extensive education in learning the names of various people in order to avoid at least -some- of the inevitable humiliation."

"I'm not so sure about that," muses V'lano quite quietly, smug to himself, as Nalaieth's muzzle nears his hand. Such light dances in his eyes, counterpoint to his merry tone. "Sewing and carrying you might be able to avoid long term. Getting up early comes to everyone now and again. Faranth knows I miss late mornings here. Guh, drills again, and Indrath out of play for a round - " The Telgari sighs heavily, but even this notion can't wipe the grin from his mouth, especially as he overturns his hand to offer a rub to that muddied muzzle. It's a trade offer: I rub your snout, you let me have the strap.

Nolee's expression transforms from the irate teen to dull dejected resignation, and she mumbles something akin to 'yessir.' "You're not sure about what?" The men, so different from one another, are given puzzled looks in turn. "Not sure I can sleep in, or not sure I want to be part of a wing?" As Nalaieth's muzzle leans against those outstretched fingers, her jaw starts to slacken, though taut enough: she wants that rubbing before the prize is given over. "How can I learn them? I've tried reciting and I just muddy them up."

H'rel says with a mild chuckle as he replies to Nolee, "By remembering that they'll be rather upset with you if you happen to forget their names to your face. My former Wingleader would be quite distressed to hear her name with an extra L-sound at the start of it." he offers in response, letting V'lano clarify his own remarks, as he's still only about half-certain he understands the rest of the conversation.

"Not sure she's got more work than anyone else - at least, not all of the time." V'lano's hand curves to the shape of Nalaieth's nose, palm offering firm, warm strokes - but his attention strays, a glance cast over his shoulder at the dragon's young rider. "But then there are times when she's absolutely buried in hidework. She hid it from me, sometimes, I think. To make me feel more justified in being a layabout while I couldn't run drills back home." Again he waggles brows at Nolee, then swivels his head about - hand moving to rub under the little roly-poly queen's jaw now - to eye H'rel. "Or she'd think it was funny," he points out. "Still probably humiliating."

Nolee shakes her head, her shorn hair loose except where sweat and rain's dampness have it clinging. "That doesn't help at all. It isn't like I -want- to make them angry. There are just so many, and all the dragons look the same." Nalaieth exhales against V'lano's hand, reclaiming her share of the attention, and, feeling the unspoken bargain's complete enough, slacks her jaw, releasing the damp muddy leather. "She?" Nolee thinks on who the 'she' could be, then her eyes widen. "You're the daddy!" One hand goes to her hip, and she squints at H'rel. "Did he really get to be a layabout here? You didn't make him work for his keep, like the rest of us?"

H'rel chuckles quietly at V'lano's words, before saying with a little bit of a grin, "You had such a wonderful time laying about on the sands, watching the stillness of the clutch, didn't you?" he says to him, before looking back to Nolee and smirking a bit, "I'm in no position to make anyone except you Weyrlings work at all. And before agreeing to assist I'sai, I hadn't had authority of any sort in nearly ten turns. So... it wasn't exactly my business to make him earn his keep, it would seem his dragon did that for him, however."

"I built an arbor and did my own hidework," V'lano defends, tossing a glare Nolee's way - one completely ruined by his wide-eyed, sparkling approval that she's (finally) put together who he is and why he matters. "But not running drills, not flying mock-fall at insane hours of morning - well, those were good things." He turns that sparkling look on H'rel then, as much an agreement as can be. "Oh, and that. Herding candidates to the eggs and back. That's not work, even if it's hot and sweaty. Not work."

Nolee considers H'rel, looking over his scars, his age-lines, with the new eyesight of one who has just learned an important fact about how the Weyr operates. "You can't?" she repeats, just to make sure. To V'lano, unphased by his glare, "So what do you do back at home, at the place where you don't stay tanned, besides complain about Indr(mumble) being lazy?" Nalaieth's rear leg raises to scratch at her own hide, the dropped leather forgotten, and Nolee slogs through the mud toward her. "Nooo," she shakes her finger. "Talons are sharp. If you get cut, we can't play and that mean old healer man will come back and the poll-tuss, and it smells."

"Herding candidates would seem more like work than flying fall." says the brownrider with a grin as he leans against the fence himself, now. "I may have flown nearly twenty turns of fall, Nolee, but that doesn't mean I ever had ambitions to be anything other than a simple rider." H'rel confirms, "No real authority." before giving an approving nod to the weyrling's chiding of her lifemate.

"I have more experience at the first than the second," V'lano gravely informs the weyrlingmaster-assistant - as gravely as can be managed by a serious mouth beneath merry eyes. "That's probably why the latter's more like work. -- Indrath's not lazy. Well, no more so than -any- bronze." The Telgari gathers up the fallen strap while chuckling lowly and turns to find Nolee approaching with shaking finger - he offers out the stitched strap while noting, "Indrath is K'ran's, at Telgar. My Weyrleader's bronze, and sire of the clutch we have on the sands there now. So I'm running more than my share of drills - but it's all fair, given the time I had here, eh?"

"Did we need to be herded? I thought it was mostly rounding us up when we were all at chores. Maybe the clutch-pop needs a whistle, and when it goes, we all come. Then you'd be able to find us when you need us." H'rel's stared at again, squinted at more intently from afar. "You're old," comes with a child's simple wonder, but recalling her age, she tacks on a "Sir." She shrugs off the misspeaking to laugh, taking the soggy leather to the assistant. "I've heard heaps of things about what each color's like, how they act. Are they true?" is to V'lano, then another question for H'rel, "And what was it like, when Thread fell and you tried to stop it on the dragons?"

H'rel chuckles quietly at V'lano before he says with a faint little smile in Nolee's direction, "I'm not as old as I look. I hope." he laughs, before shaking his head as her other remark sinks in, "I believe, Nolee, that that particular question would involve a much... longer answer. It was... it was a great number of things, all at once."

"A longer answer than I can stay around for, if I want to be awake enough in the morning not to be given an honorary dunking by Thunderbolt," V'lano muses. He trods out of the slightly-sunken mud-patch to the drier, still-damp ground, and tips his head up to consider the sky - but no bronze comes from it. "I'd be interested in hearing sometime myself, though. Maybe I can sit in for a class if I'sai'll let it." But the Telgari's mouth twists in a dubious grin. "Good night for me, I think, Nolee. H'rel." The latter's a little delayed, maybe - an educated guess, disguised in bravado.

Nolee takes his response as might an adolescent the words of many adults, which is to say, as indication that she either shouldn't ask or that he doesn't want to be bothered. A moment of pouting borne of lack of sleep crosses her lips but is quickly abandoned, and she shrugs, barely stifling another yawn, "I don't know how many turns you have, so I can't tell." The departure of V'lano causes Nalaieth to cast about for her blue pet, and not finding him, she nudges her lifemate in the thigh. "We won't have dunkings, just the usual," the girl explains, "So we'd best go in, too. G'night, sir, and V'l(mumble) other sir."

H'rel holds up a hand in a half-salute to V'lano, "Good evening then, V'lano, Nolee." he offers, accentuating the clutchsire's name with a glance at Nolee to hope she caught the full saying of it. "I will see the two of you at later times, then. Get some oil on that itchy spot before you fall asleep, Nolee. Don't let her worry at it overnight." he offers in a quiet, yet typically stern tone.

"Might want to get some water on those muddy spots, too," V'lano suggests - and so gently, so half-seriously, it can't be more than a suggestion - besides, it's offered while flicking a salute of his own back to H'rel, a grin for the older man before the Telgari's off on foot, headed southward toward a ledge at the other end of the bowl which, presumably, might host his transportation back home.

Nolee repeats, dutifully, "Good evening, then, V'lano," like a good little parrot, and gives the stern man a nod. "I will." V'lano just gets a look for his advice, then a glum, "C'mon, dirtball. Inside where you can get ready for what little sleep we get." Her moment of seriousness is short-lived, though, as the two engage in further tug of war with the leather strip, leaving not stitches likely good enough for evaluation, and soon they've vanished into the large double arches of the weyrling barracks.

H'rel watches the two depart, making his way over toward Noteniath with a fond look on his face, his whole expression softening a bit as he reaches to pat the brown on the foreleg.