Of Muck flinging: Trace and Mic tussle in the corrals
Where: Ista Weyr Corrals
Who: M'duk, Trace, Tolemic
When: About noon, day 16, month 8, Turn 10 of the 10th Interval
Ista Weyr Corral
The bright light of day shines down on the dirt of the corral floor. Roughly one-fourth the size of the bowl itself, herdbeasts are huddled trying to find whatever shade they can. A large grassy field to the western side of the corral bridges both side of the fence there. Beyond the fence, a large plateau can be found, looking off over the bay. Large troughs for water sit near the stables. The Bowl to the east is lazy and quiet in the heat of the daytime.
The wet summer season oppresses the island with high humidity and sweltering temperatures. Today, there is a light, sprinkling rain and a nice, light breeze carries the scent of sea air.
A stable is to the south, in a low stone building built in the shade of the Weyr wall.
It's a bright hot sweltering day, and most wise people are snugly tucked into shade or deep caverns. Candidates, however, have never been known to be especially wise. Consider Tolemic: he lounges against the fence close to the stables, lazily eying the bovine herd. A pitchfork and shovel rest close at hand, as though he's just put them down or about to pick them up. Low boots are liberally graced with what the farmers call 'manure', and every so often he kicks one foot against a post.
M'duk, walking through the bowl, is carrying a fruit as he hums quietly to himself. The fruit is his main concern as of now, as he inspects it before taking a bite. Now done with his inspection of the fruit, his eyes return to the scene before him, taking in the quickly approaching fence around the corral and near the stables. Next to it he spots a candidate and nods to him. He spots the boys boots, "Covered in it today, I see..." Another bite.
M'duk, appearing to be 21 Turns old, stands at 6 feet. He has short dark-brown hair that is cut at the upper end of his forehead, and is trimmed close to his head on the sides and back. His eyebrows are slightly bushy, and as dark as his hair. Below them sit emerald green eyes with a touch of hazel, which adds a very sharp look to him. A thin scar, below his right eye, sits at about an inch long, perpendicular to his nose. He is handsome, but his face is somewhat hard. He has a very muscular body, which include large arms and hands. Covering his hands are scars and callouses, obviously caused from manual labor in the past. His skin has a nice base tan, but is not very dark. M'duk's voice is deep as well.
He wears a thin, tighter black cotton shirt that has its sleeves end on his biceps. Hanging about his neck is a decorative silver chain'. On his right sleeve is the patch of the Search and Rescue team, and below that his Dawnsflame badge. Residing above those is his knot, bearing 3 strands. One black, one orange, and one Brown. Usually found over this, however, is a lightweight brown leather riding jacket, bearing the same patch and badge. It's sleeves following all the way to his wrists, embroidered at the cuff with a thin, dual band of orange, and a band of brown. Found on his right hand is a ring, bearing a beautiful stone. Following down he wears dark grey denim pants, of a somewhat loose fit. Pockets are sewn on with black stitch from the inside, by a thin fabric. The pants are held up by a black leather belt donning a bronze buckle, and a small pouch' hangs from it. Covering his feet are black boots, which show signs of wear. Usually leather gloves with the fingers cut out can be seen hanging from a pocket.
Tolemic looks up at the voice, half a grin playing at his lips. "I was knee deep in it earlier, sir," he tells the younger man. "And will be later this afternoon, too. I'm Mic," he adds, offering a grimy hand across the fence. "I've seen you around, but I don't think we've met."
M'duk walks over to the fence, but remains on the other side. He takes the offered hand in his, "Knee deep is not a good place, as you've obviously figured out already." His eyes wander to "Mic's" knot, "Aye, I've been around. Name's M'duk, Mic. All this talk of chores, and your knot, lead me to believe you'll be standing for our clutch?"
"Yes sir. Well met, M'duk." Mic retrieves his hand and turns, giving up all pretense of actual work to lean crossed arms on the fence and chat. "Kintryth searched me. First time a dragon's taken more interest in me than their rider. I still haven't decided if I like him after him spitting water on me, though."
M'duk grins as he too pulls his hand back. "Kintryth, huh? I graduated with his rider, Caitlyn. Good blue." He takes another bite from the fruit still in his hand, and chews slowly. "How is your candidacy, then? Enjoying yourself," he looks at the pitchfork, then shovel, the boots. "And your duties?"
Tolemic's eyebrows go up; he takes another moment or two to give M'duk a thorough once-over. "You did? I would've thought you've been a rider longer than that. Six, seven turns, yeah?" As for the rest, he smirks, then kicks his foot into the post again. "Mucking's a different sort of duty than fishing, that's for sure. And I've got babies after lunch. Not what I expected when I came to Ista - or when I told Caitlyn yes."
M'duk shakes his head as he swallows the freshly bitten piece of fruit. "Nope. Less than three turns ago, with Caitlyn." A slight laugh as the candidate explains his duties. "Oh that is something we both understand. Candidacy was quite a bother, especially mucking." He leans in to whisper, "Though I always did my best to get out of /that/ one." He leans back with a smile and a wink.
Mic shrugs and casts a lazy eye back across the patty-studded corral. "It needs to get done." Just presumably not by him. "And have you seen some of the Candidates?" He put one hand at the level of his shoulder, then drops it another few inches. "You expect -them- to be able to clear all this muck out?"
M'duk laughs, "I've seen them. Hell, I've search almost half a dozen, though there are plenty others." He looks towards the stables apparently expecting to see piles of manure. "If your hired for the job you should be able to handle it, no?"
"Zat what candidacy's for?" Mic asks, head tilting toward the taller M'duk. He's leaning against the fence on the inside of the corrals, while the brownrider mirrors him on the outside. A pitchfork and shovel wait someone's attention just to Mic's right. "To weed out the ones who can't do the work? There's this little thing - Nik-something - who looks like a strong wind'd knock her over. Or Lenira, who faints everytime someone says a bad word like 'work' to her."
M'duk shakes his head. "Not, not really. I just don't believe in complaining about a lack of strength or size in order to get out of something, is all." A shrug before the rider finishes Mic's attempt at the other candidates name. "Niklo. I was there when she was searched." A nod and grin.
Ahh the corrals. A wonderful, beautiful place, right? Okay, not really, and yet Trace seems to find himself here quite often. Not of his own free will, of course, but because he's done something bad...again...and is being punished...again. Thus Trace is wandering the corral, mucking out certain spots where it seems to be extremely mucky, and though covered in sweat and dust, he isn't complaining...or saying anything really. He's simply there. His mucking brings him closer to M'duk and Tolemic, though he doesn't pay any heed to the others at the moment.
Mic says, "Yeah, Niklo, that's her." He 'explodes' his hands near his head. "The one as looks like she's got a bush on her head." He switches feet to kick, but gets no more muck off this new boot than he did the other. Trace, being behind him, isn't noticed. "Lot of people like to switch chores and stuff, but I figure it's all got to get done. So I don't bother."
M'duk watches Trace's mucking when he is noticed, but looks back to Tolemic when he speaks, changing the subject. "So, originally from Ista?" He questions the candidate, "Or did you get searched from somewhere else?"
Trace:
A youth of what looks to be 12 years of age, and likely has yet to hit any growth spurts as he stands right around 5'. For his age he could be considered a little small, both in height and girth, but it only belies on the possibility of some hidden strength. Sandy blonde hair grows long and tangled, wavy but not curly, falling to just above his shoulders when let down, and seeming somewhat unkempt. It's generally kept tied up behind his head in a ponytail to keep it out of the way, and rarely is it let down. Light blue eyes look out from a face that shows his youth, a bit of baby fat still predominant though it's more then likely to burn off both face and body as he grows. He's neither overly handsome or ugly by general standards, but just a youthful cute with a likelihood of looking rather fair as he ages, his skin a nice tan color from being in the sun a lot.
His clothing is nothing remarkable, but likely by the looks of things is hand-me-downs. Tan colored linen sleeveless tunic and work pants, patched in many spots giving it a myraid of shades, and just a bit to baggy for the youth. The belt is a different shade of tan from the rest, making it look just that much more odd, but it keeps the clothing on him at least. His boots are about the only thing that fit him, though by the wear it's more likely then not that they've been used by others before him as well.
"Nope, and uh, nope," Mic says with a grin. "I was born and bred at Southern. Weyr, not Hold. But I've been up here close to a turn, and here's where Kintryth found me. Makes an interesting change from hauling boxes at the docks, that's for sure. Being a candidate, I mean. They've got me in the kitchen, with the babies, helping the aunties... all sorts of things. Isn't what I expected at all. It'll be something to talk about next time I'm on swabbing duty."
Trace continues to muck out behind Tolemic quietly, his gaze not shifting from his muck as if he doesn't seem to realize the pair talking is there. In fact, it's not until he almost tries to muck Tolemic's feet that he blinks and looks up quickly, taking a step back, "Oh...sorry." He says, a little quietly as he looks between the pair.
M'duk cocks his head, and takes another bite from the fruit. "Not expecting to Impress, then?" His gaze quickly shifts to Trace as he attempts to much Tolemic. "That's a human, you know?" He tells Trace, but as the boy apologizes, he smiles. "Just kidding."
Tolemic stares at M'duk for a second. "What?" Then he turns, aiming a well-pulled blow in the vague direction of Trace. "Hey kid, watch it. Just 'cause they're brown and smell doesn't mean you have to stick a pitchfork in 'em." His voice has the sort of exasperated fondness one would use for an annoying little brother. "I thought you were done and gone already."
M'duk looks to Tolemic. "I was assuming that you thought you'd be headed back to the docks when you candidacy was over. Taking up your old swabbing duty." He shrugs, "Maybe I misunderstood."
Trace steps back quickly as Tolemic turns towards him, eyeswidening a bit as he quickly ducks his head, "I'm sorry, really." He says, quite apologetic as his hands twist nervously on his pitchfork. He doesn't need to get in trouble while he's in trouble...really...
"Just watch it," Mic tells the kid easily before turning back to M'duk. Introductions? We don't need no stinking introductions. "Sorry sir, what'd you say? Yeah, I figure I'm heading back to the docks after the Hatching. No dragon looked twice at me at Southern; I figure Kintryth spitting at me's some sort of fluke." Another shrug shows just how ruffled he as at the thought; i.e., not at all.
Trace watches Mic and M'duk for another moment before he starts mucking once more, making sure to go around Mic, and trying his darndest not to muck anything on to him as he does so. Whether he's successful or not...well, he's trying to do the best job he can. Some people just stand in the way or where he has to muck. He says nothing else at the time, but keeps a wary eye on the pair.
M'duk nods, "One way to think about it." He looks to Trace, then back to Tolemic. He leans in to whisper again, "Easy on the little guy, hmm?"
"He's just a kid," Mic says to M'duk's whisper, not bothering to keep his voice down. "And he's here every time I am, seems like. He ought to be better at it by now." He glances incuriously over his shoulder at the blonde kid. "Oi. Hey kid. You know I'm just teasing, right?"
"There you go," he says quietly before stepping back. "But I should be going now. I'll leave you two to your fun. Well met." With that he finishes what is edible from the fruit and throws it to a passing by firelizard, walking slowly back towards the living cavern.
Just a kid? A light sparks in Trace's eyes. Well...sure he's only twelve, but still. He looks over at Mic, ready to retort back, but then clamps his mouth shut as M'duk departs, watching the man go before looking back to Mic. "I'm not a kid." He says, raising his chin a bit as if trying to be... taller... older... soemthing.
Tolemic drops a nod after M'duk, but most of his attention is on the not-a-kid. "Oh yeah? How old are you, then?"
"I'm twelve." Trace states, standing even taller and even puffing his chest out a bit. Oh yes, definitely not a kid...uh-huh. His attention is fully on Tolemic now, the pitchfork stuck into the dirt and muck next to him as he holds onto the handle at about shoulder level.
"Twenty-three," Mic says easily, not bothering to puff out his chest, flex his biceps, or even drop his voice, flame him. "So you're a kid. And you're not apprenticed, either. Your name's... what, again? Flace? Base?"
The youth seems a bit ruffled by Mic's words and he frowns a bit...and then at the names he tosses out a spark lights in his eyes, "Trace." He says, almost bitingly at Mic. "And I'm not a kid." He seems pretty adamant about that.
"Trace, right," Mic agrees with that same easy I'm-an-adult-and-you're-not patronizing tone. "So what are you, if you're not a kid?"
A good question, very good indeed. "I'm a man." Trace says, once again standing tall and proud of it, his eyes still alight with an inner fire, especially at Mic's continued tone.
Tolemic drawls, "Right," clearly not believing one iota of it. "Well then, you're obviously -man- enough to finish the corrals by yourself, since I did the stables." He jerks his head toward his abandoned tools and adds, "And you wouldn't mind putting those away, right -man-? I've got to go wash up, get to afternoon chores in the nursery."
"Just 'cause I'm a man doesn't mean I'm gonna do all your work." Trace retorts, picking up his pitch fork and mucking a bit in Tolemic's direction. "There, see, ya got some to pick up." He says. Oh yes...someone struck a nerver, didn't they.
With a disgusted twist of his lips Mic steps sideways, the muck splorting down beside him. "Don't be more of a kid than you have to," he advises. "I already did my half, remember?" Points toward the stables. "Being a man means you do your work, no shirking, and don't throw tantrums when you're called on your laziness."
"That's not a half, it's half the size of the corrals." Trace says exasperated, then narrows his eyes a bit. Laziness?! He's been working his arse off for a good long time here while Tolemic was chatting away. Ohhh no. He quickly scoops up a decent size pile of muck and flings it towards Tolemic, much more towards his face and chest this time. Oh no, he won't be blamed for laziness.
"And there's more /animals/ in there, you little wherry." Despite his words Mic seems willing to let it go, turning for the fence and reaching up for the top rail. Which is when Trace's present smacks into his shoulder and neck, dripping rolling gobbets down his back. He freezes for half a second and turns back, eyes shooting daggers at the boy. "You didn't. Oh, tell me you weren't just so stupid."
Trace watches Mic for a moment, not responding to his words, but just nodding slightly. Why yes, yes he did. That said and done, he turns back and digs his pitchfork into the ground again, though his time he begins mucking normally once more, deciding to simply ignore Mic now.
Tolemic reaches up and back to scrape off the goo, still staring at Trace as though he'll burst into flames. "You stupid, idiotic, immature little brat. You think that was funny? You're no more a man than that bovine over there. Less. You come talk to me in about five years and we'll see if you've managed to grow up." He takes a single threatening step, then another. "G'wan. Shoo."
Shoo?!?! What is he, some kind of pest? Okay, well, don't answer that. The fire in his eyes grow a bit more at being treated such a way, and the next pitchfork full of poo goes flying towards Tolemic again, once again trying to smack him right in the face and chest with it. After the flinging, Trace turns to face Tolemic, semi-crouched and with the pitchfork in both hands, watching him carefully. He seems ready to use the pitchfork...though he honestly can't put much power behind it even if he managed to.
Tolemic manages to duck this forkful, or at least eel away from most of it. "Wherry got your tongue?" he taunts, hands fisting and opening though he comes no closer. "Go on, get out of here. I've got more important things to do than play nanny to some filth-flinging child." His smile is decidely thin, and equally without humor. "In fact, I -do- have to go play nanny to flith-flinging children. So I guess I'll see you again in just a couple of hours. I'll make sure I tuck you in nice and neat for your nappy-bye." With another derogatory sneer he turns back for the fence, leaping halfway over in a heartbeat.
Morgan pops into the corrals from *between*, circling lazily, spying on the milling herdbeasts, and the two humans. The bronze soon vans this way and that, taking in the sights, once diving down to snag an errant gobbet of gorey flesh some messy dragon must've left behind.
Trace's eyes widen at the taunt...Ohhhh no. As Tolemic turns away Trace drops his pitchfork and starts running...but not away. No, he runs towards Tolemic and lunges at him as he nears, trying to knock the much older and bigger person over into the muck, his hands closed into a fist as he's prepared to try and pummel him as well. It may not be likely, but that doesn't mean he's not ready to.
Morgan gulps down his surprise meal on-the-wing, still idly vaning about to see if he can find more juicy tidbits. But when the pair of two-leggers below seem to be about to mix it up, the firelizard rumbles throatily to himself. Now *this* is interesting - and potentially fun! Zip! Down he goes, finding something on the ground again.
Tolemic got airborne, anyway, so Trace gets the thrill of momentary victory at the ease in which Mic's shoved forward. That moment's short-lived as they both go crashing into the fence, and then Tolemic's twisting around, arms coming about to try and catch and hold the boy. "...Stupid!" he manages once, and another time, "Hold /still/!"
Morgan is nothing if not sneaky and tough. Though his little 'present' is much too large to carry aloft for more than a few seconds, *between* sure comes in handy in its case! Hurling himself and his prize up with all his might, the burly bronze bamfs *between* just a fingerspan from the ground...and re-emerges midair, right above the tussling boys...and lets go of the surprise! Down, down plummets the fat pat of herdbeast dung.
Trace is easily caught, but not so easily held as he begins squirming, trying to get an arm free to sock Tolemic in the jaw or something...anything. No one treats him like a baby...or a little kid for that matter. As the pat of dung comes down, it falls directly on Trace's head and he blinks, pausing a moment, then lets out a soft growl as he instantly blames Mic for it...of course. He brings his feet into the equation then, kicking at the older one.
Tolemic jerks his head up at the splatter, so the inevitable droplets hit his chest and chin, not his face. "Hold /still/!" he repeats, trying desperately to contain the wriggling wonder's flailing arms. Trace'd probably figure out, were he not in the middle of a fight, that Mic simply doesn't have a hand free to start shampooing his hair, but neither one of them has the time to figure out what's really happened. "Shells, kid, ow!" That for a badly-aimed heel that catches him in the shin, and then Mic tries to hoist Trace off the ground.
Morgan squeaks in firelizard delight! This is just TOO much fun! Blue eyes wheeling and spinning quickly, the bronze dips down, and again fetches up another dry pat of dung - and repeats the process again. Bamf - Bamf - Bombs Away! He circles a little higher above to observe the effects of his playful interference.
"Let me go." Trace grunts as he's lifted off his feet rather easily...well, really, it just makes it easier to kick since he doesn't have to stand, right? HE continues to try and get out of Mic's grasp, ready to sock it to him as soon as he's loose to. "Let me go you big dummy!"
In the air above the bowl, Zelieth beats her wings, against the ocean headwinds, and sails out over the corrals.
In the air above the plateau, Zelieth flies down to the black sand of the beach.
Easier to kick, maybe, but now Trace has no leverage to do any real damage. "Calm /down/," Mic growls, squeezing once for emphasis. "Shells, kid..." Which is when Morgan's dried dung splats down to land on his shoulder, breaking off to reveal a moist center. "...the shards?" He's aware of possible interference and starts looking for it, though never quite high enough.
Trace lets out a yelp of surprise at the squeeze, and for a moment he does pause in surprise, but then he renews his efforts. Oh no, he wants down, most definitely. Should he fail to kick Mic in the knees or shins, he may try for... uh... more tender places.
Morgan is too high to be seen well, especially with the sun overhead. And yet again, he zips down, grabs a fat pat...and repeats the process. Bombs away! The firelizard is so caught up in the fun of it all, he fails to notice Zelieth flying to the beach just above him. The large green's huge wake tumbles the little bronze end-over-end, making him squall in panic. Well, at least he got that last pat off!
Tolemic peers at the peturbed bovines, wheels around with Trace-in-tow to glare menace at the empty fence. "/Now/ who's...?" He doesn't get to finish that thought either - in between trying to keep Trace close enough and high enough that the kid can't do any serious damage and keeping their legs from tangling, he has no attention for more love-pats from the sky. At least this one misses them both, dropping with a *splut* onto the ground right in front of them. "See? Now hold /still/ and /calm down/, you sharding wherry!"
Realizing that he really has no way of winning... or really getting free... Trace finally does stop, though he remains a bit tense and ready to knock Mic in the teeth when he does get free. He blinks then as he hears the splut next to him... what the heck...
Morgan has suddenly had enough of this little frolic. Obviously, being wildly and suddenly tumbled by a gigantic dragon has overtaxed his fortitude. With nary a sound, the little bronze pops *between*, taking his injured ego with him. Take *that*, you silly two-leggers!
Tolemic's not about to buy Trace's sudden capitulation, though his arms do relax slightly and he stops squeezing quite so hard. "You going to behave, or am I going to have to do something you're going to regret?" Morgan's disappearance, like his patty-throwing, slips by entirely unnoticed.
Trace also misses the dissapearing flit, his own attention shifting back to Mic. He doesn't respond at first, but then finally gives just a short, small little nod...take it for what you will. At least there's no more patties flying around.
Tolemic takes a careful step toward the fence, still holding Trace above the ground (and above any possible squelchy steps, lucky him). "You're going to behave?" he asks again. "And I want to hear you say it."
Trace's face darkens a bit. Darn, he's caught onto his tricks. His fists clench and unclench a few times before he nods, "Fine." He says finally, "I'll be good." For now at least.
"Right." Mic nods, then slowly opens his arms, letting Trace slide back down and free. "And you know as well as I do that men don't go back on their word. Now I -still- have to get to my afternoon chores, and get a bath and some food in before I go. I don't see any reason to tell your boss you were throwing muck around... /if/ you keep behaving yourself."
Trace backs away as soon as his feet touch the ground, and while his fists clench again, he stays true to his word and behaves. "I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't said all those things." He retorts back a little snippishly, but then without another word he suddenly turns back and walks to his pitchfork, grabbing it angrily and beginning mucking again, not even looking at Mic. Were his eyes a bit moist there for a moment...maybe, maybe not. Hard to say, since he won't look at Mic now...he's just going about finishing his punishment.
Tolemic retorts, "I wouldn't have said them if you hadn't acted like them." He starts to brush a hand back through his hair, then catches sight of what's on his hand and drops it again. "Act like a man, Trace, and people'll treat you like one. Act like a kid and they'll do that." Words of wisdom delivered for the day, he drops the kid a nod and starts for the fence again. Maybe this time he'll get up and over unmolested.
Trace pauses a moment at Tolemic's words, but he doesn't look to the man, nor say anything else as he simply begins working again. He'll show them all some day... he is a man, not a kid. He's made it this far after all, hasn't he?
Tolemic does in fact make it out of the corrals without a look behind, since Trace makes no sound to catch his attention. Whistling slightly, he first strides, then jogs (despite the heat) for the other end of the bowl, leaving corrals, fight, and boy behind.
[End of log]