[Log] Holder boy
Who: Ajatha, P'traul
What: A cup of water leads to a conversation between weyrling and newcomer in the Sandbar!
Where: The Sandbar, Ista Weyr
When: It is a summer afternoon, 15:01 of day 5, month 7, turn 18 of Interval 10.
The humidity's only making the heat /worse/ as it hits just about mealtime, and P'traul's struck across the beach quite drenched with sweat in search of cooler pastures. He's muttering to himself -- or maybe the brown dragonet out still on the beach -- but either way it's under his breath and mostly inaudible until he hits the bar and says a bit breathlessly, "Just water, please, and ice if you've any, though I wouldn't suspect you would in this weather." Sigh.
And it's like no better at all just out of the sun with those that come schlumping in with the same thought in mind as him. The ones minding the bar are doing their thing, but at present, Ajatha's bringing mugs and things back from one of the other counters back toward the kitchen with one of the former balanced precariously on the line of her arm when she has no more hands. Obviously this is someone that couldn't have been around the Weyr more than a week, two tops. "'Jath, take this one after you dump that lot, would you? Cut my finger on the glass." Jerking her head up, the blond upnods her head and vanishes into the kitchen to do just that, coming back with a cloth to wipe off her hands, drawing up a glass and filling it to the brim with a brow quirking at the breathless rider. "Sorry. Outta ice. Lemme guess.. weyrling? They working you hard?"
P'traul's a bit occupied staring at that cut finger, eyes wide and head tilted just a bit to the side, so that he doesn't notice the mug offered to him until there's a voice going along with it, too. Automatically, he reaches for it, draining near half of the water before he's replaced it on the bar and nods a bit mournfully, redirecting his gaze from the mug upwards to the blonde. "Yes, weyrling." He draws it out as though it could be the worst thing in the entire world. "We've been having extra laps in the morning, as well, and lunch hits just as the heat does so it's not as though I feel like eating /anything/ at all." Woe to him, the bedraggled boy. "My thanks, though, for the water."
Ajatha shooes off the girl with the cut fingers and takes up her place behind the counter, though the inflection on the title of weyrling makes her half smother a twitch of her lips. "You sound like you're at the lowest of the low. Extra laps? Faranth. Punishment, I take it? At least you've not has your heads in the latrine, cleaning with a tiny brush, I hope? S'what Mama makes them do at Southern when someone mucked up. From what I hear, it'll get better. Any time." For the water.
As she moves to take up a more official place at the bar, P'traul hops up onto on a stool, careful not to tip his water though it's nearly empty by now. "It's not --" the boy waves a hand, airily, around. The bar, the beach, the weyr. "-- the lifestyle I am accustomed to, no. And it wasn't even my /fault/," this comes out slightly more plaintive than he intended, maybe, and he explains with a slump of his shoulders, "There was a disagreement in the barracks and it seems the rest of us were caught in the crossfire. So. Extra laps. But thank /Faranth/ it's not latrine duty, yes." She's got a point! "Oh, I forget myself. I'm P'traul," and he offers his hand across the bar.
Ajatha's hand alights into his firmly, her head canting with a lazy smile his way. "Ajatha, of Southern, recently of.. well, here. Not the lifestyle you're used to? What, the work, or the Weyr? Where'd they pick you up?" Taking him in for a long moment, she lets the quirking of her mouth finish. "Holder boy, aren't you? From.. somewhere not so.. sunny." Twitching her nose at the thought of latrine duty, she nods. "It is never fun, the things weyrlingmasters come up with. Seems they're always of a mind for something new and increasingly unpleasant."
"Of Southern, oh, that's wonderful. I've never been, is it much like here? Warm, I mean, and sandy, on the coast." He'd be likely continue rambling on about that had she not asked him a question of her own, and so P'traul interrupts himself all in a rush to say, "Neither work nor Weyr, I think. I'm," a hand flutters upwards, indicating his burnt skin, "of Black Crag Hold, only a few days ride out of Lemos. Mountains, snow, that sort of thing." Which confirms all of her suspicions, yes. "It was rather unfair of her this time, though I suppose she's only trying to lay down the law. The Weyrlingmaster, that is."
Ajatha waves a hand lightly at the description of Southern. "Hot, humid. Rather like Ista, I think. White beaches.. dense jungle.. Though prone to hurricanes and tidal waves.. and even a sandstorm or two. Especially around the time of the Hatchings. It's particularly odd, but one gets used to it. Black Crag? I knew it. Snow? I think I've only seen snow once or twice. I forget what it's like." Her smile vanishes a bit more. "Well, I understand that. What's good for one is good for all and all that. Letting it be a lesson to anyone that steps out of line? Mama's a weyrlingmaster, so she does that.. at the slightest step out of line."
P'traul's all engrossed in her description, leaning forward on propped elbows against the bar to rest his chin in his hands and listen the better for it. "That's /marvellous/," he eventually announces with a firm nod of his head. "I've never seen a white beach, though I've heard that's what colour they're supposed to be. The ones here are quite ominous, all black as they are. Are the sandstorms terribly inconvenient?" He'd like to know that, too, all wide-eyed for her words, and he only wrinkles his nose slightly at the thought of yet more laps tomorrow morning. "She is? Your mother. Not Balinne, I should hope?" The brownriding weyrling gives Ajatha a good once-over. "No, couldn't be."
Ajatha folds her arms lazily on the edge of the counter top of the bar. "I think most are white.. to beige and light brow.. or gold or ..something. Sandstorms? Terribly, terribly inconvenient. Especially when you're standing on the Sands and can't tell where a candidate or a hatchling is until it runs over you. True story.. though not me. Balinne? No, my mother is Rajazad, blue Havath's. I doubt that she's been to Ista in a while.. other than dropping me here."
"And why are you here, then, if Southern is as lovely as you describe it to be?" Sandstorms and all. It's a light, curious question; P'traul smiles brightly upwards at Ajatha, though he spends a moment flicking his eyes about the bar. "If you're not too busy to chat, that is. I've still some time until Yjimeth will need me." At the name of his dragon, the boy does lean out on his stool to peer outside, but there's no young brown to be seen.
Ajatha waves her hand slightly and purses her mouth, a little drolly. "Eh. Mama's big at the Weyr. I mean.. her reputation preceeds her. And as the daughter of one of the.. scariest women at the weyr. Well, it's a little.. oppressive. See, by scary, I mean she's .. well, scary. She makes the weyrlings cry and have nightmares.. though not to the point of damaging the young dragons. She carries a big ol' stick and has that real. hard edhe to her voice. When a girl refuses to cut their hair during the first while of weyrlinghood? Well.. she's shaved heads before. Quite a few. On goldriders, at that. And she's.. strict with her kids, too, so.. Just had to get out of there."
P'traul's own lips part, showing a brief expression of surprise. "Oh," is all he says, at first, until waiting out the rest of it, swirling the few drops left in his mug around as Ajatha speaks. "Only child?" He asks, glancing up at the woman behind the bar. "I can't say I know anyone quite -- like that. Balinne may seen unreasonable to us but it's nothing as harsh as --" chin twitches. That. "I must say, it's sounding more and more as though I lead a sheltered childhood, the more people I speak with. So. How are you enjoying Ista, then? How long have you been?"
"Want more water?" Ajatha leans away from the bar to pluck up one of the pitchers stationed nearby, waggling fingers when the girl with the cut fingers comes back in, newly bandaged so she goes to take care of some of the others that file in. "Nah. Not since I was.. eleven? Ten? Something. Have some sisters back at the Weyr. Half-sisters, flight kids, that kind of thing. Believe me, P'trual, there's always someone worse. I'm enjoying it fine. It was either here or High Reaches where Mama's from originally, so here it was. Warmth. People are nice so, so far, so good. Been here about.. two weeks. Time's running together. a bit. You? Only kid? What's the Hold like?"
"Oh, please, yes," P'traul tips his mug nearer to that pitcher, nods encouragingly towards it. He listens again with that cocked head, offers on the topic of his own siblings: "Two brothers, two sisters, both older. Ah. Full siblings?" If that's the term for it, where in the Weyr there are so many halves. "I haven't been to High Reaches, either, though I hear it's lovely. Two weeks," he nods, pursing his lips together as his eyes suddenly go very distant. "Ah. Mm. Yjimeth is calling for me, you'll have to excuse me, Ajatha. I will tell you about Hold life at a later time?" He drains the last of his mug, neatens his stool once he's slipped down off it. "Thank you for the water," and then he's out the door to meet his lifemate.