[Log] Effecient mode of travel
Who: Balinne, Zelieth, P'traul, Yjimeth
What: Yjimeth's first flight! Afterward, there is talk of mentors, and P'traul milks some pity for all it's worth.
Where: Main Beach, Ista Weyr
When: Day 14, month 7, turn 18 of Interval 10.
It's not so late now that there won't be a good hour or so of sun left -- or at least so P'traul hopes, who's still not seen Yjimeth take to the air. There's still a few weyrlings of the handful out on the beach who hasn't either, so graciously enough (though not without some sighing and crossing of his arms and tapping of his feet) the brownriding weyrling's letting B'orl and blue Aiteth have a run at it first. And /then/ Yjimeth'll go. Right?
"Alright, good job," says Balinne, clapping twice for the blue pair. Zelieth just yawns, oh so /bored/ with the whole process. The green is curled up in the beach, head turned towards her rider and the weyrlings. And lucky P'traul, it seems that yes, he *is* next. Balinne flaps a hand at the brown pair and repeats the customary warning: bend at the knees, only a few flaps, no tricky movements. "Is he ready for it?" she asks, eyeing P'traul.
Yjimeth is interested in everything /but/ the matter at hand, it seems; he's crouched deep into the sand, nudging into it with a spaded muzzle, digging a pit with nose and claw while Aiteth goes up... and comes down. Is he ready for it? P'traul blinks over at his brown for a moment, then back to the Weyrlingmaster. "Ah, I thought he was eager to go, Weyrlingmaster." Thought being the operative word. Yjimeth merely turns a whirling eye into his excavation in the sand.
Balinne frowns, though it's not in annoyance. "Oh..." and Yjimeth is given a thoughtful look. "Well. If he is not interested, perhaps we should postpone his first flight then, hm?" An eyebrow arches, as if the Weyrlingmaster were calling the brown's maturity into question. The idea is echoed in Zelieth's mind, aimed towards the young brown. It's a halfhearted attempt to get him interested in flying, without any real threat behind it.
The idea echoes... and echoes and echoes again, through cog and beaker and dripping tube. Zelieth's probing draws Yjimeth's attention /up/, at least, to the green, and he protests mildly while he paws again at the sand, << There are /things/ down here. I would like to see them. >> P'traul, too, frowns down at the dragonet. "I - well, I would like to see him fly. Yjimeth," and he says the name slightly louder. "Wouldn't you like to fly tonight? Before it gets dark? Can't Zelieth, ah, /make/ him?" This quiet again.
Zelieth is so, so not amused. And so, so bored. Another yawn, echoing mentally. There's an airy reply, as if more important things were on the green's mind and she was being ever-so-cruely forced into playing this role. << The *things* >> said so distainfully, << will still be down there when you're done. >> A heaved sigh. << Don't you want to fly? >> as if not wanting to do such a thing was so very *wrong*. Balinne frowns again. "Well.. yeah, she probably could if she leaned on him a bit. If he recognizes her as senior in rank. But that's not really the way we do things around here, ya know? I'd rather not force a dragon into something he's not ready for."
"He /is/ ready though, really he is," P'traul insists, now taking the two quick steps between him and his dragon to close the distance and nudge not-very-inconspicuously at the brown with his knee. "He has been doing the proper wing exercises. Come on, Yjimeth." Slooowly, deliberately, the dragonet switches his attention from green to lifemate. And stands quite still for a moment before all at once he spreads his wings. << Of course I want to fly. >> He seems offended at the very thought. << It was just that other things occupied my attention. >> Until now, obviously. "Oh - ah, yes - there. Now he would like to, yes."
Finally! Zelieth's head settles back where it was, and her mind retreats from Yjimeth's, not that that's settled. Balinne grins. "Wonderful! Now, move back," she gently reminds P'traul, "As he seems intent to take off right there. A running start is best, of course. A little down the beach and then up, into the air!" She makes it sound so easy. "Tuck legs on the landing, and remember to bend those knees!"
P'traul retraces his movements so he's out of range of the brown's wings, even lifts a hand to his eyes to fend off any resulting sand from the takeoff. "... of course," the weyrling repeats, faintly, while Yjimeth plucks each foot in turn from beach to shake it free of any clinging sand. It's a meticulous, businesslike process, as he experimentally beats his wings once, twice and then begins down the beach in his stately, bow-legged gait; the next wingbeat sends him upwards. His landing is not quite as precise -- Yjimeth tucks and bends but, with a regretful grumble, admits he << failed to account for the condition of the terrain >> as he stumbles sharply into the beach.
Balinne keeps a straight face, even if Zelieth finds it amusing. Laughter, of a slightly cruel sort, echoes from her distracted mind. "Not a bad first try," she decides truthfully. She grins wide as Zelieth relays comments, and notes, "Yeah. It can be a bit difficult at first, but the beach at least makes a soft landing. But that's why they practice, right?" A grin for P'traul. "Would he like to try again?"
The laughter goes either ignored or unnoticed by Yjimeth, who spends a moment or two gazing passively back down the beach, back towards his lifemate, Zelieth, and the Weyrlingmaster. << It is a more effecient mode of travel, yes, >> is his agreement of sorts as the dragonet sets off again, and the second attempt earns a softer landing though a rougher start. "He says he will carry on practising at it, ma'am. He," and P'traul chuckles, returning that grin, "seems surprised he didn't get it perfectly at first."
Zelieth returns an equally passive glance, blinking slowly at the young brown. Balinne grins in amusement. << It is indeed efficient, >> echoes Zelieth. Balinne just says, "Wonderful! And yeah. It'll get easier with time, really," she assures the weyrling. "Much better!" she says for his next landing, conveniently overlooking the takeoff. "How are your straps coming?" she asks of P'traul, adding a quick, "He can keep practicing if he'd like." Apparently poor P'traul and Yjimeth were the last. The rest of the weyrlings are very rapidly looking for something to occupy them. Questions of straps earns a few guilty looks.
Yjimeth even affords himself an instant of self-satisfaction, liftings his wings high, bringing them down and snapping them neatly to his back again before returning to his investigation in the sand. Practise can wait for another day. There are still /things/ to find. "Oh, straps," and P'traul's one of those who look a bit guilty, glancing down at his laced fingers and grimacing a bit. "I am doing -- well. No fine tailor, I, though I think the current set are looking. Good." 'Current' seems to imply there's a small hoarde of them chucked away in a pile somewhere.
Balinne's eyebrows go up, and she manages a passable sigh. "Really. Should take those straps more seriously. I know they're difficult, and take time, but... time's ticking away towards your first real flight." A little pause, Balinne's lips pursing. "Need any help with 'em? Anything in particular you're having trouble with?"
"Oh, I am taking them seriously! It's just my fingers are not so --" P'traul trails off, spreads one hand in demonstration, red and repeatedly pricked index finger easily visible. "-- ah. Adept. The leatherwork itself isn't so difficult -- oiling it and such, it's not so different than Yjimeth -- and I can trim it easily enough. But the sewing. The needle is... very small." He finishes this last a bit lamely.
"I see," says Balinne, leaning slightly forward to get a better look at those hands. "Poor thing. Get some numbweed from the Healers?" she suggests, attempting to be helpful. "And I'm sure you're not the only one who is having difficulties with leatherworking. I'm confident you'll get the hang of it." And she does seem certain, too, fixing P'traul a wide smile and a bob of her head. "Could always ask your mentor for tips..."
He is a poor thing, poor, poor P'traul who nods with self-pity and cradles his finger for the sympathy from Balinne. "A little jar of it, yes, although," he admits, "it is really not that painful. Just embarrassing that I am so terribly clumsy. I should hope so, eventually." On getting the hang of it, of course. "Oh -- yes. I suppose I could. It wouldn't be an imposition? It seems almost silly, that I'm so bad at it."
Almost perplexed, Balinne's head tilts to the side. There's another quick glance for that poor, injured hand before the weyrlingmater is looking P'traul in the eye. Peer. "Can't be good at everything, now can you?" A short laugh, Balinne's smile wide as she folds her arms across her chest. "Now you're being silly. That's what mentors are /for/! To help you with things like straps, or any worries you might have." As if it was obvious. "'Sides. X'lar's good at that sort of thing."
"I wasn't aware of that." That he couldn't be good at everything? Can't be. But maybe P'traul never really /did/ anything, before Yjimeth. Now that the sympathy's gone, he clasps his hands behind his back -- out of sight, out of mind -- and frowns faintly at Balinne's laugh. "It's a silly thing to be bad at!" The brownriding weyrling sighs, giving in with a slump to his shoulders. "Yes, that's what they're for. I'll speak to him about it, Weyrlingmaster." As if it were an order she'd given, and not a suggestion!
An eyebrow arches, though Balinne's comment remains unsaid. She just listens, nods her head, and adds a small "M hm," to the end of it. "Actually," she corrects him, "It's a perfectly normal thing to be bad at. I would expect every weyrling who hasn't had previous leatherworking experience, to struggle with making straps. And you don't have former leatherworking experience...?" Eyebrow arched for the unspoken 'do you?'. "So there you go. Perfectly acceptable to be... bad at straps." A slow blink. "Are you excited about Yjimeth hunting?" Hear as: no more meat carving.
P'traul appears vaguely mollified by her words, though he offers, "My sisters made it seem so... easy. Natural. I expected it to be such." So, no experience on his part, but it runs in the family? "Acceptable, yes. Well." He'll take it for what it's worth with an answering nod of his own head, then a slow-spreading smile for the next thought. "/Yes/," he agrees, emphatically nontheless! Relieved, almost. "He's growing," and the pride there is undeniable, in the smile of the boy towards his lifemate still snuffling around in the sand.
"Sisters do that," decides Balinne, though her words lack conviction. Do sisters really do that? Who knows. The Weyrlingmaster will pretend they do, at least. "And someday, you'll make it look easy too." There. That's better. There's a more enthusiastic grin for his own enthusiasm, Balinne nodding her head quickly. "Oh, they do that." It seems to be the phrase of the day. "Grow. Get bigger. Make bigger messes, too. And watch out at that first hunt! He might try to slobber blood all over you." Is she kidding? Who knows. "Should head back soon, eh? Getting dark."
Even in the fading light, P'traul pales at the thought of blood being slobbered /anywhere/. His mouth opens and closes a few times for lack of anything coherent to say in response, and he shoots a quick look at his lifemate at though daring, just /daring/ him to do it. "They - they do that?" Even the boy's voice is a little faint, while Yjimeth finally extracts himself from the sand and starts back of his own accord, his stilted gait unmistakable. "Oh," Paul shakes himself all over once, agrees with a nod of his head, "Yes, of course." And so: they do. With no slobbering bloody messes, yet at least.
Maybe, intuitively, she knows. Balinne's grin is wide and humored, and she even giggles a little. "Don't worry. They don't *all* do it." She can't help but to tease her weyrlings, just a little. "Enjoy your night, P'traul." She, however, will linger on the beach, heading for her dragon.