Social Butterflies

Protection

2009-08-04T21:52:51Z

After visiting Bety in the infirmary, Persie goes to find Z'yi.

Z'yi and Isforaith's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
Inside, the mundaneness continues with clean floors and bare walls. Neither small nor large, the cavern is relatively warm with a hearth as is typical of many weyrs at High Reaches and a large rug that lies before it. Simply woven, the rug is made up of neatly patterned blocks of primary colors and adds a festivity to the otherwise somnolent weyr. All in all, it seems serviceable as living quarters with the exception of some variants in the coloring of the stone walls, a large panel-like rectangle a slightly darker shade of stone than the rest, and when the rug is shook out, underneath the glint of a tiny latch catches whatever light might be available.

A long, rather trying day has been countered by a hot meal and a soaking bath-- and now Z'yi is home, with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a dessert roll from the food tables in the other. He's on his bed, sprawled out, eyes closed. Barefoot, in comfy, loose clothes, he looks like he's rather obviously doing his best to counter the stresses of the day without... drinking himself into a stupor. (The bottle of whiskey really isn't helping that thought, is it.)

Secath checks in first, her confetti flutter coming at Isforaith. << Is he home? We're coming. >> It's not so much a 'mind if we drop by' as a 'heads up and move over.' The plump little green is in the air not a moment later and coming toward the ledge just as she promised, landing neatly in whatever space is available and letting her blonde rider dismount.

Well then. Isforaith moves over, because he's chivalrous like that. << Yes, ma'am, >> he replies, his tone polite and with only a minimum of ale-soaked bonfires. << He's inside. >> The awkwardly large blue attempts to keep his space to a minimum, though it's hard to *not* take up a rather large spot, when you're built like he is.

Secath will take up as much space as he'll give her, making a show of getting comfortably settled and posing herself just so, because Isforiath is a blue after all and she can't help herself. At least she doesn't settle in to lean against him yet. Meanwhile, Persie hops down and peeks her pale head inside. "Z'yi?" Peering in, she sees him: there he is on the bed doing his best to relax. She wanders right in, right for him, and flops down on the bed next to him, staring at the ceiling. And she reaches for the bottle.

Isforaith may just oggle the green for a moment. She's no Jeibeth, but hey, she's female, and she has all of those interesting parts that he's just now realizing exist. Z'yi, meanwhile, glances up as Persie enters and violates his personal-space-bubble. Does he mind? Hell no. He wordlessly shifts the bottle into her hand, and tilts his head back to consider the ceiling again. "I really should paint something up there, as much as I watch it," he states, his tone only slightly crazy.

Plus Secath has that lovely arch to her neck -- does he see that? She's doing that just for him. Oh yes. And she stretches a wing just so before settling down to watch the bowl below. Persie has made herself at home too and now she crosses her ankles, boots still on, and takes a sip from the bottle. "What would you paint?" she wonders. "Like a pretty scene or something? Clouds? A night sky?"

Oh, Isforaith most /certainly/ sees that. The blue is doing his best not to say anything that would make him look stupid - because Faranth knows that he does 'looking stupid' like nobody else ever could. Meanwhile, Z'yi reflects. "I'm not sure," he states, after a long moment of consideration. "Maybe thunderstorms," he reflects. "It always seems to be raining, anyhow." Does he mean that physically or emotionally? Perhaps both.

"Would you do the lightning, too?" Persie asks, waving a hand diagonally through the air, like tracing a bolt of lightning not yet here. Then she hands the bottle back without looking at him. "Do you have another one of those dessert rolls?" And then, a beat later. "I saw Bety."

"No," Z'yi replies. "That would be.." the quiet man pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts. "Too much like portending doom." A wry smile flickers on his lips, and he straightens, placing his roll in his mouth to reach over with one hand to grab the plate where no less than three other rolls sit. He offers the plate to the greenrider wordlessly (obviously, since his mouth is busy being a roll-holder.) Conveniently, this also keeps him from talking about Bety, other than a quick-flash glance of dark eyes to the weyrlingmaster, and a surprised jolt of eyebrows, upwards.

"But a thunderstorm isn't doom at all?" Persie asks, wrinkling her nose a bit while she stares at the ceiling over head. She takes the roll just as wordlessly, as if they do this every day and all the pleases and thank yous fell away long ago. "It's so hard to look at him. His beautiful face. And to see him wince when he tries to move." The greenrider has to take a breath, a long, tight breath.

"I want to kill whoever did that to him." That would be Z'yi, obviously, after he takes the dessert roll out of his mouth. He just holds it, staring up at the ceiling. It takes a moment for him to realize his grip on said roll was a little too rough: the pastry is now in flaky crumbs next to him on the bed. Oops. His words were emotionless, though that could not be also said for his expression: a dark, cold, angry furor captures his eyes.

"So do I." Of course, one could hardly take that sort of thing seriously from Persie. Plus she doesn't say it with that cold seriousness, but instead sounds like she might be holding back a tear or two. "I don't know why he won't just tell who did it. Why is he protecting them?" She still hasn't taken a bite of her own roll and so little by little the crumbs are amassing on her chest.

Z'yi doesn't bother to sweep the crumbs from the bed-- he just lays there, and his eyes close, after a moment. "I think he's afraid for whoever it is," Isz finally comments. "That's the only reason I can think of. He's trying to protect the asshole," with only the slightest hint of bitterness to the tone.

"But... but why? I mean... who would do that to him? Who could? I don't know that I've ever met anyone who makes me just want to hug them like Bety does. You know?" Persie moves the roll like it's time to take a bite, but no, she gets distracted by her thoughts again and her mouth is too busy talking. "Who could hurt him? And why would he want to protect them?"

"I don't know," Z'yi states, and now his tone is clearly frustrated. "I really, really don't. I've wracked my brain a hundred times to try to think of who would hold a grudge." Then, there's a faint snort. "But I really don't know much about him. About his history. You know?"

"You don't?" This is very disappointing news. Persie gets the roll all the way to her lips this time, but still fails. "I feel terrible. I hardly even know what's been going on lately. But I think he's afraid that if you find out who it was, you'll hurt them or kill them and then... what happens to you? Maybe you're the person he's protecting. Or who he -thinks- he's protecting." Finally, she starts to eat.

"No, I don't," Z'yi states, his tone somber. The bluerider just sits there, the words soaking in to him, and gives a soft snort of almost-disbelief. "I don't understand it. I really don't. I just want to protect him," he states, his voice very soft at the end. "And I feel like I failed him."

"He didn't let anyone protect him, Isz. Jeibeth could have called for... for anyone. Anyone would have come to help him." She's frowning even as she finishes off that dessert rolls. Then she has to lick her fingers so they can be clean when she can reaches for Z'yi's hand. "You didn't fail him. Did he tell you... anything? About what happened? Where he was? Anything?"

"Nothing. He just told me to drop it. Act like it never happened." Z'yi flinches, just saying the words, as if someone struck /him/. "How can.. I don't get it, Persie, I don't." He shifts his hand to tangle his fingers with hers, and leans his head back more on the headboard. "I don't believe one bit of it, and he won't tell me anything. I don't know if I can take this." That last statement is said with a different inflection than the almost-irritated tones of before. "I just wish he would tell someone. So it doesn't happen again."

"That's what I said. That he's just..." But Persie pauses there and she squeezes his hand. "It sounded like he was afraid something bad would happen to me if anyone found out that I knew anything. That that's why he wouldn't tell me. I can't believe there could be someone like that here." Maybe that's part of why she holds Z'yi's hand now. "And whoever they are, if B'tal doesn't say anything, they could do this sort of thing again. To him. To anyone."

"I know." Z'yi's voice is bare. "I've never felt helpless before," he states, his tone abstract. "Not like this." There's another pause, a lingering one. "We should track down his family. I'm sure they must live here. Maybe they would know... know who would do such a thing. Family always knows. Don't they?"

"Do they? I thought you'd have some idea." She tips her blonde head against his shoulder and looks down toward his feet. "He said W'chek brought him to the infirmary. It might be a lie but that would be silly, wouldn't it? I mean, someone would have seen who got him there. Do you think Whit would... know anything?" Persie's teeth catch her lip, worrying it slowly as she thinks.

Z'yi grimaces. "I don't want to talk to W'chek." His voice is very, very flat. "I may punch him in the face if I see him again." He sounds pretty damned serious. "If you take W'chek, I'll seek out-- I guess it would be his sister. I think I've heard him talk about his sister, before."

"Why would you punch him?" Persie asks, finally, at long last, turning to look at Z'yi's face, to study his expression. "I mean, you know, aside from his general W'chekiness." Because everyone is familiar with -that- at least.

"I think he slept with B'tal. When we were together... this last time." A pause. "And because he's a fucking asshole, excuse my french, Miss Persie." The large man shifts, uncomfortable, and claims his hand only to rise to his feet. Man, where'd the whiskey go? He needs it, now.

Well that has her blinking at him. That's new information for the poor weyrlingmaster. "B'tal... The last time, was there more than one time?" Since she has no hand to hold and no shoulder to rest her head on, Persie sits up to stare. "You -think- this or you know it happened?"

"Well, we were together. And then he told me that he slept with someone else, and we weren't together. And now we're together again. It's all... very confusing." Z'yi shakes his head. "I have my reasons to suspect that it's W'chek, but I don't know for certain." He shakes his head, turning half-away from the greenrider.

"You guys are busy," Persie breathes out, shaking her head in bafflement. Just bafflement; there's no remonstrance in her. "But W'chek? B'tal and W'chek?" That's just as bewildering as anything else. She just watches him, hoping for clues even as he half-turns away.

"Busy? I know /I'm/ busy. This is the first night I haven't had any homework to do in..." He shakes his head. "B'tal. W'chek. I don't know. It makes sense. B'tal yelled at me, once. In defence of W'chek. Yelled at me. And Mik!" His head wags slowly. "And a bronze was up there. On his ledge, with Jeibeth. A shiny one. You know how Zhikath looks. I asked him, and he evaded the question. Twice. I just-- I don't know, Persie. It just... it works. I don't know why."

"No, I mean, like... you know. Busy." Her eyes widen in emphasis and a bit of a sheepish grin starts to take over her expression, likely a giggle might follow. But the laugh doesn't really come, not when Z'yi is having such a hard time. She swings her feet to the floor, her back to the bluerider. "I still can't believe Bety would... with anyone. I mean, you've always..." Welcome, Z'yi, to Persie's habit of forgoing full sentences in favor of gists and unfinished thoughts.

"I've-- what. Always been the eye candy? Always been what he couldn't have?" Z'yi's voice turns only slightly bitter. Hey Persie. Quit bringing out the inner bitch in Isz! "People only want what they can't have. When they finally can have it, they don't want it anymore." He doesn't have enough self-confidence. Or maybe B'tal's just giving him a complex. First sleeps around... then comes back... then gets beaten up... then won't tell Isz who did it. Oy.

"You think that's all? That he though you were eye candy to have and toss aside? Really?" She's off the bed now, coming around stand by Isz, reaching for his arms like she might pet them in an effort to sooth that bitterness away. "Do you think that's why he felt awkward and nervous around you? That doesn't happen when a person doesn't care, Z'yi. You know that." Persie tips her head, tries to catch his eye.

"Hell if I know, Persie. What am I supposed to think?" Z'yi turns to face her, now, and his expression is-- disturbed. "I just... I don't know, Persie. I'm damned confused, and so much is going on, I'm just-- I don't know what I'm supposed to do. How to feel. How to react. I just don't know. Everything... everything's so convoluted."

Well if he's going to turn to her and wear that face, Persie will catch his cheeks in her hands. "Oh, Isz. I'm sorry. My poor boys. You're having so much trouble." She might be a slip of a thing, but then she hugs him fiercly, like she might be able to protect him anyway. "If you find out who did this to Bety, will you come find me before you do anything else?"

Z'yi leans into the hug - not enough to make her stumble, or anything, but enough for her to know that Isz really does appreciate said hug. He bows his head, and a shudder wracks through him. A bare, "Yes," is stated to her question, and it sounds like it hurts to say it. "I will."

"You have to promise me, Isz." The shudder makes Persie squeeze him tighter. "I don't want you to get into trouble. Bety and me, both. We don't want to see anything happen to you, okay? And I promise I'll let you hit them, whoever they are." There might be a little smile in there, though it's hard to see since she isn't letting go just yet, not until she's sure the shuddering has passed.

"Promise? That you'll let me hit them?" Z'yi lightens his grip and even holds her off at arm's length to study Persie. "Because if you promise me that, I'll promise you that I'll see you first."

Persie lets her arms slip from around Z'yi's middle to smile up at him as he holds her away, a little shy and a little impish. "Yes," she tells him. "I promise you can hit him. And maybe I'll let you hold him still so I can hit him too." Sympathy returns to her face. "Are you okay?"

Z'yi takes a deep breath - but it seems steadier, before. Z'yi has someone to... identify with. To be on the same team with. Beyond that. A friend. And that is important.. beyond important. That hasn't actually dawned on him, but it will, later. "I'm good." He pauses, ammends, "I'm better than before. Maybe not... good. There's still whiskey in the bottle and crumbs on my bed, so I don't think I could be classified as 'good'." And he even attempts a smile for Persie. It's lackluster. But it's a try.

"Don't drink too much," Persie says, quirking a smile and shaking a finger at him, even though there isn't even a smidge of real warning in her voice or expression. "It might make you do something stupid. Or at least it'll make drills suck tomorrow." It seems, however, that her job here is done and she starts backing up. "You know how to find me if you need me."

"Yes, ma'am," Z'yi replies, his tone better, lighter, than before. "I think I'm just going to go check on B'tal and go to sleep, instead," the blue weyrling states after a moment. "Drinking doesn't seem as important as it did a minute ago." And then he /does/ smile at her, finally, one of those slow but rather gracious smiles that Z'yi's so damned good at, but so rarely gives.

Given the topic at hand and general feelings of the room, neither the hand holding or the head on shoulder or the hugging has the effect of that very nice smile that Z'yi bestows on Persie now. It makes her grin brightly back at him and maybe chew her lip a bit too before she turns to head out to the ledge and off to somewhere else.

"Night, Persie," Z'yi calls after her, before turning to - presumably - put on his shoes and jacket to get ready and go see Bety.

Bety. Oh, Bety

2009-08-03T16:11:57Z

When Persie hears that Bety's in the infirmary, that's right where she goes.

The green weyrling has spent most of his day drifting in and out of consciousness due to the tiredness of being hurt, the general unwillingness to do a whole lot of moving and whatever he was given to help with the hurt. Jeibeth has spent most of the day in the dragon infirmary to be nearby, roused only once from her vigil to eat by her clutch brother Xadovith. Right now B'tal is dozing. One side of his face is more swollen and bruised than the other and there's a knot on his head with a stitch or two. He's definitely not his usual pretty self. Woe.

Sometime during this dozing, Persie has arrived and set up camp at B'tal's bedside. That half-empty mug on the side table is hers and she's pulled some knitting out of her bag and started to work on... something. Whatever it is, it's very colorfully striped. She's been here at least a little while, it would seem and in doing so is now momentarily absorbed in hunting a dropped stitch instead of watching her poor busted weyrling for signs of consciousness.

When he rouses it's with a cough and then a groan because coughing right now really hurts. B'tal doesn't notice the other greenrider right away but when he does he says her name quickly, like he surprised to see her, "Persie." His voice is a little rough but after that uncertain moment he tries to smile on the side that's less swollen. "What're you doing?" he manages, glancing at her hands as well as he can without moving. Obviously she's knitting.

The cough makes her jump and by the time he's saying her name, Persie has dropped her knitting to the bag beside her chair and leans in to reach for his hand, to put herself where he can see her without moving. "Bety. Oh, Bety." At once she's both excited to have him awake and fretful about him. The former is wearing off quickly and the latter is gaining presence as she watches his swollen face. "Do you need anything? A bit of water?"

"Water," B'tal agrees. Now that it's been mentioned, he's really thirsty and he even tries to swallow around a dry throat before moving his arms carefully to push another pillow under his head. Ignore the wincing. He can do this. "Are you okay? Is everything okay? Z'yi hasn't hurt anyone, has he?" it's a valid concern even though those questions might usually be asked of him instead of by him.

Persie can't ignore it. She winces with him and reaches to try to help him with that pillow. "I'm fine," she tells him. "Except that you're here in the infirmary. Bety, what happened to you? Should I get someone? I..." The questions start to get backed up in her own head and she can only frown and fetch the little glass of water to offer him. "Can you manage it on your own? I can..." She tips the cup; she can pour it right in his mouth if that would be easier.

That's not a question that B'tal wants to answer to he focuses on the water instead. "I can do it," maybe a little stubborn, though he doesn't take the glass entirely, lifting a hand to feel more like he's doing it himself. He finishes it all before he settles back and closes his eyes for a moment. He clears his throat, then sighs and peeks his eyes back open again. "Am I in a lot of trouble?"

Persie lets him empty the cup before she sets it down and refils it again, then she's reaching for his hand. "You're in an infirmary bed. Isn't that trouble?" she asks with a sad frown. "B'tal..." she lifts her glance again, though it's miserable to look at his face in the state it's in. He knows the question she's asking, even if she doesn't say it again. Surely 'what happened?' is the burning question on most minds.

B'tal lets Persie take his hand. He even shifts it so that he's holding hers too. He licks his lower lip thoughtfully, swallows again and fixes his gaze somewhere that isn't her. "It was just-- hot tempers. Too much to drink. He was... bigger." He keeps his eyes shifted away, but he's looking in the direction of the dragon infirmary now, a little distant.

"Bety, it's me." Which might be Persie for 'not good enough'. She strokes his hand, looks over it for injury. "Where were you? Who did this?" Maybe those more specific questions will be easier for the poor busted boy to answer.

They would be a lot easier for him to answer if he wasn't so intent on not answering them. They'd be a lot easier if he were telling the truth. But he's not. He has to think. "At the Snowasis. I had a few drinks. Don't know about them. Started arguing and went outside. Whit brought me here. He was there but didn't come out until after."

"A few drinks," Persie repeats, like she's wondering just how many constitutes a 'few'. "What were you arguing about? Did Whit see what happened? Did he hear the arguement? He knows who did this?" Because maybe if B'tal doesn't give up the information she wants, maybe she can find someone else. Not that she looks like she's going anywhere. "Has Z'yi seen you?"

B'tal shakes his head quickly, which makes him wince. "Whit didn't really see anything except after. And I dunno who it was, exactly. Some guy. Maybe he was visiting." Convinced yet? "Z'yi came by earlier." He leaves it at that but thinking about the bluerider just makes B'tal even more anxious over it all. "If he knows who, he's going to hurt them. I don't want anyone else to get hurt. Can we just talk about something else?"

"Some visiting guy beat you up? In the bowl? He beat you up and no one heard anything or saw anything. No one knows who he was and no one stopped him." Nope, not so convinced. But Persie can't help herself, she moves from her chair to the bed and then gingerly nestles her thin self on the scant bit of space beside him, trying not to jostle. "What do you want to talk about?"

B'tal doesn't say anything else about her lack of belief in his words. But he relaxes when she joins him and asks the last question. That's safer. "I don't know if there's anything I do want to talk about, Perse. I don't want to be here. Jeibeth isn't happy. I feel like shit. But thanks for coming to visit me." He tries a small smile again.

"You can barely move," Persie points out, lightly wrapping her arm on his, resting her head on his pillow. "You're going to climb on Jeibeth and fly home? Get yourself in and out of bed? Remember when you last took something for the pain? Just stay here a little while. Let the healers help you." She watches his face, his swollen face and lifts a finger to barely stroke his cheek.

B'tal closes his eyes. This is nice. And he doesn't really want to notice any looks on Persie's face because of what he looks like right now. "I didn't say I was going to leave," he murmurs even if he sounds like he'd really like to do just exactly that. "Isz'd help, though, if I really wanted, I think." Maybe. He could just as well demand B'tal stick with the professionals. "I don't remember exactly. But I'm fine. You don't need to bother anyone."

"We could move you back into the barracks," Persie suggests, a lilt of humor in her voice, a voice that whispers there right next to his ear. "And then we could all check on you and make sure you don't need anything. And Jeibeth could be right beside you. It'd be like old times only instead of being run ragged with lessons and drills, you'd get to just lay around and relax."

B'tal makes a small face. Anything bigger would no doubt be too painful to bother with. "Jeibeth would like that. But I think that'd just give the healers more work, wouldn't it." It's not really a question. "Be lonely without the rest of them, too." Not that his weyr is teaming with clutchmates. "You should be mad at me, you know. Not trying to make me feel better." His words lack a certain conviction.

Persie dips her head to kiss his shoulder. "Why should I be mad at you?" she murmurs. "Because you got in a fight? Isn't this punishment enough?"

His brightness fades somewhat. He thinks before replying, "Being irresponsible." B'tal thinks on that for another moment, then continues, "Is this my punishment, then? Laying here and letting whoever and their sister come around to see how awful I look? I guess that works." He'd laugh if he could.

"Well, I was thinking the pain was the punishment," she answers with the little laugh he can't manage. "How were you irresponsible? Because you had a few drinks?" Persie is frowning again and then whispering. "Bety, please tell me what happened. I won't breathe a word to anyone."

The questions are left unanswered because B'tal is thinking about the last. "I can't, Persie," he finally murmurs to her. And that pretty much throws the rest of what he's said out the window. "I just can't. You'll tell someone and then everything will fall apart." His voice is low, too, earnest. "I mean, what if he found out? What if he tried to hurt you? I couldn't deal with that."

"No one is going to hurt me," Persie says, completely sure even if she is a skinny breakable blonde. "You think the person who did this to you would hurt me? Just for knowing?"

"I don't know," B'tal murmurs in a very quiet voice. And he leaves it right at that, glancing up at the ceiling.

Persie shakes her head against his pillow and lets out a quiet sigh, not frustrated but instead sympathetic. "Can you tell me why, then? If not who?" At this point, it doesn't sound like she expects an answer. "Bety, this isn't okay. Whoever did this... it's not okay. What if they come after you again? What if they go after something else?"

"I don't know why," B'tal says and he's starting to sound a little frustrated. Despite the 'I don't know' he actually does offer some sort of answer, "He hates me. Hates that I like boys. If he comes after me again, at least it's not someone else, right? It wasn't like this before. I wasn't... ready." He hesitates, then tries to turn his head to look at her, "Don't say anything. Please."

"Bety," she breathes out. Still delicate with him, Persie wraps an arm over him now, a hug if a gentle one. She's quiet for a moment, just letting his words roll around in her head and offering whatever comfort a hug can give to a bruised body. "I don't even know what I would say. I don't know who would do that. Not in a Weyr."

B'tal accepts the hug. Even if it did hurt a little, he wouldn't say anything. He'd rather have the hug. He doesn't say anything else to the greenrider right now. He's already said too much. So he just lays there and tries not to panic. He's doing pretty well, actually.

His silence is enough. Persie might not know how much panic he's fighting, but she senses enough tension to give up her questions. "It's okay," she whispers to him. "You're okay." She lays there wrapped beside him for a few moments and when a healer passes by, Persie gives him a look. It's not long before that healer comes by with some medication for the pain and swelling.

In the time between the healer passing by and coming back with medication, B'tal looks at Persie and leans closer. "Maybe-- maybe later. Okay? Just don't worry about it. Please." And he glances away to look at the healer then, answering questions that he's asked about how he's doing and blah blah blah the way that he should.

With the healer nearby, Persie remains rather comfortably perched on the edge of the bed, just laying and waiting and listening as B'tal answers the question and receives whatever sorts of medication. When that's all done, Persie is still laying there. "I'm going to worry about you until you're all fixed up and well again. And maybe a while after that. Like... until I get old and gray. And even then I'll only stop when I'm too senile to remember my name, nevermind who you are. You should rest. Get some sleep." It seems she intends to say right there until the weyrling dozes off again.

When the healer leaves again, B'tal murmurs, "Thanks, Persie." The tone he uses is thankful in a way that he can't quite get through with words. But all this talking and then medications are making him feel exhausted all over again. It doesn't take long for the battered weyrling to slip off into unconsciousness, especially not with his favorite greenrider there beside him.

Not like it was graceful or poetic

2009-07-16T07:26:56Z

Persie wanders into the records to room to stumble on some weyrlings. It's not long before it's just her and Bety again.

Records Room, High Reaches Weyr(#367RJs)
Books. Scrolls. Bound hides. Maps. If it's a record pertaining to the Weyr, it's likely to be in this roughly oval room with its floor-to-ceiling cherrywood shelves, its multitude of slots for scrolls, and its wide drawers for materials that shouldn't be rolled up or folded. A scribe is usually on duty at the tall desk up front with its good view of the room, and is able to help visitors find what they're looking for via the big bound index on its rotating stand. Past the desk, several tables stand in neat rows for note-taking, each stocked with glowbaskets, scrap hide, paper and pencils. Additional lighting is provided by a many-armed wrought-iron light fixture, its glows gleaming through luxurious glass containers in fluted shapes instead of baskets.
To one side of the room, a gap between two sets of shelves outlines where another set once stood, now replaced by a tapestry-covered aperture. Peeking behind the tapestry reveals another cavern, this one likewise full of shelves, but occupied by only a few boxes of older records and a somewhat musty air of disuse. As well, two narrow but solid doors are locked when the room is unattended and a discreet staircase provides direct access from the Weyrleaders' weyrs.
Contents:
Z'yi
B'tal
K'ndro
Obvious exits:
Weyr Entrance Council Chambers

B'tal is left somewhere in the middle since he doesn't follow Z'yi to his table and he doesn't go back to the deliberately busy K'ndro. He just lingers there a little awkwardly and not at all sure what to do with himself. When K'ndro finally says something, B'tal looks at him and smiles encouragingly. Maybe even a little proudly. And then he looks toward Z'yi to see if he's paying any attention.

"I was the ass." Z'yi levels a pen in K'ndro's direction. "Tell him I was the ass, would you? And that it wasn't his fault," he questions B'tal to pass along. "Since he'll likely not want to hear it from me." An irrepressible smile tweaks at this side, then the other, of Z'yi's mouth. What? There's nothing like suddenly reverting a decade of age. Oh, to be a kid again...

"Ye -weren't-..!" K'ndro starts, whether or not B'tal is going to play along and attempt to pass the message along, that uncharacteristic annoyance flaring up again. His teeth click audibly when he snaps his mouth shut, wrestles down whatever that was and says in more Mik-like fashion, "Aye, maybe ye were. But no more'n normal an' I had absolutely no right t'say what I did or how I did." Except for kicking mud-caked Raith out of the barracks. -That- he'll stick by, especially after he cleaned it up. Self imposed penance, maybe. Whatever. For the record (haha) the trio are near the back of the room, and mostly haven't drawn down the wrath of clerks or records keeper, keeping voices quiet-ish.

A head peeking into the records room might not be so notable if it wasn't that particular blonde head, pale hair hanging, big eyes taking a quick glance around. Maybe she was looking for that gaggle of weyrlings tucked at the back of the room -- a smile spreads so immediately across her face when she sees them. Then the rest of her comes in, posture straightening now that she isn't peeking around the door frame. She ambles toward the boys, tossing a quick smile and a little wave at one of the clerks as she passes by.

"I'm not playing messenger for you," B'tal says to Z'yi with some amount of amusement and he even sticks his tongue out for a brief moment at the bluerider. "There! See, everyone can go back to normal, right?" Things are so much better then they're normal! B'tal double takes on Persie when he notices the blonde head and he beams a smile before moving toward her and offering a hug. "We're not doing anything we shouldn't be," he's quick to say before withdrawing a making his way back toward Z'yi.

Z'yi smiles to Persie, briefly, and opens his mouth to say something in reply to Kandy, when an assistant weyrlingmaster tromps in, looking quite irritated. "Z'yi. Isforaith..." That's all he states, before Isz groans and heads out. Damned dragon.

Oh, Persie's here? Hyper aware had turned to hyper focused, and it's not until B'tal is smiling and offering hugs that K'ndro becomes aware of her presence. And then Z'yi is trudging off, and Mik just miserably watches him go. Are things back to normal? Were they ever 'normal' to begin with? But the look in his eyes is swiftly shuttered, and all other appearances have him standing straight and tall. Solid and steady, and an easy smile that fails to warm brown eyes as he crisply salutes. "Ma'am."

Persie hugs Bety and lets her gaze watch as Z'yi walks past looking rather disgruntled. She manages to flick a look back at K'ndro before her hug even ends. There seems to be enough tension for her to notice and ask, "Um, what did I just miss?"

B'tal can't hide the look of disappointment that lights in his eyes when Z'yi says his dragon's name and takes off. He looks down at the ground, leaning his rear end back against the edge of the table where the bluerider was just sitting. But then he tries to plaster on a smile and glances at Persie with a shake of his head. "They were just talking. And then, well, Isforaith, I guess." His gaze shifts briefly toward the way Z'yi went.

"Nothin' 'f any importance, miss Persie," is K'ndro's rumbled reply. Guy stuff, all gruff and bother. The younger mountain of the weyrling corps shifts all those hides and things he's got tucked under one arm, and steps away from 'his' table to locate the shelves he'd borrowed the maps from. Which are not so far away as to remove him from the immediate vicinity. "We needed back t'th'training cavern or somethin'?"

Persie looks a bit skeptical, passing her glance from B'tal to K'ndro and back again. But they said it was nothing and who is she to pry. "No, nothing going on really. I just looked in and saw you and..." She shrugs, innocent. "What are you guys studying?" She lifts her chin to peer after K'ndro's hides and things, the maps. Should be a clue.

"Nothing," B'tal answers perfectly honestly for himself and glances at K'ndro's stuff as he moves to sit more directly, albeit less properly, on the table he's been leaning against. "I was just-- in here." Also true. "It's raining." Which is probably pretty obvious to anyone that's been or seen outside.

The maps? Are all nicely folded or rolled, depending on how K'ndro found them originally, and are being placed on the shelf where all such maps of the local areas around the Weyr are kept. "Factorin' distances, miss Persie. Was usin' local maps t'help work things out for th'latest assignment. Long flights, distances as c'n be covered, how t'best set up so each member 'f a wing pulls their weight without gettin' overtaxed." Turning back towards the greenriders, another smile, more genuine this time, and another salute. "Should get t'finishin' th'work off proper. Good day miss Persie, B'tal." And so excusing himself, the bronzeling turns and makes good his escape.

Persie listens, nodding as K'ndro explains all the stuff he's been researching, and grinning a bit for his apparent interest in it. But then the bronze weyrling is heading out and she turns to rest against the table beside B'tal as she watches K'ndro go. "Did they leave because of me?" she wonders aside. "How have you been?"

"I doubt it," B'tal says and offers Persie a genuine smile despite his overall disappointment with them both leaving. "I've been okay. Ready to get out of the barracks. You have no idea how ready." Granted, she probably has a pretty decent idea how ready considering she's been there before, once upon a time. "What about you?"

That's exactly what Persie says: "Oh, I've got a pretty good idea. It's different for me though. When you all leave to your own little weyrs and the barracks get empty and quiet... It feels like my babies have grown up and left. And, well, you did but.. you know. It's exciting, though. And everyone does get a bit... I don't know, tense just before hand. Knowing it's coming soon and all that." She puts her hands behind her to hop up onto the table, sitting with knees apart and feet dangling. "I've been pretty good. Busy. Cleaning up my weyr a bit. So what was going on with... them?" She swishes a finger toward the exit where the two departed weyrling so recently disappeared. "Or did you miss that part too?"

"I think we've all been a little tense about it for the last couple months," B'tal teases. "But I'll miss everyone, too. I haven't ever really had a space of my own. Maybe someone will let me stay with them if I get lonely," he says, smiling before he's looking toward Persie gestures. "Oh, well. I guess they had a fight a little while ago and they haven't really been talking to each other. I was kind of trying to make them," he lifts his hands and kind of meshes them together, "Do that again."

"Yeah, it's kind of a shock going from sharing a space with so many other people and dragons and then being all alone. I don't think you'll miss it for long, though," Persie adds with an impish wrinkle of her nose. But more seriously, expression dropping and eyes getting bigger. "They did? I knew about that, didn't I? It was a while back?" She chews her lip, searching her messy memory for those details. "Was it working?"

B'tal is grinning but it fades somewhat when he focuses more on the subject of his peers. "Yeah, a while. And I'm not really sure. They can both be hard to read. Isforaith needed Z'yi before he could really say anything. So," he shrugs. "They're so stubborn. Both of them. Sometimes I wonder how they were friends to begin with." A pause and his legs are swinging slowly, "I hope none of it's my fault..."

"Well, maybe that's why they were friends. They were stubborn on the same side or something." Persie doesn't look sold on this, even if it is her own idea. "Why would it be your fault?" she wonders, head canted as she considers the greenrider sitting beside her, profile all the way down to knees and back up again.

"Maybe," he murmurs, unconvinced. "Well, I don't know. I guess-- I'm not really sure how K'ndro feels about everything. He acts like it's okay and he's nice and everything, but maybe he doesn't like that Isz and I are kind of..." B'tal lets that trail off because he wouldn't even know the word to use to finish his thought. "Not that they were fighting over that. I'm not sure what that was exactly." He seems to realize how he sounds and glances at Persie sheepishly, "Sorry."

"Not that two lovely, enormous boys were fighting over you?" Persie twists the words, grinning her big, goofy, teasing grin. "You think it makes him uncomfortable? You and..." Her smile pulls sideways, a little smirk but seeing as how this is Persie, there's hardly anything superior about it. "So what's going on with you two now anyway? When did... you know. You haven't told me anything." B'tal, probably scolded.

The junior greenrider is blushing a little bit now and looking even more sheepish. "It hasn't been that long since we've been more," again with the finger meshing, "Together. I was talking to Millie one day and I decided I wanted us to be us if he did, too. So I asked. And now we kind of are, I think." B'tal is starting to master this goofy grin that he probably doesn't even realize he's wearing. "Anyway, I don't really want to ask. I think we kind of make each other uncomfortable. Me and K'ndro."

Persie loves the goofy grin; it makes her eyes shine gleefully and her own smile light up. "You just... asked? Like, 'Hi Z'yi, I like you. Want to...'" Except she can't think of how the rest of that would go. "What do you ask? Want to be with me? Kiss me? Hold hands?" She breaks out in a giggle at her own suggestions and, well, Bety's trouble with K'ndro will just have to wait a moment or two.

"Sort of," B'tal says. "Not like it was graceful or poetic or anything. I asked if he wanted to see if we worked. And he does, I guess." Which makes the green weyrling all sorts of happy and swoony. "I doubt we'll be in the same weyr or anything like that. Definitely not until after all this, you know, if he still wants to be around me." He thinks for a second and then adds, "I've never done this sort of thing before."

"But you just asked out of the blue? I mean, did you know he might be interested? I had no idea. I figured he was into girls, you know? I thought I saw him looking at Ajatha once." Persie brings a knee up, hugging her leg and setting her chin on her knee. "I haven't either. I mean, not like that. It's always the other way. Someone just sleeping with me who's not really interested in being with me. Not someone who's interested in being with me even when there's no fooling around or whatever. Do you think it's kind of scary? I think it's kind of scary. Exciting and wonderful and kind of scary. Maybe because it's exciting and wonderful and so it can't possibly be true."

"Oh!" B'tal blushes and shakes his head quickly. "No, no. Not out of the blue. I didn't think he was interested in, you know-- I mean, I though he just liked girls. But!" And he shifts a little to face Persie more than just sit beside her, "There was this one time we were bathing in the same pool and, I don't really remember what happened, but he-- he kissed me. It was like some dream. It still feels a little weird, like I might wake up and I don't want to. And scary," he agrees with that, too, and he's chewing on his bottom lip now.

"He kissed you? Just all of a sudden?" Persie's eyes get all big and wide and excited for her friend before she remembers that he's also her weyrling. "Are you supposed to be doing that? Were the dragons okay? Jeibeth didn't... have any trouble or anything, did she?" Important questions from the weyrlingmaster. And then back to the friend. "When A'son first kissed me it was pretty out of the blue. I just stood there. I didn't... I didn't know it was coming and I hadn't really thought about him like that at all. I was so... wrapped up in other things. It was awkward and he felt bad and I felt bad that he felt bad." She shakes her head at that whole mess, now obviously all past tense.

"Just all of a sudden," B'tal nods and then he's laughing because Persie goes into weyrlingmaster mode. "Nothing happened. Jeibeth is really mellow about that kind of stuff, too. Not as sure about Isforaith but she's good at distracting him. Not that there's anything to distract from. We don't really even kiss more than-- well, not a lot. Easier not to right now." He doesn't seem sure how to respond to this information about A'son and Persie. "But you guys are okay now, right?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, kissing and then other things and then all of a sudden you're getting smacked upside the head by your weyrlingmaster and I'd really rather not have to smack your dear face," Persie tells him, grinning still. "Yeah, A'son and I are great. I mean, that.. that was a while ago. Before we really got together. When we did... I knew he liked me. It felt really safe, you know? Like instead of standing on a cliff with someone, hoping they'll jump when you jump, he'd already jumped and he was down there waiting to catch me." And that part does make her grin turn bashful. Two bashful greenriders talking about their boyfriends.

"I think that sounds sweet," says B'tal, scooting closer to Persie to nudge her with his shoulder and he tilts his head to rest it against her for a moment before he's sitting up abruptly again. He pushes himself off of the table and to his feet. "Anyway, I think it might be worth getting smacked," he teases. "But Jeibeth is complaining about her paws itching, so I should probably go see to the lady before she decides she doesn't need me anymore." He's still grinning, in a much better mood than he was directly after the other two weyrlings left. But then, maybe he'll see Z'yi again!

Persie grins giddily when he nudges her, rests his head again her. "You're sweet," she tells him, in that 'No you are!' sort of way. And when he hops down from the table, she does too. "Don't go doing things to get smacked," she warns him, though it's a lousy warning when she's grinning like that. "I'll see you in the barracks." She leans in to take hold of B'tal's chin and lay a kiss on his cheek, and then he's free to run off to either dragon feet or boyfriends or both.

Are you throwing out my clothes?

2009-07-04T18:49:33Z

A'son comes home to find Persie sorting his clothes. Less to move into the new place! Not that she tells him that.

One night, when A'son is working and Persie's been off since the afternoon, our dashing bronzerider will come home to find his girl, well, going through his things. Except, not just anything, his wardrobe. She's sitting on the bed, wearing one of his shirts, surrounded by piles of his clothes.

So A'son comes home to find Persie in a pile of his clothes. As he pulls his jacket off and lays it down over the couch, he stares at her. The hello doesn't happen right away, because first there's the stare. Which lasts for a little while until, "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I'm not looking. I'm sorting," Persie answers cheerfully. "And trying stuff on. I mean, not for real just... because." She holds up a sweater, one a little too big and a bit worn out. "Do you wear this? I never see you wear this."

"Why?" A'son asks curiously, dark eyes shifting to all the piles of clothes. When she holds up the sweater he blinks and looks at it with some degree of surprise. "I haven't seen that sweater since before I left for Ista. And I don't think I've worn it since just after weyrlinghood."

"Yeah, I think it's time to get rid of this one, too." Too. Which means there are others. Or have been others. And as Persie throws the sweater toward the pile by the door, he can see where the others have collected. "I've been putting all your Ista stuff over there," she adds, pointing to another pile. "I don't know how much you want to keep. I mean, some of it is probably good for summer, but you don't need all of it, right? And where are all your shoes?"

"Shoes?" A'son repeats with a dull echo. He looks down at his feet, which are currently in a pair of extremely beat up boots. "There are sandals. Somewhere." He gestures towards the ledge, like they might be over there in some unknown location. "Are you throwing out my clothes?" The question probably doesn't need to be asked, considering. But he does anyway as he takes a few steps towards the sorting and stares at all the piles. "You can throw all my Ista stuff in the garbage."

"Of course not. I'm sorting. And the stuff you don't want anymore can go down to the stores." A more familiar shirt gets put in a pile behind her without asking his opinion. And then another. Then Persie frowns. "Everything from Ista? All of it? There isn't anything comfortable? Anything you liked? What if we want to take a day trip? Or what if we get a nice heat wave next summer?"

"No. It was all awful and the only reason I didn't leave it in boxes in my weyr is because Griere probably would have boxed it all up and sent it after me. Like some sort of curse." The validity of this statement is probably best left unchallanged for now. "I can get new clothes from stores that aren't these clothes. I mean seriously, look at this stuff." He sweeps an arm down to pick up a ridiculously expensive looking shirt. "Terrible. What a waste of marks. I'm glad I didn't spend much on this crap."

"Ok, well, take this pile and put it over there with the other stuff to go out? It'll give us more room." Now Persie is going through his boxers one by one. Some stay, some go, getting thrown in the Ista pile or the pile for the stores or maybe just at A'son. "Why did you hate it so much?"

A'son turns around to eyeball the other things that are on their way out. He obediently takes the pile and brings it over to the appropriate location. While he's settling it on the ground though he finds a shirt with the sleeves raggedly cut off. "Hey! You can't get rid of this." He whines in an aggrieved tone. "This is my lucky shirt." That he never wears. "It had bugs and tons of rain. And annoying crazy women."

"So put it here behind me. This is the keeper pile." She twists an arm around to patpat the mound of more familiar, often worn clothes. "Is that really why you hated it?" Persie asks more quietly, her head tipped now, her hair hanging to one side, neck arched from the wide collar of his too-big-for-her shirt.

"And no one liked me. Except T'mic." This is muttered and rushed. Like maybe he thinks this is a terrible reason for hating a place. But he's back with the lucky shirt and placing it carefuly down on the pile. A'son drops down onto the floor across from her, staring some more as she shifts through his clothes. "Why are you doing this again?"

"Don't say that," Persie says, leaning across the pile and reaching a hand for whatever part of him she might be able to touch. "It can't be true." She stays there, rather flumped over the clothes. "I was going to pack some of your things to move to my place. And pack soem of my things to move to... here. But you have all this stuff you don't wear, I thought I'd just go through it."

A'son's hand reaches over to take hers and leans over his clothes, piled as they may be, to kiss her on the cheek. "Well, sometimes it is. I'm glad to be popular with you." He grins and pushes away, looking around the weyr again. "Oh! So that we can transition more easily. That's a good idea." There's another smile as he leans his elbows onto some pants. "You could have just asked me to make room for you."

"I wasn't doing anything, just waiting for you. So I figured I'd get started," Persie says. "After this there will be plenty of room for my stuff." But as he's pulling away from that little kiss, she's catching his collar to pull him back. "You're very popular with me," she assure him, grinning impishly. It looks like she wants another kiss, a proper one.

A proper one? A'son can oblige this, apparently. He allows himself to be pulled over and kisses her enthuasitically once he's over there again. His lips curve up into a grin even as he kisses her. "I think you're my number one fan." The bronzerider admits, shifting so that he lean against her amongst all the clothes. "Yeah, I think you cleared out a lot of my things, actually."

Persie is grinning too. A giddy sort of smile that mars that kiss, or make it better depending on one's point of view. She lets his collar go, lets him lean. "Well, I still have this pile." The one they're laying on. "It's mostly pants. And then I'm done and then we get to put it all away. Except for the stuff that goes home with me. Whenever I get around to going there." At the edge of the pile, a pantleg moves and a cat nose peeks out. "Oh, and you should go through the pile for the stores. Just in case there's other stuff in there you want to keep."

The one that he's once again leaning into. He's smiling like a fool and his hand goes out to try and capture the cat nose. "Come here! Kitten!" The kitten that's looking more like a cat everyday now. He manages to get her out of the leg, wheedling her into his arms. "You don't have to go there anytime soon, do you?" He glances back at the pile that's going to stores and rolls his shoulders. Still cuddling the squirming cat. "I have my lucky shirt."

For a moment, with the smiling and the cat wrangling, all Persie does is watch him. Her own grin is plastered all over her face. And when his question comes, she shakes her head. "No, I don't have to be anywhere. I'm here for night. Tomorrow I have the afternoon shift." Then it's back to the pants, this pair behind her, that pair off in the goodbye pile. Little by little they disappear and slowly reveal her bare legs beneath. "I wonder what would have happened if you hadn't left. Do you think you'd be happier now?"

While making smushie faces at the kitten and kissing her on the head he must be thinking about her question. "I don't know. It's not something that I like to think about, you know?" A'son finally says. He releases the kitten before leveling Persie with a more serious look. "I'm happy, I think. Even if my mother is still demanding to know why her bronzeriding son doesn't have any kids." Are those exposed legs? A'son shifts closer off the pile to get closer to her.

"Maybe you'd be with Milani and you'd never have had all that trouble. And you'd never have all that... hurt and anger toward Ista. Maybe..." Persie stalls a little, and tries to tug a pair of pants out from under his knee. "Maybe you and I would have gotten to know each other sooner. I feel like we'd barely met when you left. And it's funny to think about that now, because I just remember being so happy to see you when you came home." There's some shyness there when she bites her lip, remembering that reuinion. "Your mother... you're nothing like her."

"I'm nothing like either parent." A'son comments with a roll of his eye. He pauses when the pair of pants his pulled out from under him and he pushes onward, finally very close. His head drops down into her lap. "I think we would have. I know that I wanted to." He tells her, rolling over so that he can look up at her. "I felt very happy to see you too. Something about your smile and just... It was you."

She starts to giggle when the pants are out of the way and his head ends up in her lap. "You make me feel like I'm some sort of treasure. I'm really something all broken and messed up that nobody wants. But you look at me and I feel like I'm worth something." It makes her voice quiet, all that gratitude. "Not just on the surface, but really. Not pretend." The clothes are all forgotten; now her hands stroke through his hair.

"You are some sort of treasure. You're my treasure with your blonde hair and giggling. And the way you abduct my cat and sort my clothes for me." He grins and turns his head to kiss her leg. "And you make me feel better and not like some loser that messes everything up." There's a content smile on A'son's face as she strokes through his hair.

"You're not a loser. Not to me. I mess everything up, too. Maybe we're just losers together." Persie's hand smooths over his check, down his neck as she smile at him, her head bent and her hair hanging. "I don't feel so much like a loser anymore, though." Then she bends a little more, closer, and whispers, "Are you going to fall asleep here?"

A'son wiggles around on the floor, shifting himself into a more comfortable position. He turns his head just a little so that he can better see her face from down there. "You were never a loser. At least not to me either." He smiles softly up at her. "I think I might fall asleep here. We don't need to sleep in the bed, do we?"

Persie scratches lightly across his jaw, that scruffy beard. "You're even lazier than I am," she teases, smiling. Her glance drifts from him to the few remaining pants he's laying on, back to the rather large pile of clothes to keep that's mounded behind her. She must decide these are things she can deal with later because instead of rallying to continue her sorting, she starts to sing a lullabye.

"I'm really very lazy." A'son admits, pressing his face into her legs. When she begins to sing the lullabye, he laughs gently and closes his eyes. "You're wonderful." He kisses wherever his lips hit her leg and wraps his arms around an available part of Persie. "Lay down with me."

"I'm going to get cold," comes Persie's protest, even as she obeys and starts wiggling to get out from under him so she can lay down beside him in the uneven piles of clothes.

When she lays down next to him, A'son's arms go out to start pulling clothes on top of them. Pants, shirts, boxers, socks. All sorts of things are used to pile over them. "How about that? Maybe you won't be so cold now. And." He wriggles next to her, wrapping his arms around her under the clothes.

Persie cannot help but giggle as A'son starts creating makeshift covers out of his wardrobe, like padding a nest. When he finally settles down, she drops her head heavily against his shoulder. "This is good."

"Good." A'son twists his neck and kisses her on the top of the head. Getting a particularly oversized sweater ontop of them he settles in for a good sleep. In though they're both probably going to be very achey in the morning from sleeping on the stone floor.

The plan to steal all of A'son's stuff

2009-07-02T21:45:51Z

Persie starts to orchestrate a little surprise for A'son with Tiriana's help.

It's an afternoon. And maybe this means that Tiriana is out running around and being busy, or maybe, when Persie arrives on her ledge for the very first time ever in the history of mankind, Tiriana will be inside. "Is she... is..." Persie does a poor job of addressing the queen dragon. << Mine would like to see yours if she's available, >> Secath supplies, sounding very much like she might like to roll her eyes at her inept lifemate.

With the weather being what it's been being, Tiriana is sure to be found inside, and today it's in her weyr that she's found refuge. Iovniath, on the ledge no matter the weather--indeed, the more wintry the more she seems to enjoy it--regards the nervous visitor, then, with something approaching bemusement. << She is in, >> she answers Secath, mild as she moves aside just enough to encourage Persie's entrance.

Persie takes a big breath, letting it out all at once as a smile, nervous and excited, breaks across her face. She grins her gratitude to Iovniath and heads on in, trying to leave as much snow outside the weyr as possible. "Tiriana? Um, Ma'am? Weyrwoman?" One of these has to be right. "I mean, Weyrwoman." At least, for a second she does.

A beat later, Tiriana appears at the door, eyeing Persie. "You know you can just pick one and stick with it, right?" she asks, crossing her arms. She leans against the doorway for a moment while the greenrider shakes off her boots. "You want something to drink or something?"

"Oh um... Well, which is it? I mean, which do you refer?" Persie asks, busily tapping off her boots and trying to shake off the flakes that clings to her hat and scarf, her mittens. "I, um, I can have a drink, yeah. You're not terribly busy, are you? I feel like this is such a silly thing to..." She's just shaking her head, biting her lip, but now she's stopped the anti-snow dance at least and is smiling anxiously at Tiriana.

Tiriana just looks at Persie. "Does it really mattter?" she asks, skeptically. "Just pick something already. Here." And she's turning to head further inside, apparently expecting Persie to follow while she sets about getting a hot drink for her. "What's silly?"

Persie takes two steps inside, just as ready to follow as Tiriana is ready to lead, only Persie is leaving wet boot prints behind her, in the Weyrwoman's fine weyr. "Should I take my shoes off? Is that proper? Talking to the Weyrwoman in my socks? I've never done this before." She frowns down at her feet, starts to bend, stops, starts to walk again, stops. "And it's silly because it's really the sort of thing I should just talk to Milani about but... I don't think it would be... good."

Tiriana, busily pouring a pair of drinks for them, glances up still at all of Persie's hesitations. She breathes out a sigh, remarks, "You know I don't really give a damn either way, right? If you want to take the things off, then take them off already. It's not like I'm wearing my gather finery here." The exasperation is good-natured, at least; at least for now. But the stumbling explanations earn Persie a confused look shortly before Tiriana is passing a mug of tea her way. "What?"

Persie will take that as an invitation to hurriedly get out of her shoes and then come trotting after Tiriana in her bright pink socks. "Well, it's about A'son and you know... Milani and A'son... And I didn't think that Milani would really want to hear from me that, well, he asked me to move in with him. At least, I'm pretty sure. Anyway, it seems like who-is-in-what-weyr is probably something that someone needs to know about."

"Milani and... Oh." Tiriana catches on a beat later, her eyes drawn downward toward hot pink socks. She only remarks, "I have a hat that color," before she's flopping on her couch and then reaching for her own drink to curl her fingers around its warmth. "So you and A'son. And you don't want to tell her that? Why?" Nevermind that Persie just explained /her/ reasons; those aren't good enough for Tiriana, apparently.

Persie's toes curl under at the attention; they must be shy things. But then their owner is taking up a cup and sitting down on the couch with a little less flop than Tiriana. "Well, you know how Milani and A'son had... you know, a thing. And I just figured that if I went and asked her or told her or whatever, that she'd be upset and it would be awkward. Not that she'd act upset, but it would be awkward anyway. I thought this might be less... awkward." And with that, she takes an awkward sip of her drink.

"Coming and telling me?" Tiriana looks more dubious about this. "Not exactly most people's first choice when they come wanting to spill good news. --It is good news, right? He wants you to move in?" A curious look takes in the greenrider over her mug. "Be rubbing it in that bitch's face every chance I got."

"It's good news," Persie says with a quick nod of her head and a smile that's just as shy as her toes were a moment ago. "Well, it's good news to me. Leova kind of laughed at me so I guess that it's... funny news to some people. And I'd imagine that it would be hard news for Milani. I don't want her to be upset. I didn't..." The next word gets lost in the slow press of her teeth into her lip. It takes her another moment to say it. "I didn't steal him. I wouldn't do that. I just feel bad anyway."

"Well," concedes Tiriana, thoughtful, "it /is/ A'son. He's... A'son." She pulls a face, rather disgusted. A shake of her head, though, and she moves on quickly. "I'll tell her, then. It's always good to have a way to keep her down, before she can start trying to walk all over me. All those headwomen and hell, half the way--always wanting to tell me what to do. Or worse, just give me 'a little bit of advice.' Have to keep 'em in their places, all of them." And that thought makes her scowl indeed, just for a minute.

Persie blinks a little, wide eyes slipping down toward the floor as she visibly wonders if maybe this bit of information was a mistake. "I wouldn't know anything about that. Is that... is that a probl-- Well, obviously it is... Um..." Oh, this is a good time to take a sip of her drink. Oh, nice drink. "You... you don't think A'son is..." No, she changes course. "He's so good to me," she says, head bowed. "I mean, he wants me to move in. Me. And he's not scared of me and he doesn't pity me and he makes me feel like... someone."

Confusion sets in; what's she going on about this time. "A'son's not... what?" Tiriana asks, head tilting.

"He's not scared of me," Persie says again, even if the notion is a bit out of left field. "I mean, the way I am. The way I get. When I feel crazy. It doesn't scare him. He doesn't run away. He's sure about me even when I'm not."

"But you're not scary," Tiriana says, as though Persie is missing some extremely obvious piece of the puzzle. "You're wearing pink socks, for Faranth's sake."

"Well, people leave anyway. I'm... not enough. There's always something wrong with me. But A'son doesn't think that. He's like..." Persie falters again, looking for a word. "What do you call that place? The place where nothing bad can happen, where you're safe." Nervously, she rubs curled fingers against her lips. "Anyway, my weyr is too small for both of us."

"Your... safe place?" Tiriana doesn't know, makes a stab at it, eyeing Persie again. "So you want a big new one. His isn't good enough? I don't care which one you take, really--long as it's empty, of course. Or I could throw somebody out, if you really want it." A shrug.

Persie thinks for a moment, and then she lifts her head, looking at some point to the side of Tiriana, blinking a little at the nothing she sees there. "I..." Something seems to have occurred to her, just now, in the midst of all this. "I was going to ask for I'duar's weyr but... I don't think I need to anymore. Maybe I was just scared and it felt... easier that way?" She's look at Tiriana now, asking her this question as if the Weyrwoman would know the answer. "But maybe I still want to. I think someone who remembers him should live there. And it's not right for it to be empty. Unwanted after all this time. What do you think?"

The request makes Tiriana blink, surprise flashing over her features. "That old one?" she asks. "But..." It stumpts her, the latter question, and she stops for a moment as though to mull it. "Didn't really know him, myself," she finally says, slowly. "But if you want it, okay. Little morbid, maybe, but then--." And her eyes glance away, over this weyr, too: her own spoils, of a sort.

This is another new thought occuring to Persie as she looks around the weyr someone else left behind. She leans in a little, just a bit, to ask the personal question: "Do you feel like someone else would appreciate it the way that you do? That she was here? Or is it just strange and not yours because you knew it as hers?"

Though it's been months, closing in on a turn now, Tiriana still hesitates, another wary look shot around the room as though she expects Satiet to step out at any minute and dress her down for making herself too at home. "Got rid of it all," says Tiriana after a moment. "That stuff. Didn't want--need it." Another shrug, deliberate. "Leastways wasn't like I lived here all my life. Impressed here or anything."

"Well, I haven't lived here always either." Tiriana's hesitation much be catching because now Persie looks around again with a renewed nervousness. "But I have so much of my own stuff and there's all of A'son's stuff, I don't think there'd be much room to keep... well, I don't know what's up there now. Could we... could we have I'daur's weyr?" Despite the hesitation, it seems the greenrider has made up her mind now.

"Think it's mostly empty. Left the big stuff, maybe," says Tiriana, squinting slightly as she tries to remember what that one weyr might be like today. It's a good distraction from remembering her own's prior occupant. "Yeah. Take it. Somebody'll have to live in it eventually, anyway, and, well. Like you said."

Persie takes a big breath. "A lot of moving to do," she says with a nervous laugh at the prospect of not only moving her stuff and A'son's stuff, but now I'daur's old stuff too. "Do you think you could... not say anything? To anyone? Until I get it done. I was going to... surprise him."

That makes Tiriana scratch her head, but she agrees with a nod. "Okay, I guess. Won't say nothing, not even to Milani," she promises.

"Well, I don't want him to be in the living cavern getting lunch and have someone come up and say something about moving and have him get all confused. I want it to be a surprise. So he can go home and wonder where all of his stuff went." Persie looks utterly impish at this prospect, the vision of A'son coming home to an empty house as if robbed by air-bandits.

That idea makes Tiriana snicker, her brows lifting up. "You'll have to do it fast, in one day," she points out. "While he's out on sweeps or something, so he doesn't come back and wonder where half his shit ended up." A beat, and she adds, smirking, "Could help, if you wanted. If it'll fuck with A'son."

"That's what I was thinking--all in one day while he's in the barracks or something." Persie is nodding quickly, shifting around as they get into the plotting and planning. She takes a hurried sip of her drink. "Secath is pretty good with the bigger things, getting them from one ledge to the other, but there's still a lot of small stuff to move. Would you really want to help? You know, it's too bad the weyrlings aren't really flying yet. I bet they could get it done in no time."

Tiriana shrugs. "Wouldn't mind, some afternoon," she offers. "Packing. Go through all his stuff. Shouldn't tell him which weyr it's in--just make him search every last one of him first." Which just makes her snicker, and whatever seriousness mention of previous owners might have brought on vanishes the more she imagines dicking with A'son.

Persie just about giggles and maybe A'son -should- be afraid if he's planning on moving in with a girl who would steal all of his stuff and hide it in a new home without warning and without telling him where that new home might be, just to mess around with him. "I bet I couldn't wait very long, though. I mean, part of me wants to be in his weyr when he comes home and finds it all empty, just to see his face. That would probably ruin the surprise, though, wouldn't it." She takes a last, long drink and then sets the cup aside. "I should probably get going. I have a lot of stuff to pack up." And, at the moment, this is exciting instead of exhausting.

Tiriana eyes Persie a moment, smirk undaunted. "What, laying naked in bed waiting on him to find you?" she suggests, with a leer. Her own drink's set aside, but she doesn't get up, only lounges back in her couch again. "Let me know when, then. Could at least keep him busy with something, while you're up there."

"I do that anyway," Persie admits, covering her face with both hands as she stands. Hey, the Weyrwoman brought it up, that makes it fair game. "Oh, yeah, you could send him out of the Weyr altogether. I'll let you know when I'm ready to move. I wonder how much of his stuff I could pack up without him noticing..."

Like a soap opera

2009-06-25T07:00:53Z

After the encounter with Leova, Persie waits for A'son to get off his shift and meanwhile spills everything to Bety, who listens.

It's afternoon on an overcast day, the snow is falling outside and inside, bodily wedged into a cozy chair by the fire with her wet boots on the floor and her socked feet pulled up against her, is Persie. She has a mug of klah in one hand but it doesn't look like she's taken a single sip. And considering the puddle of melted snow around her boots, she hasn't just arrived.

B'tal might have passed on by the hearth at the sight of someone else sitting there by themselves, looking like he probably does a lot of the time, but he recognizes the person at the last moment and turns back. The weyrling debates silently with himself before moving to sit down in a chair beside Persie. "Hey," he says, flickering a smile. "You need a new cup?" A nod is given to her mug.

Persie sucks in a breath as she lifts her head, her eyes, to B'tal, blinking to find him standing there. When did he come in? And then she's blinking down at her cup. She forgot about it. "Oh, um. No. I don't think I want it. You can have this one if you like," she offers, lifting the full mug that is no longer quite as warm as it once was. While it's true, she's been a touch subdued at times over the past few days, at the moment her usual good cheer seems to have been replaced by something more distant and pensive. She squeezes over in her chair a bit more. "Sit with me." No, it's not really made for two people, but neither of them is particularly large, though it might still be a tight fit.

"Sure," B'tal says, taking the mug and moving to sit down carefully in the chair with Persie so he doesn't squish her. Despite the tight fit, he seems comfortable and happy to be close. But not too happy since he has noticed that his Persie isn't her usual self. "You okay?" he asks, taking a sip of cooled klah and then glancing at the mug. Maybe it's not the way he usually makes it for himself. But he takes another sip, so it's all good. "You've seemed a little--I dunno."

Persie does smile a little when B'tal settles in beside her, she wiggles against his shoulder and tips her pale head to lean there. "Well, you know... Vrianth's flight. I've just been thinking about it. And now I've just had a fight with Leova." Just saying it makes her eyebrows pull together, her mouth turn small and frowning. "I'm waiting for A'son to finish his shift." She looks at the klah, watching it go to B'tal's mouth a second time. "I'm sorry it's cold. It's probably cold, isn't it."

B'tal tilts his head without moving too much so he doesn't jostle Persie at all. But he glances at her with his head tilted like that. "Why did you have a fight with Leova?" he asks, sounding uncertain and maybe even a little bit concerned. Attention drawn back to the klah, he gives his head a small shake. "It's a little cool, but it's still drinkable." Teenage boys are good for food disposals, after all. He takes another drink. "It's actually not that bad this way."

"I don't even... She didn't understand why I'd be... I don't know even know what I am. I'm just processing, you know?" Persie lets out a long, tired sigh. "It's not like I don't know how flights work. They just happen and you just... go back to your life and carry on. It just made me think. About a lot of stuff. So I've been thinking. And Leova and I... have all this stuff between us anyway." And then, rather uncharacteristcally, Persie lets out a frustrated cry and turns her face into B'tal's shoulder. "I hate explaining things. I'm so bad at it. You'll just get annoyed and bored and wonder what the hell I'm talking about."

B'tal does seem a little surprised by that frustrated sound but it's the last comment that he reacts to. He shifts slightly and tries to push her back so he can look at her face. His expression is a mixture of seriousness and confusion. "Persie. Darling. You do remember that it's -me- that's sitting here and not someone else, right? I couldn't explain myself out of a knocked over bucket if my life depended on it. And I'm not going to get annoyed. Or bored. If you want to talk. I mean, I don't really know much about you guys or about flights, but maybe it will help?"

Persie looks at him and her expression goes from frustration to one of melting gratitude, her eyes all big and thankful, her nod, the little smile, coming silently. "But I have to go all the way back to explain it. That's how things are. You can't just explain the one thing, you have to explain all of it to make it make sense." However, she seems ready to do it. She readjusts herself, turning a bit to face him, throwing her legs over B'tal's lap, though not into his klah. "Way back, when I was at Fort. I had a guy. And we were sort of together and he won a flight and she got pregnant. And that wasn't the reason things didn't work out with us, but it was sort of... you know. Upsetting. And then there was another guy. And he won a goldflight at Ista and, well, we hadn't been weyrmates or anything, but I was in love with him. And when he was at Ista, he fell in love with someone else. And A'son. He left for turns because of a goldflight. And, well... I know that this wasn't a goldflight and he's not going anywhere but still... Sometimes people leave. I've never had that kind of flight but... it happens sometimes. You know?"

B'tal relaxes somewhat into the seat when Persie gets comfortable and starts talking. He watches her like he wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now and, while some of this is probably more than a little over his head, he takes it all in. "Sometimes," he says, glancing down at the mug he's holding, then back up at the senior greenrider. "Sometimes it seems like we have it easier. With the greens, I mean. They fly and we don't really have to go anywhere or do anything except move on." He pauses there, probably wanting her to agree on this point. Please. "You're not worried that A'son is going to leave, well-- you, I guess, are you? I didn't think him and Leova got along very well."

Persie grins a little at B'tal's take on being the greenrider in the scenerio, or maybe it's the way he's been looking at her without any signs or boredom or wincing. "It's true. And you also know that you'll get, you know, satisfied in the end. All rider who has to chase, I don't know how they deal with it, really. It must be so hard all the time. Like, when there are goldflights and it's not even my dragon who's rising and I get that... you know." Her eyes get a bit wide for 'you know', enough emphasis that she doesn't have to actually say 'horny'. But then she's shaking her head. "I know he's not going to leave. I... you know how sometimes you know something, but there's that little voice in the back of your head murmuring things that you know probably aren't true but just maybe could be?" She's a little more wary for this one, looking over at B'tal with uncertain hope that he's experienced such a thing and won't think she's nutters.

B'tal blushes slightly but he grins, too. It's a small grin, but it's definitely there. "I've been trying not to think about it too much," he admits and his grin slips away. That's all he says on that for now, more focused on what Persie is saying. He doesn't answer the final question right away, but he does lower his gaze. "Yeah, I know that feeling," he tells her after those few moments of silence. His eyes shift back up and he sets the mug aside so he can settle hands on Persie's legs and lean back into the chair. "It's not like they could do it on purpose, right? I don't think they would have wanted to. A'son seems like a nice guy. Most of the time."

"Don't think about it too much. I think that flights are sort of like... I don't know, like throwing up or crying. It's not something you learn how to do. It just happens. And you just learn how to deal with it, like holding your hair back and washing your face of getting a hanky to blow your nose. And either way, you feel better afterwards than before. And they can be a lot more fun, too. Depending on how you..." It seems that here, Persie remembers who she's talking to and her lip catches in her teeth while she chuckles a bit. "Well, how you feel." But that is just in respponse to his comment. She still has to continue the story. "Well, see, the stuff about people leaving, that's just... that's just my part. I have to tell you about the Leova part." Now Persie is playing with the cuff of her sweater, just twisting it back and forth around heer wrist. "Leova and I used to be good friends. And I told her everything. And one day A'son came back and I was excited to see him and so we hugged and smiled and the usual things that you do when you haven't seen a friend for a long time. And Leova told me not to talk to him because Milani wanted to get back together with him." Of course, she does look a bit bashful when that part comes out.

B'tal can't help but smile when Persie talks about how to approach flights. And it must sound just fine to him because he doesn't try to linger on that topic too much. Not right now. "So did you? Not talk to him because of Milani?" He doesn't seem all that surprised that Milani's name has come up. "Did they get together?" He might sound a little too curious. But this is like a soap opera! "What happened?"

His curiosity is not lost on Persie and she looks from side to side with her lip caught in her teeth. "Do you want, like, the whole story?" she asks in a rather hushed sort of way. "I mean, I don't know how important all the details are but... The night that A'son came back, I think that Leova dragged Milani into the room to upset him or... I don't know, get him caught or something. And it just... hurt Milani that he'd come back and hadn't seen her yet. And -then- Leova told me not to spend time with A'son, so Milani could have him. But we were just friends. It wasn't... it wasn't like that. Not for me. I-" She cuts off there, lips pressed together. "They did get back together for a little while. But it didn't work out."

B'tal listens intently. It's interesting, he can't help it. "When did you and him get together for real? Like more as friends." The weyrling asks the question even though he probably doesn't really need to know the answer and it might not even pertain to the rest of the story. "Did Leova try to do something like that with you and him after you were, like, really together? Has Nikoth ever won one of Secath's flights?" That pops out before he has a chance to think about it.

"Oh, um..." Persie has to think about this. A hand goes up to her hair, combing at her temple and halting there while she counts back. "It was after I went in the lake, and then I got sick, from being in the lake. And I was just about better when he left and while he was gone was when I sprained my wrist. So... then." And after that she's shaking her head quickly. "Leova and I hadn't really talked since that night. I just... I was hurt. That she would think that sort of thing of me. That I would try to steal him from Milani. Because it really wasn't like that. And no, Nikoth's never won her. She's... really small, you know? And she tends toward blues and browns, usually with female riders anyway. She hasn't risen since we've been, you know, really together. She'll probably go up in the spring."

The younger greenrider nods his head slowly, letting all the pieces of the story slip into their proper places in his head before his dark blue eyes refocus on Persie. "Is that all of it? Is there more?" He doesn't say it like he thinks that there should be, just that he wants to know. "Leova's always kind of intimidated me," he notes as an aside.

"No. No there's more. Did I mention that Leova and A'son has all this... they had to do this work together?" Persie adds in quickly, maybe a little extra quickly thinking that B'tal's interest is slipping. "They were away from the Weyr together for days. And I know that maybe they don't seem to like each other, but... sometimes people don't seem to like each other and do, you know? And I'm not anything like Leova. I'm the girl who sits home and waits. And I know it was silly, but during the flight, I still wondered. There's that little voice, you know?" She flops her head against the chair, not looking at B'tal for a moment. "It seemed like she thought I was stupid to feel... something. About the flight. To not want to see her. I just wanted to let it pass. And then she... she made it sound like I wasn't fit to talk to weyrlings about flights. And then I think I she laughed at me, when I called A'son my... weyrmate. She was smiling. It felt like she was laughing." And all of this has Persie very quiet.

Even if his interest wasn't actually slipping, this other stuff piques it all over again. There's more! "I didn't know they did any work together. Not till this, y'know. With us." B'tal considers things in his head, then shakes it. "You aren't stupid to feel something about it," he's sure about that in particular. "And I think you're fine to talk to any of us about anything." One of the hand on her legs squeeze gently, reassuringly. "I think you shouldn't worry about what Leova thinks. And if A'son is doing anything with her, I'll beat him up for you." It's a joke. Mostly. B'tal offers a smile to Persie, a cross between adoring and sympathetic.

"It just made me so mad. It's not like I didn't show up to the barracks the next day or like I've been sobbing and whining or anything," Persie says with a frown, one that's just a bit disgruntled around the edges. "And I'd hate to think of any of you feeling bad just because you feel -something- after a flight. Being mad or hurt or confused or just needing some time to yourself... everyone deals with things in different ways. Everyone feels things. And they're not always bad things, either. I've had plenty of good times. Met some nice girls." Here she smiles and lifts a hand to B'tal's cheek, just to brush her knuckles across it fondly. "A'son's not doing anything with Leova. He... he asked me to move in with him. Before the flight happened."

B'tal closes his eyes and leans just slightly into the brush of a touch to his cheek. "I don't think anyone can really say how it'll be for someone else. So if you shouldn't talk to us about things, then Leova shouldn't either. Might as well let us go into it blind." He's actually thoughtful about this, then a frown pulls at his lips before it fades and he puts on a smile, focusing on Persie's words instead. "Are you going to? You should, maybe. Unless you like your own space. I could understand that."

"I think all any of us can do is say that we all go through it and we'll be there if you need us." Since her hand lingers a bit by his face, she gives his ear a tiny, playful tug before the hand drops back into her lap. "Not that you have to worry about it any time soon. It's far away." Oh, but his later comments, they make Persie start to smile, that bright, shy grin like she would be beaming if she let herself. "You think I should?" she asks, not really asking if she should, just a touch giddy that he has an opinion on the matter. "I do really like my weyr, but it's really small. His is bigger but... I don't know if it's really... home."

B'tal lifts a hand to bat hers away from his ear and he laughs. "Very far away. I like it that way." Small grin, then he continues into what's really important here, "Your weyr would still be yours, wouldn't it? You could always go back if you didn't like it. I don't know if I'd like living with just one other person, but I've never tried it. But I've never really had anyone like that either. But yes!" Since he's starting to get off topic. "You should. There's no reason not to. Don't wait at home, Persie. You deserve to have what you want. If that's what you want."

"Well, I think moving in means moving all your stuff and not having your own place to go to whenever you feel like it. I've never lived with anyone either," Persie admits, chewing her lip again, corraling a smile. "It's nice, though. We've been going back and forth between his place and mine and... It's nice having someone to come home to. Or someone waiting for me to get home. I've never... I'm always the girl who loves someone who doesn't love me back. It's all so strange to think it could be another way."

"Well, there's your answer, I think," B'tal assures Persie and he shifts into a slightly more upright position. "If there's one thing that Jeibeth has taught me, it's that you shouldn't sit back and let life happen without you. Not that you are. But I think you know what that's getting it." Hopefully. He probably wouldn't be able to explain it in more depth himself. It's then that B'tal gives a dramatic, disappointed sigh. "I should probably get back before I'm missed. But you know how to get a hold of me if you need someone to talk to." The weyrling smiles and leans to give Persie a quick kiss on the cheek before he moves to get out of the chair.

Persie swings her legs back toward her boots when B'tal straightens. She knows what 'getting ready to leave' looks like. And she grins so brightly at him. "Thank you for listening to all that. I know so much is just me being silly but... I can't help being a little silly." She laughs at herself, shaking her head, though that shaking pauses so he can peck that kiss to her cheek. "Is she in the barracks? Does she know if A'son is still there? You guys are doing okay, right?" Instead of getting comfortable again once B'tal is up, she's leaning forward to put her boots back on.

"You're not the only silly person around these parts," B'tal says in an almost deprecating but still smiling manner. His gaze goes a little distant and he frowns when he refocuses, shaking his head. "She says she doesn't see him. And we're fine. Just fine." Bigger smile. "I'll let you know if we see him, okay? Take care of yourself, Persie." With that the weyrling starts heading back out into the inner caverns. Wouldn't want to be late for anything important, after all.

People feel things

2009-06-24T06:46:32Z

Since the flight, Persie's been avoiding Leova's..., well, Leova. But now she's cornered and it doesn't go very well.

Not the next day, but likely the day after that, or as soon as possible thereafter: newly-off-duty Persie gets waylaid like a tithe train, only already-off Leova's not planning to get hung for it. Instead, whenever the blonde peeks her pert nose outside and makes as though she's going to leave, there's the other greenrider, reaching for Persie's elbow with one hand and holding out a pastry at arm's length with the other. "Come on," she says.

Snow. That's what Persie's expecting. Snow and an overcast sky and a walk to the living cavern to get some food. Leova, standing there, no, reaching for her, and pushing a pastry for her, those things weren't on the list. Persie jolts to a halt and blinks. But ever an obedient creature, she lets the other greenrider take her elbow. "Where... where are we going?"

"Over here," says Leova, and gestures the pastry out that-a-way: follow the pastry. It isn't immediately next to the barracks or anything, and it's a bit of trudging through the snow, but it's not as though excited weyrling dragons haven't packed it down already. Or even drilling weyrling dragons. At some point, they get to a ground weyr that doesn't look particularly inhabited, except for the couple of chairs that sit there in the snow where a ledge should be if it weren't all flat, and the kettle atop the slow-smoking brazier, and the little folding table upon which is a covered platter and a couple of plates. "Go ahead, sit." Down goes the pastry, atop what presumably Persie's plate must be, with a wave of her hand: there. At least it's not snowing /now/, though give it another hour and it might be. And for that matter, the tithe train raiders probably weren't planning to get hung either.

Trudging through snow is, well, just reality at this point. And Persie is outfitted for winter with her boots and her fur-lined jacket and the colorful accessories. She follows the pastry, still blinking a bit at its presence and then frowning in confusion as the destination becomes more clear; her eyes, however, avoid looking at Leova's face. "What...?" She doesn't even know what to ask though, as she looks over this unusual setup. Slowly, warily, she takes her seat in front of the pastry. "Leova, you don't have to do all..." Except she has no idea what Leova is doing and, as such, can't finish the statement.

"Klah's not spiked," Leova mentions as she uses her still-gloved hand to pour, at least once she's found the mugs where she'd stashed them beneath the brazier, and they seem to withstand the cold-to-hot shock fairly well. There goes the mug, for Persie. Next: "Whipped cream on top?" asked with lifted brows, while pouring herself another.

"Um..." But Persie does wrap her mittens around the warmed mug, just to soak in the heat. "Okay. Whipped cream." She looks around, not toward the weyr or around the pseudo-ledge, but out toward the bowl in a 'is anyone else seeing this?' way. She swallows anxiously and starts chewing her lip. "Leova?" Because she has absolutely no idea what else to do.

"Yes?" Leova inquires without looking up, busy taking the top off the platter and doling out a spoonful of the cream from the shallow dish: for Persie's, for her own. There are a couple more pastries there, too. What there /shouldn't/ be are people around looking: far enough out of the way, a little too late in the afternoon, and Vrianth taking advantage of the angle and dragons' distance vision to warn off straying weyrlings without being seen from down below. Still, someone could drop by. It could happen.

Ok. No people. So Persie could be imagining all of this. She rolls her skinny shoulders inside her jacket. "What... what is this... I mean, well, I know what but... Why... this?" It's the best she can do at the moment. She hardly seems to notice the cream waiting in the bowl and while she still doesn't really look at Leova, she's watching the greenrider's hands as they work.

Whipped cream waiting in the bowl, whipped cream starting to melt in their mugs.. Leova takes /hers/ up between her hands, too, and says over it, "Because you haven't been looking at me."

Persie starts to say something else, but it just comes out as a puff of air. She looks down at her mug, steaming, melting the whipped cream. "Well... you know why," she points out quietly, her teeth quickly finging her lip again. And then, just barely, she looks up enough to almost reach Leova's eyes. Almost.

"Can guess why," Leova mentions, and has a drink, all casual-like and never mind the whipped cream mustache she's sporting now. Her eyes drift over the other greenrider part of the time, part of the time stay down with her mug. "But. You been riding longer than I have. You told /me/ what to expect. So how come it's getting to you, Perse?"

Persie isn't looking now; her head bows with her pale hair falling on either side of her face. "You spent all that time together." That's on the list. "And you didn't want me to talk to him." She wets her lips and considers her cup again now that her mouth is going dry. "And it hasn't been like... this. Before. He's not just someone and you're not just someone." And then, slowly, her eyebrows start to pull together, creasing over her nose, the start of a grumpy expression. "And I can feel however I want about it."

"We fell /asleep/," and it could have been an exclamation if Leova weren't keeping a lid on it. "Wasn't /that/ long. And the rest, not like that was not talking at all, that was giving him and Milani a chance. Back when. Before you two... well." Whatever. Quieter: "That what you're going to tell the weyrlings? When you know 'em, you can let it bug you?"

"I meant before that," Persie interjects while Leova is keeping her lid. "When you were away. Together. And I'm not saying anything happened or was going on but... You've spent all this time together." She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, mostly to herself. The comments on Milani, well, they have some little flex showing on her jaw, but it's the last line that brings Persie's eyes to Leova, straight on. "I'm going to tell them that it's okay to feel things. People feel things. And it doesn't make them weak or stupid or wrong. And maybe I'll tell them to have a bit of understanding when the person whose weyrmate they just slept with doesn't really want to look at them for a little while." Her cup goes down and she's getting up.

A blank moment. Realization. And then, "Not /happy/ time," /Leova/ interjects while Persie's flexing her jaw muscles. There's a lift of her shoulder for that feeling things business, but then it's preempted by outright startlement: "You went and /weyrmated/? Since when?" Persie's getting up, Leova's leaning back in her chair, bemused right down to the near-smile that's caught at her mouth. "One way to share the news."

Persie is still frowning hard, hands shoved in her pockets. Of course, that doesn't mean that Leova's question doesn't make her pause there and eye the other greenrider and her little almost-smile. "Since... Since..." That smile flusters her, shoulders inching up toward her ears. "Why are you so surprised?"

"Since?" Leova prompts over her klah. And then: "Hm? Just: /weyrmating/." Surprises! "Whose weyr? Are you..." her gaze drifts to Persie's middle, though it's not as though if the other greenrider /were/ pregnant, she'd be concealing it beneath her collar.

Persie's agitation is evident even in the thick plumes of her quickened breath. And the look she wears is so much like the one she wore that night, so many months ago, when A'son first showed up at High Reaches again: that combination of surprise and hurt and fear, except this time, there's something a little harder in there too. "How could you say those things to me? About the weyrlings." She has to swallow to regain control of the way her mouth has contorted. "I don't want to talk to you, Leova." She starts to turn away, but has to pause, because she can't help but add, "Thank you for the klah," even though she didn't taste it or anything else Leova went through the trouble to prepare. Persie glances back at the table and the brazier with a touch of guilt before she turns away again.

Surprise and would-be cheer becomes a differently-surprised, "The hell?" And if it's partly A'son's phrasing, it's not like it's unique, and a body might imagine he curses a lot less at /Persie/. Might hope. "Don't see how you come off acting like that. Like it wasn't our /job/." Leova's eyes have narrowed, and while her hands don't fold, not with the mug between them, she sits there. Waits. Waits it out.

It looks like Persie might turn back--there's a hitch in that first step, a very slow second as Leova's words reach her--but she doesn't stop. And she doesn't need to see Leova's narrowed eyes to hear the expression in her voice. She just shakes her head, bowed as she walks away.

Persie can fix /anything/

2009-06-16T17:06:39Z

Persie swings by the living cavern to find B'tal crying, Z'yi looking guilty, A'son hungry and Tiriana not exiling people.

B'tal really hates crying, especially in front of other people. Probably even more especially in front of his just-until-recently-secret crush. "He doesn't need to apologize," B'tal manages between hitching breaths and he lifts one hand to rub at his eyes with his sleeve. A glance sideways finds Tiriana nearby, too, and the green weyrling colors a noticeable shade of pink. "He can't do anything to fix anything," he adds but he very pointedly does not look at Z'yi. "I'm fine." Sniffle.

Z'yi just feels like a giant-- piece of male anatomy that isn't complimentary. Yeah. Making B'tal cry is like kicking a cocker spaniel puppy. Then shaving it bald. Horrible *and* mortifying. "B'tal, I..." suck at this. That's written in giant neon letters across his forehead. "I'm sorry. I didn't-- I just-- I didn't understand wh--" and now is /Z'yi/ hyperventilating? Possibly. Because that's Tiriana over there and he'd like to keep his family jewels, thankyouverymuch. But hey. At least it's amusing. Don't see Z'yi involuntarily at a loss for words often.

A'son is pointing his finger at the sniffling weyrling again. "No. You're crying. He did something to make you upset. He should be a man and apologize for it immediately." Then he's pointing his finger at Z'yi, as if just doing that is going to ellicit an 'I'm sorry' from the much bigger and younger man. Which is evidentally necessary as the blue weyrling is doing it all on his own anyway. Why is he hyperventilating? Tiriana is someplace out of his line of vision, so as of yet he hasn't noticed the Weyrwoman. And so doesn't know that this whole thing is being witnessed. Of course with the way Z'yi is behavinv it eventually prompts him to look over his shoulder. He exhales and finger pointing at the floor begins. "Remember how to breathe, Z'yi. She's not going to exile you."

"Why not?" Tiriana says, frowning at A'son. She steps over close enough to set her plate down, but does not set herself. Instead, she declares, "If he's making my weyrling cry--." Nevermind that Z'yi is technically probably also one of her weyrlings: B'tal is little and crying and cute, whereas Z'yi is big, and not, and... not.

Persie comes in just in time to see A'son pointing and make his declarations about the situation, which has the greenrider's face going from it's usual empty-headed sweetness to wide-eyed alert. Her eyes dart from face to face: A'son, B'tal, Z'yi, Tiriana, random onlookers. Her mittens are still on when she hurries forward. "A'son, what is going on?" she asks with breathless concern. But she hasn't gone to A'son, she's gone to B'tal, a fluffy pink hand reaching for his shoulder. "Just breathe," she murmurs quietly, probably too quietly for anyone else to hear.

It would probably be easier to stop crying if there weren't so many people paying attention to them now, but B'tal is having some trouble ceasing his hitching breaths. And he's totally mortified. He's staring at the floor now but he looks up quickly at Tiriana again at the thought that she could exile Z'yi. "No! You can't... do that!" he says, voice pitched a little high from the crying and the anxiety of that thought, no matter how unlikely it might be. He jumps slightly when Persie touches his shoulder and his gaze shifts to her, lip trembling while he tries to just breathe.

Dragon> There's a touch of concern in Iovniath's snow-dotted mind, flickers of silver and cold through the crystal white when she reaches for Secath much as Persie goes right to B'tal. << Mine asks yours, >> and she inflects her voice wryly, despite her own feelings, << to 'fix him.' >> (Iovniath to Secath)

Z'yi takes an impromptu step back, gathering himself up in one movement. Persie's here! It's perhaps ridiculous, the completely gratuitous amount of relief that the perky blonde's presence interjects into Z'yi's face. Persie's here. Persie can fix /anything/. Even B'tal crying. Which seems to be the Number One Goal right now. He draws himself up to his full height, settles his nerves, and turns to A'son. "Permission to return to the barracks, sir." He carefully avoids looking at Tiriana. Or Bety. Or even Persie. A'son's a safe enough pick. Or so he thinks. "I think it'd be best if I leave. Sir."

Cue finger pointing at Z'yi. "Look at that face, are you going to exile him? He's afraid of you. And besides, he's one of /your/ weyrlings too." A'son is looking like he thinks Tiriana kicking him out of the weyr is way out of the realm of possibilities. "No one is getting exiled. What is wrong with you kids? It was just a turn of speech. It's the Weyrwoman not a monster. She doesn't just go around destorying people's lives for fun. No matter how scary she acts." He points at himself, "She hates me most of the time. I still live he-" Permission to leave? Is that a good idea? This is the first time the bronzerider has ever done this job so he looks to the only person here who actually knows what they're doing. Persie. "Can he leave?"

Dragon> To Iovniath, Secath projects, << Snow meets the quiet dance of confetti or leaves on a similar tense breeze. << She intends to. >> There's something in there that would be paired with rolling eyes, as if Secath is intoning that she couldn't stop Persie if she wanted to. << I'll check in on the young ones. >> At least she doesn't sound too put upon about it. >>

Dragon> To Jeibeth, Secath's touch is barely present, the hint of a breeze and a single bit of something, a brightly colored leaf perhaps, floating on it. She checks in, just to see if the young green's mind is asleep or at least calm.

"I don't /hate/ you," Tiriana points out, though she gives A'son a look like she just might. If Z'yi weren't there to distract her--not that that's probably a good thing for the bluerider in question. Tiriana eyes him, too. "That's right, make him cry and then run away," she says, snorting. "I guess your work here is done, huh?"

Dragon> To Secath, Iovniath, pleased, perhaps even relieved, answers, with a swirl of snow that whirls amongst Secath's confetti tones. << Thank you. Yours is much appreciated. >>

Dragon> To Isforaith, Secath's touch slips in like a quiet breeze, touches of debris floating along with it. She says nothing, but just checks on the young blue, just to see if he's awake or troubled or if he remains untouched by the goings on of the living cavern.

Dragon> To Secath, Isforaith is a whirlwind of ash and fire and flooding stagnant ale, a whirlwind of differing emotions held close under a cool exterior. In peace, Isforaith may be this side of goofy. In crisis, he's the coolest head of the Raith and Isz show. Carry on.

Dragon> To Secath and Iovniath, Jeibeth speaks in cooler, more stale tones than usual but either from the touches or some understanding or just acceptance of what's happening, she announces, << I am well. >>

Persie has B'tal's attention, and so she goes to take both his shoulders, to keep his focus on her face. "Everything will be fine. Just breathe." But there's more. "Think about Jeibeth. Is she okay? You have to be calm for her, all right? Just breathe." And then, well, A'son is asking for direction and Persie turns to look between him and Z'yi while she gets reports from elsewhere. "Um.. No. Just..." She looks to Tiriana, not wary but considering. "Just... I don't know." She waves a quick mittened hand to leave Z'yi to A'son and Tiriana for now. "Give me a moment." She looks to B'tal again and breathes deeply. Example.

While everyone else talks and with B'tal's escape route blocked by Persie, the green weyrling is somewhat forced to listen to her. He closes her eyes, which doesn't exactly keep his focus on her face, but when he opens them again, he says, "Jeibeth is fine. I'm fine. Can I just... " he glances toward Z'yi, then Tiriana, then back to Persie, voice dropping into a whisper, "Can I just go? It's not all his fault. I'm sorry."

Dragon> It's uncomfortable, this sort of attention, and Iovniath recognizes it. Her cool touch withdraws, pulling away slightly rather than smother Jeibeth; but she lingers near, just the faintest flake of snow remaining to show that she's still, more subtly, watching. (Iovniath to Secath and Jeibeth)

Z'yi turns to face Tiriana, and his eyes narrow. "Ma'am?" he states, his tone even. "I'm sorry. I think I misheard you." Hey. From Tiri, it may be a compliment. Think about it. Making people cry is totally her schtick, isn't it? Z'yi stays drawn up at full height, back tense with his overly-correct posture. He's going down for this one way or the other. Might as well be spectacular. Amazing how quickly someone goes from afraid to stubborn in a few short seconds. Musta been something she said. Or maybe something his lifemate said He does his best to ignore B'tal and Persie, though he can't help from shifting to look every so often. Mortified? Yeah. The emotion is still there. The cocker spaniel analogy still applies.

Dragon> To Jeibeth, Secath projects, << To find the young green awake has Secath's confetti-touch swirling stronger, a proper connection. << He's fine. They just do this. Mine does it all the time, >> she says rather flippantly with maybe just a touch of exasperation - though that's not directed at either Jeibeth or B'tal. << He'll be back soon. >> >>

Dragon> To Secath, Jeibeth projects, << Mine is strong. >> Of this she seems confident, despite his tears. But then she has to ask, an uncertain tone chiming in her voice, << All the time? >>

"Sometimes you do." A'son says anyway with a roll of his eyes. The situation seems like it's going to just all blow over. Then there's this freaking Z'yi again. "Okay, yes. You're dismissed. Go back to the barracks, immediately. In fact, I'm coming with you. We're going to have a long, long talk." About how not to do things on purpose that might incite Tiriana's unholy wrath.

Tiriana's brows go up at A'son's reply to Z'yi, but it /does/ effectively cut her off. And so, finally, she pulls out a chair and seats herself, as though to go on with her dinner now like nothing at all's happened. "You heard me," is her parting shot, such as it is, to Z'yi, while she pokes a food in her food and then looks again to Persie and B'tal. To the latter greenrider, as though this will cheer him up: "We ran him off. You're okay, now."

Persie lifts a fluffy hand, still with cold bits of melting snow, to B'tal's pink cheek. "Okay. Everything is fine." She looks over her shoulder at A'son and Z'yi and the apparent plans for them to return to the barracks right away. "Why don't we sit a bit? Let them get a head start at least, huh?" she tells B'tal with an apologetic smile. "Here, sit with Tiriana for a minute, okay?" She gives the younger greenrider's shoulder a quick squeeze and turns away from him, toward Z'yi. It seems she has things to say before A'son drags him off.

B'tal casts a sidelong look in Z'yi's direction at Tiriana's words, but the look doesn't linger and B'tal does as suggests and sits down with the Weyrwoman. He doesn't look at her, rather the table somewhere in front of him and he mumbles, "I've really screwed this up. I didn't mean to." He might not be talking /to/ Tiriana. He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, still clutching his journal close to him like some insanely awkward security blanket.

Z'yi totally got his way. Just for the record. For half a second, at least. "Thank you, sir." Z'yi gets halfway turned around to go to the barracks and then there's /Persie/. And if he was mortified before, he just wants to crawl into the ground and *die*, now. Thanks. "Miss Persie." His already gravelly voice is a bit husky to boot. This sucks. He keeps his gaze downcast, ignores A'son and ThatEvilTiriWoman and even Bety. And Persie, too. Where's W'chek when you *need* him? Whit's about the only one who would grant Isz' execution request. Or maybe Flashythighs, too. "Ma'am," he corrects himself, daring a look upwards to the blonde-- afraid of seeing disappointment? Well, of course.

"Don't thank me. You owe me dinner." A'son replies a little roughly as he turns about, prepared to lead the way off to the barracks. But then, he's not with him? He stops and looks over his shoulder, noticing that he's been waylaid by Persie this time. Rubbing his forehead tiredly, he turns around and stares at the greenrider, then at the weyrling and then at the other two sitting down at the table.

Tiriana is not Persie, at all, but she means well. At least toward B'tal. She hesitates, watching him while the weyrlingmasters handle their errant pupil. "Er. There, there," she tries out, reaching over to pat B'tal on the back, as though /that/ awkward display of her sympathies will help anyway. "What happened, anyway? I can beat the shit out of him for you. Not like I don't have a good excuse anyway, what with self-defense and all." She means to be helpful. Really!

There is no one safe from the calm understanding on Persie's face. Not even Z'yi. She approaches the bluerider with her eyes still big and round. "Hey. I don't know what happened, but this will blow over, okay? Everyone is tired and stressed out." She even puts on a little quirk of a smile. And she gives him a little punch in the chest, like she might want to hit him harder but not really. "Be nice," she nearly chuckles. "Now go with A'son." She flicks a look at the bronzerider, somewhere between a warning and an eyeroll.

B'tal seems a little confused by Tiriana's attempts at consoling him, but definitely appreciative. A smile pulls at his lips for her and he shakes his head. "You don't need to beat him up. Not for that, at least. He didn't mean to. It's my fault. I should've just left," even if an abundance of that is what got them here in the first place. "He thought I didn't like him," he explains. But that's where he stops. Maybe that's all there is to it.

Somehow, it's all Z'yi's fault. The blueling will likely blame it on himself anyhow, if he's not already. So. That understanding look from Persie? Oh yeah. Goes right to the gut. Like a /blow/. He winces from her punch. "Yes ma'am," he replies, tone subdued, and turns to follow after A'son, a lamb to the slaughter. Some internal prodding (Isforaith can be good, at times, honestly!)-- raises his head to directly look at the other part of this mishap, and he calls out, "See ya tomorrow, Bety. Or whenever they let me out of latrine duty." There's a wry smirk, there. And a certain glint in dark eyes. And then? Oh yeah. Punishments probably will ensue soon, so-- he returns to following Ace, wherever the heck they're going. The barracks. The executioner's block. Whatever.

With arms crossed over his chest, he watches the exchange between Persie and the blue weyrling. Where as her look is something mixed, he's definitely rolling his eyes. A'son is mouthing over at the greenrider. A trained observer could tell that it's 'I'm /hungry/'. When Z'yi begins to come back towards him he shoots one more look at the crowd and is shaking his head again. Then he's tromping off out of the living cavern and looking particularly grumpy now. "A man can't even have a pleasent dinner anymore... What was I thinking?"

"And you... oh. /Oh/." Tiriana is not completely emotionally retarded, apparently, and she catches on to B'tal just in time to shoot an incredulous look after Z'yi. Complete with pointing. "Him? /Him? Faranth, kid. You could do so much better than /him/."

The response she gets from A'son has Persie chuckling and shaking her head at him. It's possible a person could take that as 'tough luck, buddy. I enjoy your pain', but if they know Persie then it would certainly have a warm, fluffy slant. Meanwhile, she's pulling her mittens off and stuffing them in her jacket pockets - the wrong one in each pocket which will surely vex her later. She turns back to take the seat beside B'tal. "Tiriana," she balks a bit at the pointing. "You're going to embarass him." Like saying that isn't embarassing at all. "Besides, have you seen him? With those arms?" She just shakes her head in disbelief. "He's sorry, you're sorry. Everyone's sorry. And everyone cracks once in a while," she tells the weyrling, reaching to rub his arm.

B'tal glances up to look at Z'yi as he departs with A'son and he tries to offer a smile that just looks really awkward. Especially since he's starting to blush at what Tiriana is saying. He looks at her instead and shakes his head quickly, "I don't think so. I mean, I don't do... that." 'That' isn't exactly specified. To Persie, "It's hard to avoid people when you're forced to live with them." Oh, drama. "When do we get our own weyrs again?"

Z'yi departs after A'son. There's really nothing else to be said. Well, other than the obligatory, "I'll make sure you get dinner. Sir. If I have to cook it myself. I just hope you like steak."

"That /hair/," Tiriana says, wrinkling her nose up as Persie tries to expound on Z'yi's virtues. She just shakes her head and finally gets down to this eating business. "Don't do... what? --Not for another, what, four or five months? I guess you need to start working on him now if you really want him to come home with you," she offers consideringly. And a look for Persie, as she insists, "I'm not embarassing him. Not really. He's weyrbred." As though that makes all the difference when it's your love life on display.

Dragon> To Jeibeth, Secath doesn't sound too worried about 'all the time'. << Oh yes. Every night for a while. And off and on. And sometimes not. It changes. >> And her mind can't really keep track of the durations or the whens. << It has been better lately. But she is always happier when the barracks are full. >>

"It's a long while," Persie says, twisting her mouth sympathetically to one side. "Anyway, you don't have to have the couch next to him. There's space if you want to move, though that might... I don't know. Make someting out of nothing. Or you might regret it if you do it right away," she warns B'tal. "Do you want something to eat or drink or something?" Her eyes flick to tht book-like thing he's been clutching, but she makes no remark on it.

"I don't mind it," B'tal says, looking uncomfortable about discussing this at all with Tiriana of all people. But he still does because it's not like he can't unless he leaves and that's probably not going to happen either. He rubs at his eyes again, saying, "I don't... take people home. And I don't think he's like that so it doesn't matter anyway." He sets the journal down in his lap and leans forward to rest his head on crossed arms. "He says that Isforaith is, like, obsessed with Jeibeth. I won't move. Things can't really be any worse than they were before. He'll probably just avoid me now, too." Which works out, really. "No, thanks, I'm fine," he says and tries to smile at Persie.

"Well, if he bothers you anymore, you just come tell me. Or Persie. Persie's good too," decides Tiriana, with a quick nod, and an attempt at an encouraging sort of smile. Except-- "Why not? You're just not that kind of guy? I mean, it's not exactly workable right now, but eventually... You could take somebody home. Somebody nicer than him, who wouldn't make you cry, of course."

Dragon> To Secath, Jeibeth considers that for a long while, the touch of her mind wispy like tendrils of incense smoke as they dissipate into the air. << Is it because of the same person every time? >> she asks, curious. << Do you talk to yours about it? >>

"Oh, even the nice ones make you cry," Persie says with a humorless laugh and another roll of her eyes. "Just fret about it, Bety. I mean he feels badly and so really... that's a good thing, right? I though you thought he didn't like you. And obviously he... well, kinda does. Maybe not in the same way you like him but it's not like he outright thinks you're no good or something." Of course, all of that falters a bit toward the end as she realizes that maybe she doesn't know quite as much about B'tal's relationship with Z'yi to know if any of that is true or not.

Dragon> To Jeibeth, Secath's answer comes readily. << Of course. We talk about everything. >> The other part is harder and the breeze of her touch halts a few times, those bits of debris falling it does only to pick up again. << She would say yes. And that the person is her. >> Perhaps Secath doesn't fully agree, though.

B'tal shrugs at the 'why not.' "I dunno. Like you say, it doesn't really matter right now anyway. If it matters when it can, then I'll think about it, then." Persie's words seem to help, sort of. For a little while. "That doesn't matter either. I just need to stop acting so... stupid around him." He sighs and sits up again. Lets talk about something else, "So, I was kind of wondering if you would do any extra stuff with the self defense." To Tiriana, obviously. "I want to learn more." See, not a coward.

"Mine's nice and he doesn't make /me/ cry," Tiriana declares staunchly. A nod accompanies it, but before she can start that debate with Persie, B'tal is questioning her. Tiriana blinks at him. "Well. I mean, mostly we're working on the basic hand-to-hand stuff--riders /shouldn't/ need more than that, what with the really big flaming dragons at their back. But... I /could/. I know some other stuff, if you want to keep on with it after everybody else. Faranth knows I don't get to really use it enough on people."

Dragon> To Secath, Jeibeth projects, << Perhaps my B'tal will be the same way. >> She thinks about this for a moment or three. << But he's very strong. I worry more that things like this will make him close off. >>

"Oh, well... that's probably true," Persie mumbles back to Tiriana's declaration. "But you aren't the sort of person who cries anyway." She looks to B'tal. It's pretty established now what sort of person he might be. "You don't act stupid," she assures the weyrling. And then she's popping out of her seat to get that cup of klah she initially came in for.

Dragon> To Jeibeth, Secath projects, << Mine... talks. But she doesn't know how to explain. She thinks of everything at once and then nothing comes out properly. >>

"I do," B'tal agrees to Tiriana readily. "I think it would be good. For me. Maybe." He hesitates, "Maybe good for you, too." He glances at Persie when she speaks and he smiles. He has a hard time not smiling around the other greenrider. When she gets up to get herself some klah, B'tal says to Tiriana, "I should go make sure Jeibeth is as well as she says she is. Is that okay?"

Dragon> To Secath, Jeibeth seems amused at how the two are similar but different, << Mine thinks too much before he speaks and doesn't get enough out. He likes yours, though. He doesn't think so much when he speaks. >>

"I do--" and then Tiriana realizes that this is probably not something she wants to own up to. "Not," is tacked on instead. "Right. Nothing quite like beating the shit out of people to make you feel better. Takes the edginess away. So we'll do that, okay. I'll see you then; go on now," and she waves him on off. "Goodnight, B'tal."

"Of course, sweetheart. It just didn't make sense for you guys to walking back together when you both would rather hide from one another. Maybe he'll be all tucked in and pretending to sleep when you get back, hm?" Persie answers as she comes back to the table. "Goodnight, B'tal. Let me know if you need anything. Secath's down in the bowl by the barracks." And then, settling back into her seat with her klah in her hands, Persie looks to Tiriana with her brows high. She lets out a chuckle, "Well that was different. I haven't had that before."

B'tal eyes Tiriana for a moment, then nods his head, picks up his journal and rises. "Goodnight, Tiriana. Thank you." To Persie, he says, "I understand. Goodnight, Persie. Thank you, too." And with that, the young greenrider moves to head out for the bowl and beyond to the barracks. Where he probably won't sleep at all.

Dragon> To Jeibeth, Secath projects, << She adores him. And is very glad he speaks to her the way he does. She'd be happy with whatever he chose to say. >>

"The crying, the confessions of true love in the middle of the bowl?" Tiriana asks, head tilting as Persie rejoins her. "Thought all weyrlings did that at least once. Think we had a couple of them in our class, anyway. Idiots." She shrugs, continues her dinner finally. "Wouldn't expect anything less, packing that many kids in a barracks together. I don't know how you do it."

Dragon> It is some time, enough for B'tal to cross the bowl and be with her, before Jeibeth says, << He is with me now. I think we will rest. I wish you and yours a good night, Secath. Thank you. >> (Jeibeth to Secath)

"It's just early on, you know? And B'tal isn't some girl. It's usually the girls. And then the boys get angry and want to hit things." Persie realizes what she's just said as soon as it leaves her mouth, but unfortunately, it's already out. She tries to pretend she didn't say it, hiding her mouth behind her cup, but her eyes are wide anyway. "I just feel bad for them," she goes on, more cover-up. "It's so hard to try to figure everything out when you don't even have time to sleep and eat and think about things. Only you think about things all the time and can't do anything. I guess that's why we don't fit in with holders after impressing." That makes her giggle, wrinkle her nose.

"Well, he's a greenrider," Tiriana points out. "You don't see most men crying in the middle of dinner, y'know. But he is pretty good at self-defense," which apparently evens it all out in her mind. A pause; then, "Did we fit in with the holders /before/ impressing? Because I sure as hell didn't."

"Do we fit in now?" Persie giggles again. "With each other?" This notion seems to tickle immensely. She has to bite her lip to keep from smiling too hard. "Maybe weyrlinghood makes everyone a little funny. In all different directions. Some people get stronger and braver and tougher and other people get confused about the guy in the next cot over. Or maybe stronger and braver and confused too. -I'm- still confused."

"Well, you /are/ easily confused," Tiriana points out, not unkindly. "/I/ was plenty tough before, but..." She trails off, and in the end just shrugs. "I don't guess it's weyrlinghood so much as just the dragons," she admits after a while. "The weyrlingmasters, the rest of the weyrlings--they could just go screw themselves, as far as I was concerned. But Iovniath--"

"Well yeah. I don't really know that we do... It's not about teaching so much. I mean it is. We teach and stuff and it's important. But mostly I feel like my job is help them hold it together while everything gets all turned upside down," Persie muses quietly, a quirk of a smile held on her mouth. "Like, one minute you think you know what you're going to do with your life and then the next minute it's all different and you can't even think about it the same way because there's a dragon and they need you and they see it all differently and... Yeah."

"Exactly," says Tiriana, with a nod. She finishes up her food then, pushes the plate away. "I mean, it's... big. Dragons. They can--they can show you lots you didn't know, about yourself and all." Deep thoughts. And that's all of them Tiriana can apparently take, because she stands up then, clearing up her dinner. "Should get home; R'uen'll be in soon," she says. "Good luck with those weyrlings."

"Yeah, like that," Persie agrees whole-heartedly with Tiriana's deep statements. But while the goldrider gets up to leave, the greenrider settles back in her chair and rests her knees against the table's edge. "Good night, Tiriana. And thanks for... you know, helping." She says it with a straight face, even. Or a straight smile, really.

Even egotistical Tiriana can't really believe that. She snorts. "Yeah, well. I didn't do much, really," she says, shaking her head. "Night, Persie." And then, with a wave, she's heading off, toward the snowy bowl.

OOC: Top Five

2009-06-13T08:04:58Z

1. A'son: She's just starting to think she might be able to have something with him and the prospect of all those fledgling notions dashed is pretty crushing. In fact, that's largely why they're so fledgling.

2-4. Her weyrlings. Perhaps even more now that I'daur is gone, Persie views all her present and former weyrlings like members of some strange hogde-podge extended family. Notable among them are probably Leova, L'vae, mentee Eila and now perhaps Bety, though it's too soon to tell which of the current class she might snuggle with.

5. N'thei: I think Persie's gut instinct would be to spit out N'thei's name first, but in truth she's so estranged from him that him being dead wouldn't be much different than him being alive. Honestly, she's not sure why he's still living.

Maybe there's hope for us

2009-06-12T20:02:24Z

Z'yi leaves Ajatha in the bowl and that's where Persie finds her, and then invites her to go get something warm to drink.

Scene already in progress...

"What, no salute?" Jathi questions with a distinct thread of amusement to denote that she's only teasing, her tone a touch wry at that. There's nothing meant by it at all, granted what he saw earlier, and she casts him a look with laughter in her eyes. "I am okay. How're you? Not frozen yet, I see."

Z'yi snorts faintly, returning to reclining against the frozen weyrwall. "Do you /want/ me to salute you?" he questions, his tone amused. "And I, of course, am fine." This is stated with slight indignation, as if-- how dare she question the frozen-bility of Z'yi?

Z'yi is called off, most appropriately, by an awaking blue terror. His eyes unfocus, and he half-curses under his breath. "Scuse me, Jathi," he murmurs in apology, before hightailing it back inside.

Z'yi goes home.
Z'yi has left.

Persie comes up just a beat after Z'yi disappears and such it looks mostly like Ajatha is just standing around by herself. Which she is now anyway. "What are you doing out here?" Persie asks with a laugh and the little shudder of a girl who's already chilled-through. Her shoulders are up about her ears, her hands crammed into her pockets.

The noise that comes next from Jathi sounds distinctly like a giggle. "That would look rather ridiculous." But soon Z'yi takes off to take care of Isforaith, and so she's left to lean against the big ol' frozen wall up there. Finally dressed in much too warm clothes for anyone /but/ a non-native, she is a colorful mess, burying her nose in her scarf and taking up Z'yi's idly past time of peering up at the clouds as the snow comes down. Jerking her eyes up at the other voice, she waggles fingers toward Persie, only to abruptly end it in a little salute all properlike. "Ma'am. Was talking to Z'yi, but his blue woke up. Crazy dragon, that. What're you doing out here? Look about as cold as me."

"I don't think I will ever call a young dragon crazy after Eila's Kelerith. The bar has been... really raised there," Persie says with a laugh. "He climbed walls; did I mention that? It was insanity." As the weyrlingmaster approaches, she steps right up beside Ajatha and moves to slip her arm through the younger woman's, all friendly-like. "I was at the lake and now I am going to get something warm to drink. Do you want to come? Is he asleep?"

"Well, just a little off his rocker. Iszy's got a good head on his shoulders, though. A long, long way up there as his shoulders are," Ajatha offers over easile with a little glance upward where Iszy had been standing as if trying to gauge where his head would have hit the wall in height. She gives that up, though, to peer at Persie. "/Climbed/ walls? You're got to be pulling my leg." Peer. Feel the skepticism. Still, she lazily pats the woman's arm with a lazy smirk. "That sounds good. Yes, he's out like a light. By the lake? Don't tell me you were swimming."

"Seriously. I don't know how he did it. I've never seen anything like it. I guess his talons knew just the right cracks or something. And he was into everything. Of course, I think maybe a good number of that clutch were a little..." Persie lifts her free hand to tap a temple. "Touched." And then she's turning to walk with Ajatha toward the shining warm promises of the living cavern. "Nope, I wasn't swimming. I'm not allowed to go in the lake." Like she's twelve or something.

"M'great granma here would call that pixilated," Jathi offers and tips her head with a good, old heathy dose of a honey-sweet-lazy Southern Weyr drawl. "Guess he wanted to climb to new heights. Before he could fly? Or even after?" It's rather hard to tell if she /means/ the pun or not, but her manner's as easy as a hammock swaying in a summer breeze as they make their way.. thataway! "Lemme guess. Healers got to you about that cough. Or.. A'son did, in fact, come to see you, like I said he would."

Persie chuckles, so either she gets the pun, or it's just that momentary immitation of Ajath's grandmother that tickles her. "It did calm down a bit after he could fly. And Eila got a handle on him after a while." The greenrider kicks a bit at the snow as they walk, her boots well-coated with a dusting of white. "A'son, well, we see each other. But yeah, he said... no more lake. Sort of. Well, that's what he means anyway. So how's everything going?"

Ajatha lazily kicks up a little snow of her own with a little hop of the slightly taller blonde into one of the little piles of snow, and a little of that might have been intentional, as it scatters over in Persie's path. But Jathi's putting on an innocent face. "Maybe there's hope for us all, then, if she got him under control. A'son.. says no more lake? Forever?" No owl eyes her way this time, though she's glancing over at the greenrider. "Everything.. is okay. Leova surprised me with a knot earlier, wingleader for the month. The hide says Mirax is my second. How're things with you?"

"Oh, definitely hope. I mean, the thing is, if you weren't, like, exactly the sort of person who could handle them just the right way, they'd have chosen someone else, you know? Or at least, that's how I think about it." Persie takes to shuffle-stepping, plowing through the extra snow that Ajatha is sending her way. It's not necessary--just fun. "I think, well, I think he means no more cold lake. But... I don't know. Forever." That makes her inhale deeply. "That's right. Congratulations on that. Are you going to kick everyone around or will be you a ben... benevie... kind leader?" And for the last it's just: "Things with me are... the same. Good, though. I like when we have weyrlings."

"Hey, that's a valid way of looking at it," Ajatha points out and gives another little hop into the snow, though it doesn't really disrupt the arm-linked amble through the white and muck. Her boots and half way up her calves are now sark and snowy from her lazy antics. "Good, that it's not forever. No one seems to want to brave the cold in it anyway." There's a nudge. "Hey, cheer up. You can go running laps with us." Now there's a waggle of her brows, her expression one that just oozes 'you know you want to join us!' in that entirely encouraging way, complete with a little toss of her braids with a tip of her head from one side to another. "Leader.. Uh. I honestly am a little shocked that I was first, so I don't know exactly how I am going to be. Not going to kick anyone. Mama was strict, always ordering and whatnot. I would hope.. that I could retain a little air of.." She pauses to test the word that she wants to use, rolling it around in her mind and her tongue. "..Camaraderie." That's the word right?

"Maaaaaybe," Persie answers the offer of running laps with the weyrlings, not that she hasn't been at least present if not involved in most of the things the weyrlings have been doing. "And whoever is last, has to carry me the next day. How's that?" She giggles, "Of course, it'll probably end up being someone small anyway and not someone big enough to actually carry me very far at all." As for Ajatha's term as wingleader, the weyrlingmaster nods. "Camaraderie." She gets it right only because Ajatha does. "That sounds good."

Ajatha knew she was there! She did. Maybe she meant bounding along with the no doubt ever-changing people at the forefront of the runners. "Suuure. That's fine. We'll.. find a way to work with that. Um. Some of the larger guys would be the easiest to do that. They might be a bit slower. And I'm rather sure they wouldn't mind." Completely sweetly. And fondly. As if she likes her boys. "Let's hope I can find the way to be that way, huh? And.. yeah, I'm freezing. I think that drink is entirely in order." So, she's directing them, subtly toward the living cavern. Warmth!

Just him or just guys?

2009-06-09T18:17:21Z

Persie walks in on Z'yi wrestling with Isforaith while B'tal and Jeibeth watch. So she settles in to watch too and catch up with her Bettygirl.

** scene in progress**

B'tal seems to have mostly gotten over his irritability with that nickname. Then again, he might not even notice, distracted as he is by simply watching the pair freeze and compose themselves. He doesn't say anything, even if he looks like he might want to, and he takes a step back toward the safety of the little green. She, on the other hand, seems glad the wrestling is over. << Oh, Isforaith, do be careful. My B'tal would be very upset if yours were injured, I think. Are you well? >> She stays where she's sitting all proper like, but she watches the blue curiously.

Isforaith wobbles like a leaf in the breeze at Jeibeth's words. That are directed to him. To him! To Raith! You hear that, people?! << Yours would be upset? Hells bel-- I mean, uh, Jeibeth, I don't think that even I could whomp Z'yi's as-- uh, I mean, bruise him up enough for any to worry, especially yours. >> And what does that mean? Z'yi looks like he's passed out on the ground, spread-eagled and winded, trying to catch his breath. Next to him, Raith is doing his prettiest imitation of a curvetting runner. But masculinely. Way masculinely. B'tal and Jei are off to a side, looking onto the blue pair's antics. Z'yi wheezes, s'more. "Damn, I'm getting old," he states to nobody in particular, after a moment or three.

Just coming out of the barracks as she is, Persie didn't hear Z'yi's last comment, but it doesn't mean she doesn't echo it in her own way. With her hair slightly frazzled and a flush to her cheeks, she breathes a cheery, "Too old for this," and goes about trying to comb the frizzes out of her pale locks. She looks around, B'tal and Jeibeth looking, well, normal and Isforaith and Z'yi looking, well, not. She shakes her head at them. "Has anyone seen a little hair tie or anything? I could swear I had one this morning." She heads over to the couch to poke into the nasty old cushions, but her glance slips back to the supine Z'yi. Both her hands busy, she can only tip her head toward him when she asks B'tal through a giggle, "What's going on there?"

Jeibeth lifts her head in a stately manner, perfect posture - for a baby dragon - and her wings fan out slightly to the sides. << Especially mine? >> she repeats, trying not to sound perplexed. She even glances at her weyrling, who's still watching Z'yi. "Do you need..." he doesn't the finish the question to the blueling, instead starting at the sound of Persie's voice. He turns his head and blows out a breath, "Gosh, Persie, I didn't expect you there. They were, uh, playing?" He's not really sure himself. << Perhaps you should help yours up, Isforaith, >> but she's still watching him, eyes whirling with amusement.

Z'yi sags against the floor, until-- "Miss Persie?" His head lifts from the ground to blink at the incoming greenrider. Oh. Whups. Can't look bad in front of the blonde! He lumbers up to his feet with surprising alacrity given his size. "Uh, yes ma'a--miss, we were just tumbling. Playing 'uncle'," he explains, as if this should say it all. He moves a step over and slaps his lifemate's hide affectionately. Despite his lamed foot, Isforaith doesn't appear to be at all concerned over the fond smack-- he doesn't move whatsoever. Balance! Isforaith, meanwhile, << Well, yours always ignores mine. So Z'yi figures he doesn't like him much. Makes sense, really. First bit of sense I've heard out of him, /ever/. >> No, he's not ratting his lifemate out to try to look cool in front of his pretty lifemate. No. Not at all.

Miss Persie. It always does manage to get a brighter smile from the blonde. Maybe a slightly shy one, too. Her eyes dart to B'tal again in the fashion of some inside joke, but it only last a split second. "Ah hah! Oh, you good old couch. You lovely old couch. In fact, I think I'll have to bring down a whole handful of hair ties and keep them in your cushions, you wonderful disgusting old thing." She's got one of those hair ties in her hand now and, despite it being somewhat dusty with bits of fluff and crumbs stuck to it, she's happily pulling her hair back, tilting her head from side to side in a little victory dance. And then she flops on the couch. "Well, you don't have to stop for me. Carry on."

B'tal can't help looking a little disappointed when it's Persie that the blueling gets up for but he doesn't really look surprised, either. He glances down at the ground when Persie looks at him and he's not blushing at all. Really. He does take a few steps toward Persie and the couch, careful at first, then more purposeful so he can sit down beside her, though he does ask after he's sitting, "Is it okay?" Jeibeth seems momentarily pleased that her lifemate isn't trying to hide behind her, but her attention reverts quickly to Isforaith, a chime of surprise in her first word before she explains, << Oh. Well that's not correct at all. My B'tal is exceptionally fond of yours. >>

Z'yi is a bit sheepish with his smile, but he's ducking past Isforaith as if to amble away. Then? SNEAK ATTACK. He turns and tackles the blue's front paws out from under him, and the two go down in flailing limbs. FLAIL. << Wait. Fond? Fond like... /fond/? OW STOP BITING ME-- >> and the link drops out as Raith falls into 'silent' mode.

Persie is so very quick to grin when B'tal comes to sit beside her and she wiggles her shoulders as she tips toward him, a giddy show of friendly cozying up. "Is what okay?" she asks, pale brows high and interested. Only then there's that wrestling match going on and her jaw falls open just a bit. She gives the younger greenrider a 'did you just see that?' sort of look and breaks out into giggles.

"Sitting," B'tal says, gesturing kind of like 'this thing we're doing right now.' But he's just as distracted by the resumed wrestling as Persie is. He slouches down and tilts his head to rest against the woman's shoulder if she lets him and he asks privately of her, "Have you noticed where his cot is?" But he answers anyway, "They're next to Jeibeth." And him, obviously. "Of all the places." The green is startled by the resumed wrestling and her wings flail in a manner that isn't quite as dignified as she might usually prefer as she jumps back, then continues several steps back, watching all the while but making sure she's well out of the way of the shenanigans. << Perhaps you should let yours win, Isforaith. >> Though she might be giving him too much credit in thinking that he'd have to /let/ Z'yi win.

It's just as well that Z'yi and Isforaith have their wrestling, this way Persie and B'tal get to watch and whisper a bit. "I have noticed," she answers on the tail end of a laugh. "That's a good thing, right? You get to glance over and..." She glances over now and lets her teeth try to corral the smile that threatens to shine out. "So is it just..." she barely points a finger toward Z'yi. "Or is it... you know." Then her hand gestures in a roundabout all-inclusive way. And it's unlikely any of that makes any sense.

While Jeibeth watches with the same hint of her earlier fascination, B'tal talks quietly to Persie. "Good?" he repeats the word like he needs to remember what it means, then shrugs. "I guess, maybe. A little distracting sometimes," B'tal's voice drops even further and that color comes back to his dimpled cheeks as he turns a glance to Persie. "Just... him?" he asks for clarification purposes. "Or just, uh, guys?"

With B'tal's voice getting quieter, Persie's attention slips away from Z'yi altogether and her glance flicks up and down over that pretty, blushing face. "Well... yeah." She confirms the question with a soft, shy laugh. "I wouldn't have guessed when I first met you. When I gave you that piece of my bandage." Whatever that might assume, she grins at him, encouraging the answer to her question.

That didn't really clarify anything for him so B'tal falls back on assuming it's the broader of the two. "I don't know. I didn't think so," he glances down and shrugs the shoulder not closest to Persie uncertainly. "I don't... didn't want that. But can you choose that sort of thing?" He doesn't look back up and he's fidgeting with his hands a little now. It's really weird to talk about. Jeibeth glances back at her lifemate and whatever she says draws his gaze up to her, threatens to pull a smile from the corner of his lips. But he continues to Persie, "Would you have still given me a piece of your bandage? If you knew?"

"So it's not just...?" Again, Persie nudges a finger in the general Z'yi-direction. Not just him? But that last question has her pulling back to look at B'tal, to blink at him as his teasing takes a beat to sink in. "Of course! That's just silly. Of course I'd still have given you a piece of bandage." She laughs again and this time aims a light, playful sort of swat for his leg for asking that. "I can't hold it against you, anyway. It would make me a hypo... hipper... Oh, you know," she says, giving up on getting the word right. "I like boys too." She shares it like a secret.

"He's the only one that makes me feel like a head case," B'tal whispers very quietly. The pulling back makes him flinch but he composes himself quickly. "How's it doing now?" he asks, gesturing vaguely to where she had been wearing the bandage upon their first meeting and, likely, trying to change the subject entirely away from who and what B'tal likes. Granted, that's not the easiest thing to do when the muscle-y object of his affections is putting on a display. Persie's last words do make him smile, though, and he feels compelled to note, "I do like some girls. Ajatha is pretty. Carobet is pretty. There's these twins, too." They aren't making him blush, however.

"Oh, you're not a headcase," Persie says very certainly. Now she slips her arms around one of B'tal's, snuggling up to it and pulling her boots up on the couch beside her -- it's no wonder the poor furniture looks the way it does. "The wrist is fine. I still... I don't know. The whole thing makes me feel stupid. Stupid wrist." She shakes her head quickly and then it's her turn to rest a head, leaning it on Bety's shoulder. "I've been with more girls than guys." It comes out plainly, just like that. "Which is probably good since guys mess me all up."

When Persie snuggles up against his arm, B'tal actually relaxes and he leans his cheek gently on the head that she leans against his shoulder. "I'm glad it's better. You're going to tell me about it someday, right?" he asks and she can probably feel the way he smiles. "Were the girls on purpose? Or..." he doesn't finish, probably expecting her to know what he means. "Mess you up?" He's getting a lot more nosy these days.

"I fell off a runner," Persie anwers simply. What more could there possibly be to the story anyway? She untucks her hand from his arm to bend it this way and that and show him just how well it's healed. "See? All better." Then the hand is tucked away again. "Um, well... I don't know. I guess it's not really on purpose. It's her flights. She almost always picks a dragon with a female rider. It's easier that way, though. Like a sleepover. Guys mess me up. They stick in my head and I can't get them out."

"Oh," B'tal returns and he might look a little confused for a moment. Why couldn't she just tell him that from the beginning? But he doesn't press further and he says, "Looks good," to the wrist movement. He smiles at Persie, then glances toward Jeibeth, who's still mostly entertained. "Does she do that cause of you or because of her?" he wonders out loud, still watching his own little green. It's way too early to worry about such things, but B'tal's brow furrows uncertainly. He glances back at Persie, then, and asks, "I'm not going to, right?" He is a guy, after all.

"I don't know really. But maybe both. Maybe it's just better for both of us that way. I mean, there have been times when she's gotten distracted and it ended up being a guy. Not for a long while, though." Persie shrugs into their cuddle. "She seems happy enough. It's funny, you know. They know everything there is to know about us, but I feel like we only get to understand part of them. There's all this dragon stuff that we just don't... get. Like how they know who to search or when the eggs are going to crack." This bit of wondering has her looking at Jeibeth too, considering the young green who seems so content at the moment. Then Persie glances back at B'tal. "No, I think you're safe." It makes her wrinkle her nose as she laughs. "That's good, right?"

"Maybe they feel the same way about us, though. I know I do and say things that Jeibeth just doesn't... get. Sometimes. She tries, though." That thought makes B'tal grin just a little bit and then he nods at Persie. "Probably good. I wouldn't want to mess you up. Not if that would mean we couldn't do, like, this," B'tal moves a hand to pat Persie on the leg and he sits forward a little bit. "I think she's ready to go lay back down. We took a walk around the bowl earlier. Maybe I can come find you again when she falls asleep?" he suggests because he does seem a little hesitant to be leaving.

"Maybe that's true. I know Secath knows everything that I'm feeling and all the things I'm thinking, but I think sometimes she doesn't really understand... why." Persie tips her head to think on this a moment. "Of course, I don't know that I know why either so..." She shrugs again and as B'tal moves, getting ready to stand, she releases her cuddling of his arm and leans back against the couch. "Go get her to bed before she falls asleep in here," she grins at him. "And you can always come find me. Whenever." It's a promise.

Apples and Clocks

2009-06-04T18:35:39Z

After Persecath Says, Persie sits around with B'tal and Jeibeth to eat apples and check on the new green pair.

Persie watches the majority of her little class head off, eyeing to make sure that the wobblier ones like W'chek don't fall over or something. And then she's left with B'tal, who gets a grin for his explanation. An 'oh really' sort of grin. "Does she really like it or is that just the polite thing to say?" Hardly waiting for an answer, Persie tugs B'tal's sleeve. "Let's sit." And she starts to fold her legs to sit right there on the floor. "Tell me how things are going." Meanwhile, she'll reach for the bag and grab an apple for herself.

B'tal relaxes somewhat when the other weyrlings are taking their leave. He doesn't quite expect the tug and he makes a sound before he's following to the floor and answering in his own words and not the ones that Jeibeth is no doubt telling him, "She hates it. Too sweet and it's not warm and there's no blood." His legs cross, too, and he takes another bite. He chews and thinks and eventually says, "Things are fine." Typical guy answer, right? Jeibeth is still chewing and trying to keep her tongue away from the taste before she finally tries to swallow the thing.

"Well tell her spit it out. I don't mind. She can just cough it up right... Oh, I think it went down already," Persie observes as she watches the green from her spot on the floor. "Sorry, Jeibeth. I did warn you, though." The elder greenrider takes a bite out of her apple without any fuss and her attention turns back to B'tal's stoic answer. "You're eating enough? Sleeping? Getting to the baths?" she asks, now flicking a glance over the young man. "Does she want another apple? Not to eat, just to mess around with."

"I'm fine," B'tal says to Persie, eyeing she with the many questions a little oddly. He's still getting used to people caring about his wellbeing to the extent that the weyrlings get hounded. "Oh, no," he says, glancing at Jeibeth when she looks at him, too. "It's not proper to play with food." Even if it's food she has no interest in eating herself. The green settles herself beside her weyrling and her jaws is still moving to get the taste of apple out of her mouth.

"What?" Persie laughs. "Sometimes people have trouble finding the time or the energy and... I just don't want anyone to starve and fall asleep in the bowl while... stinky." It's a silly thing to say and she knows it, in fact it makes her grin a little more brightly. "Does she mind just sitting with us or is she bored?" She crunches off another bite of her apple and watches the greens mouth move.

"Have I ever looked like I'm going to starve?" B'tal says and a grin pulls at his lips. "I think I've been eating a little more than usual lately. Still getting used to that feeling," he says and he takes another bite of his apple rather than chewing on his lip. He glances at the small dragon beside him and answers Persie's question truthfully, which earns him a whirling look from Jeibeth, "She's bored but she'd never say so exactly. She thinks it's rude and whatever. What?" He says the last to the dragon. "I think you care too much about others." Which probably says something about Bety.

"Well, you don't have to stay, if there's something she'd rather be doing. I just, I don't know." Persie's started to chew her lip as she looks over the not-starving weyrling and his young green. She cants her pale head to one side. "You keep things really... tucked in." With both hands, apple included, she motions as if to push some invisible something into her chest. "So... I don't know, all these changes, big changes... It seemed like maybe I should ask."

B'tal's gaze returns to Persie, flickering down to her hands and then off to the side a little bit rather than at her again. "She thinks I need to talk to people more," B'tal says in a quiet, not entirely agreeable voice. But he smiles at Persie because it's easy to do, "Thanks. There's not really any getting used to it, is there. You're just kinda /there/ and everything changes." Jeibeth seems content with that, at least and her eyes drift into a half-lidded state.

"Well, I think she's probably right. Of course, I probably talk to people too much so maybe you don't want to lisen to me," Persie admits, ducking her head down. Her next bite of the apple is more of a nibble, her eyes on her own crossed ankles. "But if, you know, you want to talk about anything really... you can. And it's not like you have to talk to -me-, either. Just, you know, you aren't going through it alone."

"I like listening to you," B'tal tells Persie and he smiles even more genuinely at her. "I really like you, Persie." Just not in that way. Cause if it was that way, he totally wouldn't be admitting it. He takes another bite of his apple and then his hand falls a little in his lap rather than tilted toward his face. "If it wasn't for Jeibeth, I'd feel really alone," he admits but he doesn't look at the older greenrider. "I wish Carobet had impressed."

Persie grins a little sheepishly. "B'tal, you're so sweet," she says, reaching over to pinch at his knee. Knees don't pinch very well, so it's more the knee of his pants. "I really like you too." In whatever way. "You have Jeibeth forever." So that's something. "And you should go see Carobet. I'm sure they'd like to meet each other, too." He teeth scrape the last bit of extra flesh from the apple and she looks around as she chews because now something must be done with the core.

B'tal laughs just a little bit. "I don't think a lot of people would agree with that." But he's really smiling still. "Good." He seems happy about that and he moves a hand to touch Jeibeth. She hums a breath. "I'll do that sometime. I still need to apologize for not winning the scavenger hunt." Brief frown. "Do you think they'd get mad if Jeibeth was in the inner caverns?" It's not like she's very big right now.

"Like who? Really?" Persie doesn't believe that at all. "Nah, you can't take her in into the caverns, but Carobet could come out. Or you could go see her when Jeibeth is taking a nap. But I doubt you really need to apologize. I mean... it's not like she was supposed to sit on her butt and let you do all the work and you failed or something." She rolls a shoulder and then, well, it looks like she wants to say something else, but instead she holds a hand out for his apple core.

Jeibeth looks a little disappointed about that but only for a moment or two. B'tal shrugs his shoulders and looks at Persie's hand for a second before he catches on and gives her the core. "I guess. I just feel bad about it," he admits, without ever answer the 'like who' question. "I have a project I'm working on when I can. You should come see it sometime. I'm fixing a clock for Milani. It's really nice." Granted, not everyone probably shares his interest in this sort of thing.

Persie takes the core, but getting up to deal with it is delays. "A project... A clock? You know how to work on clocks?" He might as well have told her he knows how to make trees or purple dragons. "Oh, that's right. You're a smith. Or, you were a smith. I always think, like... melting metal and stuff. But you know how to make things with all sorts of pieces that fit together." She puts the apple cores together, though they don't fit in any real way, or do anything once touching.

Purple dragons would be amazing. But no. B'tal isn't that cool. "A lot of them do that," he admits about the melting metal and stuff. "That's how you make all the pieces that fit together." He moves his fingers and kind of puts them together to demonstrate how things go together. "Okay, yeah, it's not that great," he says and his hands go down and he looks at them. "Jeibeth's getting hungry so I should probably go feed her and stuff." He starts getting to his feet as Jeibeth does the same.

"I think it is pretty great," Persie admits somewhat bashfully. But Jeibeth is getting up and so is B'tal, so the assistant weyrlingmaster does the same. "Okay. Go get her some food. Some food that tastes better than apples," she adds with a grin for the green's benefit. "And I'll take care of these." The cores. With a grin, she waves them around. "You guys really did do well with that game."

B'tal smiles a dimpled grin at Persie as he dusts off his pants and touches Jeibeth's head. "Thanks, Persie. For everything. And we came in late," he reminds her as the green starts heading back toward the barracks. He watches the assistant weyrlingmaster for another moment, then turns to start following Jeibeth.

A game of Persecath Says

2009-06-04T18:27:05Z

Persie sees a bunch of weyrlings milling around and so she plays a little game with them to help them separate their brains, beef up their arms and stretch out their dragons.

**No, there aren't poses missing. Everyone just drifted in and out as RL allowed. XD

The training cavern. Well, there isn't much training going on yet, but it's a nice place to stretch little dragon legs and wings, away from the crowd but not out in the weather. At the moment, Persie is doing a bit of stretching, too, sitting on the floor with one leg out and the other bent, reaching easily for her toes. Secath is nearby, notably not stretching but sitting in a tight ball and eyeing the ceiling of the cavern with a touch of disdain.

One has a stride, one has a swagger. They're both tall, comparatively. One looks a hellacious bit better than the other. But they fit. Somehow. Z'yi settles a hand on Isforaith's nearest headknob in a not-quite-restraining but please-don't-bumble-over-anything manner, gaze sweeping over Persie and Secath. A slight grin touches his face at the sight of the two, and the blueling pair heads that way with slow, matched strides. They're been workin' on this, apparently.

The, "No, no, no..." to be heard from Ebeny is all elongated vowels and not-quite-there-yet authority voice, as she attempts to herd Laurienth along a very specific path of her own creation. The young green might be forgiven for not sticking to the invisible line, were she gracious about it, but grace appears be something she knows little about, for she determinedly nudges away hands that try to guide her and lashes out with her tail. "Laurie. Enough," Ebeny insists, though it has very little effect on her lifemate.

Zhikath is shiny. Zhikath is *very* shiny. All well-fed and rested and oiled not at *all* like a bodybuilder of any variety, thank you very much, but rather like a very dignified dragon ought to be. And then, in a very dignified way, following after other young dragons with W'chek in tow. "No, I don't have the faintest idea why," comes the answer for the thousandth time this morning alone.

"Come /on/," coaxes an insistant but soft voice from the barracks, preceding one sauntering blond in the form of Ajatha. The now-larger-than-before brown strolling slowly at her side is less at a companionable distance than he is more as close as a shadow, his frame brushing up close as anything against her legs and hip as if just a few inches is too much space to allow. Her hand on his shoulder is reassuring and encouraging him on at the same time. One step to the side makes her veer her course to give him a wider berth so there's none of that stumbling over him. "/Rasi/, quit it."

"You'll surviiiiive," Persie says with all the weary drama of someone who has been listening to complaints ad nauseum, and her glance toward Secath says the green is probably the culprit, particularly when she snorts in response. The weyrlingmaster rolls her eyes back at her dragon and then her gaze shifts to the cavern of weyrlings and she grins brightly. A giggle breaks out and she lifts her voice to talk to everyone instead of just her disgruntled lifemate. "You know, you all look sort of crazy, just milling around. Like you'll start bumping into the walls any time now. Do you want to, I don't know, do something?" She's so authoritative, this one. "I know lots of games."

"We /won't/," Z'yi's quick to counter Persie's statement, with a Darkly Significant Look downwards to his lifemate. "A... game?" He seems wary at that, and moves over slightly, Isforaith following him along in a remarkably... placid... fashion. He smiles, briefly, over to Ajatha. He's not really beckoning her over. (Yet.)

Rasiyoth draws up his head sharply with a wary look shifted over at Persie, though it doesn't last longer than more of a few seconds, pointedly ignoring the woman. We -won't- be bumping into things, said the look. Ajatha sighs greatly and reaches to scritch an eyeridge, arcching a brow at the slightly shorter blonde. "What... kind of a game?" She flashes a wink over at Z'yi, but the brown bumps into her hip. "I'm paying attention to you, love." Assuring. As if for the millionth time.

Persie gives Z'yi and Isforaith a smile, one that might like to be a laugh but that she manages to corral. Barely. Unfolding from her stretch, the greenrider gets to her feet and goes about dusting off her backside. "Ok, get where you can see me," she calls out, though perhaps not meaning for everyone to stare at her for this particular butt-dusting moment. "And where you can see Secath." Not that the green isn't pretty visible, likely being one of the largest things in the room; she's getting to her feet now too, lifting her chin proudly while she eyes all the baby dragons. "We're going to play a game that is supposed to help you separate between your mind and your lifemate's. Hopefully it'll help a bit with knowing whether it's you that's hungry or them. I'm going to want all the dragons to do what Secath does and all the weyrlings to do what I do." She claps her hands together in excitement, but it's not really clear if that's part of the game or not. Secath hasn't done anything but stand there.

What's funny here?! Nothin' to see. Carry on, carry on. Isforaith shifts his weight, from left to right, in a manner that one could possibly interpret as bored. (Rut roh.) Z'yi, meanwhile, blinks slowly at Persie... and moves a step or two away from Raith. Hey now. If Secath jumps in the air or does something even halfway non-lackadasical, he's gonna get an eye poked out by Raith in his exhuberance. He knows this. Really. "Di--- do we need to clap?" he questions lowly to Jathi, as he ends up in her general vicinity. As Secath is impersonating a rock, Isforaith goes /stock solid silent/. And doesn't move.

"Separate--" W'chek comes over, but gives anxious looks at Zhikath as he does. For his part, the bronze displays no such anxieties, and while W'chek stands there looking baffled, he's already carefully shifting to adopt a mirror of Secath's posture. The clapping, meanwhile, gets a skeptical look from Whit just as well as anybody else. "Are we going to have to do things that look ridiculous?"

Ajatha chances a glance to the side at Raith's shifting about and shakes her head slightly sounding a lazy warning. "Issszzzy.." She, on the other hand, is moving close to Rasiyoth, though the brown is still as a darkling shadow, even as she eyes Persie questioningly with an aside to Z'yi. "Uh. I have no idea. I'm not thinking so. She's just being ..bouncy." A look at the brown shakes her head. "I'm -not- writing that down."

"Oh!" Persie's hands separate as soon as she realizes that they'll all unsure whether they're following or not, not that holding them up in the air apart is all that much less confusing. "Here, Secath will start." She turns to give the green a 'whenever you're ready' look and Secath lets out a sigh before she obliges and spreads one wing, lifting it high up in the air and sweeping it back down again, over and over. Slow strokes on just the one side. Meanwhile, Persie takes both of those hands and starts patting herself on the head, giving everyone a bright, 'huh? huh?' sort of grin. And for W'chek's question: "Yes, probably. But you all fart in your sleep and it's just us, so get over it. We're all family now." This makes the assistant weyrlingmaster breathlessly happy.

Z'yi dies laughing. No, actually, he doesn't. Though that would surely make W'chek happy. Really, what happens is: Isforaith goes bounding a step forwards, to make sure he has Enough Space, and starts winging his right wing in a mirror image of Secath, only to realize that-- oh crap, wrong wing. So he hops to shift his weight and tries again. Isz, meanwhile, is cracking up due to Persie's words, and - while trying to get himself under control (sorry, it was funny!), begins to pat hisself onna head. Isforaith falters a moment - ever try to pat your head and rub your belly at the same time? - and then, with an obvious effort of strenuous attention, resumes his winging in perfect time with Secath.

The word 'family' sends a twinge across W'chek's face, but after that he doesn't protest again. If only because reason would probably be about as useful with Persie as trying to reason with a puppy. Greenriders, what can you do? Zhikath follows the wing-movement for a moment and then his own follows on exact pace. Which is easy, because W'chek hasn't quite worked himself up to the head-patting business yet. And the moment that starts, the rhythm wavers off-course.

"Isforaith, you've got the..." Oh, but he realizes he's waving the wrong side and corrects himself. Persie's about to lets it slide, since they're just starting out and all, but then the blue falters again --more notable, to her eye at least, than Zhikath's wavering. "Uh oh. Z'yi and Isforaith," she sings songs cheerily. "You messed up and now you have to..." Wait, give her a moment, she didn't think this far ahead. "Z'yi, you have to do an impersonation of Isforaith." Secath switches then to the other wing, though Persie keeps patting while she slips an impish smile toward W'chek.

Z'yi, picked on! The indignation. "An impersonation?" His eyes glint with dangerous amusement towards the cute lil' blonde weyrlingmaster. "I don't have enough things to knock over, miss Persie!" he announces, before slouching his shoulders and -- Secath's switching wings, so Isforaith follows suit with alacrity, almost tripping himself up as he does -- holding his left hand out, wrist flipped forwards. "I'm a /cripple/. Can't you see that? What, you blind? Now give me special treatment, or I'll tear this place apart trying to do it myself." His tone is bored, deadpan. Isforaith's eyes are narrowed, but he continues on imitating Secath's motions. Rut roh. This... probably... isn't going to end well.

The trouble with all this picking on Z'yi is that W'chek isn't getting the benefit of enjoying any of it; he's so single-mindedly focused on this business that he doesn't smirk or anything. Zhikath manages the wing-switch easily enough, but W'chek in the process manages to get *his* hands switched, too, and only catches it after a moment. "This," he mutters, "is silly. And also... hard."

Rasiyoth, meanwhile, is finally joining into the ridiculous wing stretching, after many long minutes of cajoling from the blonde he's attached to like a twin at the hip. She, meanwhile is doing whatever she's supposed to be, though much of her expression isn't full of her usual mirth and laughter at Iszy. It's glancing at the brown with a confounding expression. Oh, brother. << Why do I have to do this again? >> "Because I said so."

Jeibeth and B'tal are making their way out of the barracks, the latter following the former more than the other way around. She also notices her clutchmates before B'tal does, since he's watching her pick her careful way along rather than anything that's around them. It's probably some word from her that brings his gaze toward the others and he pauses to watch when Jeibeth does the same, rustling her wings back into their proper order now that she's not using them for balance.

At the back of the 'class' is where K'ndro and Xadovith have been, quiet and intent the both of them. Because every task, no matter how silly, must be -perfect- and so concentration and consideration must be given. Plans formed, discarded, reconsidered. Back ups decided upon, arranged according to practicality and liklihood of success. All of which means that Mik's a bit faster to follow instructions than the asymmetrical bronzeling, those muted whirling eyes intent upon Secath. Each ungraceful motion measured and deliberate. And somewhat wobbly. On human face, a smirk, brown eyes resting for a moment on Z'yi, and so is rhythm lost.

Now Persie might be blithely entertained watching Z'yi -- as she might be even if he wasn't putting on such a performance -- giggling rather gleefully all the while, but Secath is not so easily amused and she sees it when W'chek messes up his hands. "Oh well done," the greenrider is laughing for Z'yi, but Secath clues her in. "Uh oh! W'chek's turn! Do Zhakith for us." And now both the weyrlingmaster and her green change up their motions at the same time. Secath starts to take big long bows, forelegs out and her head sweeping down. It's a good spine stretch. And Persie starts to do a dance, hands to one side and then the other, head bobbing along the opposite way. "Come join in," she calls out when B'tal and Jeibeth make the mistake of stepping out of the barracks. The game should prove easy enough to pick up with the dragons mimicing Secath and their riders following Persie. Or at least, that's what they're trying to do.

Z'yi shifts back, grinning slightly to himself. Hey, he got a smile from Persie! Always a good day. Isforaith distracts himself by Jeibeth's arrival, and the blue almost topples over as his head swings far, far over in a 'omgtheresheisactsuavenowRaith!' totally unsuave move. He catches himself, but only after a teeter... which he /totally/ suavely moves into a bow, ala Secath. Hey now. Sometimes it works. Z'yi stares at Persie for a good minute or two, then reluctantly picks up the motion of the 'dance'. Now that he's completely blocked Isforaith out (he had earlier practice at this, thanks to dragonhealer exercises and an endless chain of 'HELLS BELLS that /hurts/, you idiot!' from Raith), he... halfheartedly shuffles along. But he does it. And meanwhile, Isforaith looks like an idiot, bowing as he is. But hey, everyone is!

Frown. W'chek really hasn't been paying much attention here, but he at least knows what's going on, and--"Now, look, I can overlook a certain amount of this, but just because they're young doesn't mean we ought to be deprived of all decorum, here," he insists, arms folded. Zhikath has a considerably easier time of *his* half of the deal without so much distraction from his rider's intentions, but no silliness from him; he makes the movement like a practiced asana. "Be reasonable. What good do you think it's going to do to humiliate people?" By which he means him. Humiliating Z'yi was totally okay.

Persie wants them to ..dance? Rasiyoth makes an uncertain sound, dubious as always as this comes to lightly and makes a shifting lean back, away from the craziness of the exercise, rubbing up against Ajatha pointedly. "Look, you don't need oiling, no matter what you say. I just oiled you before we came out. You're going to do this." The brown's eyes whirl in response, but something about his stance stiffens, his curled talons digging into the ground. "No, you're not hungry. And - I'm not either. -Stop- insisting." But, he seems vaguely amused, just vaguely, since his distracting is keeping Jathi from making a fool of herself. Much.

Jeibeth starts toward the proceedings as soon as they're invited with a cheerful warble offered to everyone. She settles herself in her own little section nearish Isforaith and she watches Secath for several moments before attempting to follow suit with all the grace of, well, a baby dragon. But it's a really good try! She pauses long enough to give B'tal a /look/ and he shuffles toward the group with less cheerfulness and less willingness. At least he gets to watch Persie do stuff even if his own attempts to mimic her are half-hearted and small.

K'ndro can't dance. At all. As evidenced not only by his dismayed expression but the faltering start-stop-start as Persie's actions change. And oh wait, head is supposed to be going the opposite direction? Erm. Let's try this again. Xadovith, meanwhile, pulls his head back and -stares- all 'wtf' at Secath, long wings slightly mantled and if he weren't quite so little he'd almost look threatening. Settling his feet beneath himself, the gaunt shadow bobs and dips his head - just his head - experimentally at first. Testing, testing... stretching. It looks less like a bow and more like a snake-strike when he does it, especially with the slight weaving of his head from side to side. Xado's keeping better time with Persie than Mik is. "That supposed t'be an imitation or a complaint?" muttered in his baritone rumble. Because really, could anyone tell? Oh right. Dancing. Or.. well.. something. Shuffling, it looks like.

Persie shoots Z'yi a look: 'That's right. Dance.' But most of her attention is on W'chek. She blinks a little and turns to Ajatha. "Was that him or was that him doing Zhikath?" Because Persie, she cannot tell. "W'chek, don't be a problem child." Flattering, surely. "Zhikath is doing beautifully." With this, both Persie and Secath change their motion yet again: Secath stops bowing to start turning in a slow circle on the spot and Persie start swinging her arms in a very, big, wide clapping manner. "I hope no one's arms are tired yet. Just wait until we get to firestone," she tells them all with a giggle. "K'ndro, I don't know what you guys are doing over there." Apparently the snake-strike and shuffle don't quite cut it. Your turn to do an impersonation." She flashes a grin at B'tal, a little encouragement in return for his lack of cheerfulness.

"I'm not a problem child!" W'chek insists, if sort of mostly under his breath. But it's hard to be too upset with Persie when she's saying that about Zhikath. K'ndro is another story: Daggers glared in that direction. On the up side, he's missed the dancing, and even if silly, the clapping motion he can totally do. Zhikath turns, and his rider must close his eyes against what looks to be a bit of vertigo. But this time, at least, neither of them is thrown off too badly by it.

B'tal returns the grin that's flashed to him by Persie but it's not quite so beaming as usual with him amongst his peers and all that. Jeibeth considers Secath's movements before trying them on for size and when she starts turning in her carefully proper way, B'tal, who had already started the whole big arm swinging thing, takes a step or two to the side with his balance slightly compromised. He stops for a handful of moments to watch the little green, then continues without issue.

Another affronted look from Xadovith, and a sharply grumbled "Just try to catch it." suggestion from K'ndro. Because this gives the little bronze incentive to continue with the mimicry, which he's starting to lose interest in. The 'why' just isn't engaging enough. But... oooh, tail. His own tail. Flip flip. "Keep yer paws tight," is another bit of advice from Mik, upping the challenge and therefor the interest in this new game. Round and round he goes, slowly, carefully, and even flipping it towards his mouth that long tail stays stubbornly out of reach. K'ndro pulls himself up, starts to lift his arms, then grins across at Persie for a second. Stands a little bit straighter, settling his expression into stern lines, lifts his chin and then adds a little leftward tilt to his entire body. Narrows his eyes - which probably helps against a bit of dizziness, too - and then, very carefully enunciating (are you listening, Z'yi, are you are you?), "No, that is -wrong.- You must try again, better this time. Think faster, think ahead. Anticipate and do not fail. Now. Again!" Oh, bossy! And that cocky smirk sent in W'chek's direction might, maybe, still be in character. Possibly. In the midst of his circling, Xadovith makes a pleased little humming sound low in his chest. That -voice- and it's his, all his!

Poor sulky W'chek. Persie gives him a pouty face for his grumbling, but that's all the response he gets. Besides, aren't all eyes turning to K'ndro now? She laughs brightly for his imitation of his lifemate, looking between the two for comparison. At Xadovith's apparent pleasure, Secath chortles out her own amusement, which ends in a snort just in case anyone here thinks she's gone soft. It's B'tal's pause that catches Persie's eye next. He hasn't messed up per se, but she's watching him now. Then both she and Secath come to a dead halt and each lifts up the opposite leg. Her eyes are quick: will this simple little movement catch any of them? Plus, well there's the whole balancing thing. Someone's bound to wobble.

Right. Already dizzy from Zhikath turning in circles, like there was really any hope for W'chek *not* wobbling. Actually, given him being sulky, it's probably a miracle he even attempts it for a moment, but disorientation trumps, and Zhikath ends up with the wrong leg and W'chek ends up leaning hard against him, looking greenish, resulting in the bronze's immediate abandonment of any attempt in favor of worried nuzzlings. "Let's not do this anymore," he suggests. "I... don't like this *at all*."

They're both being very careful and deliberate so when Persie and Secath change what they're doing, neither Jeibeth or B'tal have too many issues following suit. Jeibeth is the one that does the wobbling more than B'tal but she shifts her weight and her wings rustle as they move to balance the rest of her small body. A flick of her tail and then she looks at B'tal with her eyes whirling proudly. He blushes and looks away from her, focusing on Persie instead.

A bright grin to match that bright laughter, K'ndro apparently not embarrassed at all by a bit of play-acting. Which probably has more to do with the number of younger siblings he has than anything else. "Face front," he murmurs to Xadovith, the youngling having gotten so intent on his tail that he forgot he was supposed to be paying attention to Secath. Oopsies. Feet. Feet can be worked with, and it's easy when you're standing still, right? And four legs - or, well, three - make for easier balancing even when you have been turning 'round in circles for a while. Not to mention those wings that can so helpfully spread out, and a long tail that anchors behind. Ha! Xado looks smug, right paw raised. See, they did it! Or, actually -he- did it. K'ndro isn't having quite the same luck. Arms spread slightly, head shakes from side to side, and... it's his right leg that's lifted off the ground, too. So much for opposites.

Watching the majority of her class suddenly wobbling and wiggling, Persie drops her foot so that she can laugh richly at all of them. Secath sets her own foot down too and the excerise appears to be over. "I couldn't catch B'tal," she chuckles, eyeing him now as if maybe he and Jeibeth figured out some way to cheat. "I think that's probably enough silliness, though. We should stop before W'chek's head explodes." She grins at Whit again, that teasing little grin. "I'd give you all something, you know, for playing along, but I don't think I have anything-oh! I have apples. Anyone want an apple?"

Sitting down heavily the first moment he's able to, W'chek shakes his head quite emphatically. "No. No. No food." Zhikath hovers close, uncharacteristically touchy for a moment when they're being observed, but backs off a bit when W'chek starts murmuring reassurances. "I'm all right. Just give me a minute and I'll be fine," softly. Eyes narrowed, he shoots looks at the others like this is all somehow their fault for doing this better than he did.

Stubbornness is a virtue when playing Persecath Says? Swaying, K'ndro is only a little slower than W'chek to drop to a lower elevation, going down on one knee next to Xadovith. "They ain't been at it as long's we have, either," he points out helpfully about B'tal and Jeibith, smiling across to the pair. And looping an arm about darkling neck as Xado insistently jabs his muzzle into his human's shoulder. And, well, since when is Mik ever -not- willing to grab a bite to eat? "Won't say no t'one, since yer offerin' miss Persie, thank ye."

Jeibeth looks even more proud but B'tal looks a little uncomfortable when the fact that he didn't get caught screwing up is brought to everyone's attention audibly. The green nudges his thigh and warbles an echo of whatever she actually says to him before she starts picking her way toward Persie and Secath. B'tal hesitates for a moment, then follows. He offers a smile to Persie, kind of shy and awkward, and he says kind of quietly to her. "She says that I should have an apple if I could, please, and she wants to know if she can have one, too." Jeibeth sniffs. He wasn't supposed to give her credit for the requests.

Secath seems quite happy that the game is over. It's just undignified, after all. Now she rolls her shoulders and wings back and settles in to be the idle watcher again as Persie scampers toward the wall to dig round in her bag. Apples come out and one gets tossed to K'dnro. And to B'tal, "Since you guys won, you can each have an apple. I think that's fair. I don't know that she'll like it, though." The pair of fruits get handed over and Persie's eye is caught by W'chek all slumped and nauseated. Her mouth quirks in a worried frown, but rather than baby him, she keeps her distance for now. "So how was that? Not too bad, right?" Or hopefully.

"I think," W'chek manages to say at last, "that I just need to lie down for--a little while. With no more spinning." Or anything else that could possibly turn into spinning or moving or, in other words, as far from creative instructors as possible. He manages to stand again and to make his way back into the barracks, Zhikath beside him just in case.

B'tal takes the apples and he rubs one on the leg of his pants before taking a bite of it and offering the other one to the little green youngling. "It's proper," he explains to Persie, "To accept friendly gestures." He doesn't sound like he agrees with the philosophy, but Jeibeth takes the apple and moves it around in her mouth before biting into it. She freezes, even the whirling of her eyes slows, and B'tal nearly chokes on the piece of apple in his mouth when he laughs. Jeibeth can't spit the apple back out, though, that's just not right, so she continues chewing with incredible care. "She says it's very good," B'tal nearly giggles. Nearly.

Apple toss! K'ndro reaches up to catch it, Xadovith bounces up to try to intercept it - how dare Persie throw fruit missiles at -his- weyrling! - and hands and muzzle collide in midair. Apple bounces off of knuckles, ricochetes off of headknobs, gets whapped by fumbling fingers and starts rolling off along the floor. "Dammit, Xadovith!" Which scolding just makes the small bronze look pleased as anything, as they both go chasing after the apple. Xadovith manages to snatch the apple off the ground first, holding it firmly in his mouth as he mantles at K'ndro. His now! And off the skinny bronze struts, looking for a hiding place. Leaving his lifemate to rub his hands over his face, sigh, and clamber to his feet to trudge off after him. They're going to have Words about this.

A whole sheet of paper

2009-06-01T04:59:15Z

Persie swings by to check on weyrlings and ends up sitting around with A'son for a bit.

Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr

All the furniture here has been pushed to one side of the room to allow a large pathway opposite: room enough to let weyrling dragons pass from the bowl's archway to the cavernous barracks at the back. None of the furniture matches, either: it varies from big cushioned, claw-footed chairs to those of plain wood, while the most seating is at the two stone tables ringed by low and equally hard stone benches. Without the tapestries that decorate many of the Weyr's other interior spaces, the room always echoes with noise, no matter how few are there.

What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable.

Persie is not actually scheduled for today, but she can't help but be drawn back to the weyrlings. In the past, she would have felt perfectly welcome to poke her head in during her off hours, just to hang around and lend her extra, willing hands, but now she looks rather like she's sneaking in from the bowl, snow clinging to her hair and boots, her eyes wide in that 'am I going to get caught and yelled at?' sort of way, whether or not it is at all necessary.

A'son looks like he's exhausted. This is probably the most real work he's had to do in ages. And so while there's a little bit of down time, he's passed out on the big couch. The cavern is drafty and so he's got a small blanket pulled up over him

Not seeing anyone around who might shoo her away, and indeed, not really noticing that the bundle of blankety something on the couch is a someone, Persie lets her shoulders drop a little and tries to shake the snow out of her hair with her mittened hands, to knock some of the snow off her boots. The knocking might well start to wake A'son, who claims to be a light sleeper and who she has noticed -just- now. With a little smile, she heads his way, creeping now just in case he hasn't roused.

The knocking stirs A'son to some extent and he rolls over on the couch, grumbling. "Fucking weyrlings... Why can't they just be /quiet/. Man needs to sleep sometime." The blanket is pulled over his head and now he has his face buried into the dirty pillows.

Aw, he's sleepy and grumpy. But it probably won't be easy for A'son to get back to sleep when Persie is creeping near and trying to slide her cold, damp mitten under his head so that she can lift it up with every intention of taking a seat in the place of that crappy pillow. "Oh, poor baby. Are those weyrlings giving you a hard time?" she coos softly, a playful lilt in her voice, the sound of her smile.

There's a tensing of his shoulders until he realizes who it is. "They /smell/." A'son complains into Persie's cold, damp, mitten. "And some of them are giving me a hard time. I hated being a weyrling. What was I thinking." He moans and complains before rolling over to face her.

Persie gets herself all settled and A'son's head settled in her lap. Of course, her slim thigh isn't particularly meaty and thus probably not much more comfortable than the pillow it's replaced, plus she was outside, so her pants are a bit chilly. At least she now she's pulling off her mittens over and shaking them out over the edge of the couch, though the shaking makes her lap move. "Why did you hate being a weyrling?"

Since the whole cavern is a little on the chilly side today, A'son doesn't seem notice that he's moved from chilly couch to chill thigh. He wiggles around to get comfortable. "Because it was awful. Everyone was fourteen except for me and N'thei. He was my only real companionship."

"I was about that old when I was a weyrling," Persie tells him, her exhale like a laugh. "Paddy, P'draig," she pauses there for her lips to press together thoughtfully, "He was one of my weyrlingmasters. I think it was his first class. Isn't that funny?" She seems to think so, though not ha-ha funny. More the sort of funny where you look off into the distance without really seeing much. "Do you think you'd be friends with him, with N'thei, if weyrlinghood had been different?"

"I was twenty-four when I was a weyrling. Too old to enjoy hanging around kids." A'son looks up at the ceiling of the familiar cavern. "I don't really know. I'd like to think that we would be. Life wouldn't really be the same if weren't friends." He purses his lips together. "Maybe it would be easier... But I wouldn't change it. Not now." He pulls the blanket over himself and Persie's legs. Pointing out, "You acted weird when T'mic was bringing P'draig up the other day."

Persie lets her fingers toy with his hair, her touch lazy and light. "If you had a hard time, though, you'll be able to help the weyrlings when they have a hard time. You'll be able to talk to them about how you felt and what you did, and you'll be able to understand them." She sweeps her combing fingers back from his forehead. "I'm glad you're trying it." Her head tipped to the side and her smile smale and bright, she lets the topic of N'thei go and only says of P'draig. "Paddy and me are all right now. It's just... weird. I don't know if I can explain it."

"Maybe. Or maybe I'll scare them into not being anything like me." A'son comments idly, his eyes rolling back towards where they're all likely hiding. "It's only a turn or so." Said almost like it might be a death sentence. "I can't wait to go home tonight and sleep." He begins to shift, pulling himself up into a sitting position. "...Did the two of you have a fight?"

Scaring the weyrlings into not being anything like him. Persie lets that roll around in her mind for a moment, with expression slowly falling, getting more and more far away. When he sits up from her lap, she seems to curl in around the vacancy, arms wrapping together against her chest, her knees drawing up with her wet boots barely hooked on the edge of the seat. "Did you always talk like that?" she wonders with her attention strange and foggy. But he asks a direct question and she turns to look at him with clearer eyes and just a touch of surprise. With a smile she looks back at the foor. "No. Not really."

A'son stretches his arms out and then folds them around Persie in her curled up position, resting his face on her shoulder. "Talk like what?" He asks, shifting a little to look at her. The smile catches him and causes his lips to curl up into his own grin and he squeezes her. She doesn't seem too interested in discussing the P'draig issue and she is looking happy right now. So he doesn't press it. "When are you on duty?"

"Like you're bad. Like there's something about you that's bad or scary. Like people should be afraid of turning out like you." Persie looks at him then, but with his head on her shoulder, the angles are all weird and so her eyes stay turned away toward the floor. "I'm on tomorrow, but I have no where else to be, no where else I really want to be. I just feel like I'm missing things when I'm away and it's too much time to think."

A'son's smile begins to fall itself when she says that. His eyebrows furrow together, "There are some very good reasons for them to be better off not turning out like me." Despite the weird angle, he's looking right up at her face. He pulls back a little so that it's not quite so awkward, "I didn't mean that I was /really/ scary." His arms don't move from where they've encircled her so he squeezes again, "So why don't you spend more time here? I doubt anyone is going to be very worried."

Persie ignores everything else, his suggestion, the squeeze of his arms around her. Everything but the reasons; she wants to know the reasons. "Like what?"

A'son starts shaking his head and loosening the grip of his arms, "Like... the desperation? The stabbing myself in the shoulder thing? Being a step away from being an alcoholic? I think there are plenty of people out there that think I'm crazy." The lack of response on her end has him nervous and he begins to shift away.

It's a sad smile she wears as Persie turns to look at him, but it's so fond and there's even a little curl at the corner that says it might be a touch amused. "I guess you are a bit of a mess," she admits, after he puts it all like that. Her head drops down to rest on those lifted knees and she's basically just folded herself into a ball, a ball that's looking at him with quiet, blue eyes. "Sometimes I wish I could just... give you all my memories. So I wouldn't have to expain anything. Of if you could be like Secath and just see it as it happens. As the things connect. I can never explain. There's just too much."

"A bit of a mess?" A'son asks, smile coming back again just a little. He can't exactly resist being close to that skinny little ball and blue eyes. He's soon back in her space, pulling the blanket around them both to keep out the cold. "That would be nice. Then we'd both just know everything. There'd never be another awkward moment again." Though content to be cozy, the bronzerider seems to realize that maybe this isn't the perfect place for that. "Hopefully they won't decide to come out now."

"I don't think we have awkward moments," Persie tells him. That he's mentioned it has her brows tugging inward, just a little confused. "I never feel awkward around you. Or at least, not like I feel around some people. I don't know how anyone could feel awkward around me-" She stops short. "Can you remember all the questions you want to ask? All the things you want to know? And maybe sometime... I can try to explain?" Her eyes slip toward the entrance to the barracks and she looks at A'son again like she's just barely figuring something out.

"I feel awkward when I think you might be upset with me. Like, I thought you were upset with me just now. So I just... I don't know. Felt like I should crawl in on myself or something." A'son stops there, stalled by her request for the questions. "I could write them all down for you. Oh, I know." There's some grinning now, even as he moves closer against her. His voice is lower the closer that they are, "I could write one on a slip of paper and stick it in your boot. Then you could write the answer and stick it in my cap. Sort of like a game. And you could do the same to me."

Oh boy. Persie's eyes well up as she looks at him sideways with her head still bent on her knees. "That might be one of the sweetest things anyone's ever said to me." She even sniffles a bit, because she really means it. "But I don't think I could fit my answers on a slip of paper. I could try. I could try if you want me to. I don't even know if you... really want to know. It's probably selfish of me." It's Persie logic, the steps are there somewhere, but it seems like she leaps right over them.

"I'll make it a whole sheet of paper and you could fill it front and back." A'son tells her as he pulls the blanket tighter about them. "I could ask easy ones at first too. We could do silly and serious. Whatever we want to ask, right?" He seems to becoming more excited about the idea the more they talk about. Even more so because she thinks it's /sweet/. "Really?"

A whole sheet of paper. Persie actually has to sniffle again and blink a bit to try to keep those standing tears from becoming falling ones. She turns her face against her knee to blot and then lifts her head. That sad smile is still present when she nods quickly and it looks like she might want to say something but he's so excited and asking her if she really thinks it's sweet and all she can do is nod again.

"I'd say an entire pad of paper but I don't think you'd could fold up that many and fit them in my boots. I'd spend all day picking the pieces out." A'son squeezes her and kisses her forehead. Then he's glancing at the door to the barracks again, and then, the Weyrlingmaster's office. But the cuddling doesn't seem to stop yet.

"I want to start right away," Persie admits, catching her teeth in her lip so she can chew and keep her smile small and shy. But he's looking toward the barracks and toard the office. "I guess you should get back to work." Or at least, that's what she gleans from his nervous glances.

"I'll write one as soon as I get home tonight." A'son tells her quietly and in her ear. He doesn't seem like he's willing to let her go though. Reluctantly, "I guess. I should at least do something so it doesn't seem like I took the job so I could cuddle with you on this disgusting piece of furniture." He kisses her cheek.

His voice in her ear makes her shiver, like maybe what he says tickles her. She does giggle after all. "What if I take my boot off now?" Persie wonders, her fingers reaching for the sky blue laces. They're wet and hard to untie, but she tugs at them anyway.

"I'd still need a pencil and a piece of paper." A'son tells her, loosening his grip. Just enough so that she can actually untie her laces without a whole lot of difficulty.

"Well get it then," Persie tells him. At least her voice is brighter now, chipper, latching onto his excitment and waking up from all the distant thinking.

It's cold though. And even though Persie is wet from the outside, it's still reasonably warm under their blanket. There's a groan and a whine from him about getting up. But she's so... chipper. He reluctantly unwinds himself from her, draping the blanket around her slim shoulders. A'son goes to the stone tables on the other side, picking through a bunch of papers spread over it. He manages to scavange a pencil and tucks it behind his ear. Rubbing his arms against the chill, he finds a clean sheet.

Persie gets her boot off first and the goes to follow him, carrying the boot in one hand and trying to walk without her socked foot touching the ground any more than is absolutely necessary. It ends up being a limping, mincing, gait and then she's standing beside him, holding the boot out and closing her eyes. "I won't look yet," she tells him. Somehow that seems like it should be part of the game. And if her teeth chatter, well, it doesn't mar her smile.

A'son looks over to her and smiles helplessly. The pencil is pulled from his ear and he leans down over the table, writing very carefully. He pauses to chew the end in his mouth and then adds on something else. The question is considered and then he folds it up neatly. One hand holds onto her boot to steady it and then he places the paper down towards the toe. "There. I hope it's not too strange of a question."

Paper deposited, Persie puts a hand on A'son's arm to steady herself while she crams her foot back into the boot. "I'm going to save it for later," she explains. "When you're not right here, because that doesn't seem right. My answer goes in your boot?" she asks, just double checking. Once the boot is on, she's standing on one leg, wobbling a bit, to get it tied.

"My cap or jacket or something. Wherever you want to put it, as long as I can find it easily." While she's shoving her foot back into her boot, he holdds onto her shoulders. Just so that she doesn't fall and twist her ankle or something while they're out there.

Persie has everything in order, both feet in her boots, her boots tied and on the floor. Now she's pulling her mittens out of her pocket to tug then back on. "I think I'm going to go and see if we can get a pot of stew to bring down here. You know, just to make sure everyone is eating."

Food, someone is going to bring food? A'son begins to perk up now, even as he wraps his arms around himself. "That sounds really good. If you manage to find any, I'll be down here. Just... babysitting dragonets."

There is a little bit of paper burning a hole in her boot and now Persie is very eager to scamper off to read it. But first she reaches out to squeeze his forearm with her mittened hand and she smiles at him as she backing up. "Wish me luck!" Not that she sticks around for the wishing.

Vignette: Not ready for the hatching

2009-05-30T07:18:30Z

Persie takes some time to reflect and prepare.

It could be any day now. Everyone knew it could be any day. Any moment, really. There was that excited tension in the air, every ear just waiting for the sound of dragon throats beginning to thrum. In the starlight of the cold autumn night, Persie sat cross-legged on her ledge, Secath for a backrest, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a mug of hot klah in her hands. She'd spiked it. Because tonight she wasn't looking at the stars and making up new constellations, or watching the hive-lights of the weyrs go out one by one. She was staring up and over at one ledge in particular, one that still stood empty. The one with the lookout spot just above it.

She couldn't remember what had put her in a good mood that night, the one when she climbed up there and found him in the hammock. Whatever it was, it was less vivid in her mind now. But she remembered being happy and she remembered drinking and laughing, the night air on her bare skin and jokes about how visible her pale body might have been to those flying overhead. There weren't many happy memories, truly happy ones, but of that night she could remember nothing else.

So often she had gone there for sanctuary. A place where she didn't feel so very alone, where she could fight her own demons with a little back up standing by, just in case. Not that he cared. But that was the safest part of all. He didn't care enough to reject her, to think poorly of her when she fell apart. Not once did he object to her showing up, unannounced, uninvited, crawling into bed with him, just to lay there. He didn't mind that she snuck into his weyr to clean, that she finished his half empty bottles and napped in his bed. He didn't care. More than that, he didn't feel sorry for her. He didn't look at her with pity. She felt, somehow, underneath it all, just maybe, he'd understood.

How many times had she looked at him and wondered what kept him alive. What hope did he have hidden away somewhere, weakening in the darkness. Maybe he did know what it was like to fall apart and forget that there was some purpose in waking up. Maybe he knew what it was like to stay in the lake too long and feel how easy it would be to slip away. Maybe he felt that way the night he left.

She looked at that ledge. Just a speck in the dark, it wasn't really something she could see, but she knew exactly where it was. The night of the last hatching, she'd gone there, so excited and eager and ready. And he'd smiled. That hatching made him smile. She made him smile. It had been a real smile.

Persie smiled back in the darkness and didn't bother to wipe her cheeks.

She knew it was coming, that the dragons would hum and the eggs would crack and all those lovely little baby dragons would pick their weyrlings and they'd all pile into the barracks like some strange enormous family. But he wouldn't be there. It was waiting like a black knot in her stomach. The hatching would come, and he wouldn't be there.

Acting Stupid

2009-05-29T06:10:20Z

Isziyo is half naked, which makes both Persie and Betegal go '...'

This late at night, Isziyo can be seen exiting the bathing pools with his pants low-slung on his hips, and not much else: his shirt is tucked into his belt, and a towel is currently being utilized to finish drying his upper half. In a hurry to get to bed? Not likely, as the candidate is heading towards the nearest hearth with a tired shuffle. Must have sustenance! /Then/ bed. His diligent drying grinds to a ginger standstill as towel encounters black eye, and he pauses in his strides to carefully dab any water droplets away from the puffy skin.

This late at night, Isziyo is just plain mean, wandering around the Weyr looking like that, half dressed and all. Persie is bent over a bench and she -was- peering behind it, feeling around on the dusty floor with the dainty fingertips of her injured left hand. And she's still bent over just like that and her hand is still handing, but now she's looking at the candidate who's stopped a few paces away to dab his eye. She can't see that it's bruised, just that there's a towel in front of it, and so as she stops herself from staring at his abdomen, she blinks at his face. "Are you okay?" After all... it kind of looks like he might be crying.

Betegal wanders through the inner caverns from the general direction of the night hearth. He looks half asleep, which probably means he was snoozing in one of his favorite odd napping spots by the fire. When he sees the other candidate, and then Persie, he pauses, eyes squinting. He ideally has to pass to continue on his way, but he looks reluctant.

Yes, plain mean. Especially considering that Isziyo's built like the proverbial brick house, muscles standing out in lean contours. He drops his hand at Persie's question, not necessarily startled-- it's more the reaction of someone who's tired, and somewhat surprised, but too tired to care about being surprised. "Ah. No, ma'am," he politely replies. "Miss Persie, is it?" He's seen her about the weyr, once or twice. "Can I help you with something, miss?" he questions, apparently torn on using his more familiar 'ma'am' with this particular person. Betegal... hasn't been noticed just yet.

The towel comes down and Persie blinks at that blackened skin. "Oh!" She starts to right herself, pulling her now dusty hand from behind the bench. "What happened to you?" Between the muscles and the eye, she has to sink down to sit, which then makes it much easier for her to see the young man passing by. She doubletakes a beat later. "Betegal?" Then all that flustered blinking goes between the two candidates. "What are you guys doing up? It's late."

"Persie," Betegal nearly squeaks in response to his own name. He clears his throat, because squeaking is just really pathetic, and he pulls his eyes away from Isziyo to look at the greenrider. He strives for intensity but he still looks a little too sleepy to pull it off. "I was sleeping," he gestures back the way he was coming from.

"They had us out on the sands, for the eggs," Isziyo states, as if this says it all. "I still had duties to finish in the nurseries." So he's out late, to finish everything up! Notably, he doesn't comment on his weyrwoman-delivered black eye. But... there's a story there. Seriously. He raises the towel to get at a particularly damp spot at the back of his neck, and glances over to Betegal as he's called out by Persie. "Hey, man. Didn't see you there," he comments, bass rumble deepening a notch of his comment to his fellow candidate. He moves, polite as ever, out of the way of the walkway that he had stopped in.

Betegal was sleeping, Isziyo was doing something in the nursery, everyone else has explained their presence, so now it's Persie's turn. "I lost a list. I suppose it's not really important because the eggs will hatch soon and I'll have weyrlings but..." She shrugs. And then pauses. "They're hard, right? The eggs?" She means to look at Isziyo's face, she really does, but her eyes get stuck around the pectoral region. She realizes this with some dismay and blinks at herself before turning to Betegal; seeing him all sleepy makes her smile. "You look like you might bump into walls or something. Come sit. Wake up," she urges him with the tip of her head toward the space beside her on the bench.

Betegal gives a soft, almost silent laugh. It's mostly his dimpled smile that conveys a certain uncertainty. He looks past Isziyo when he moves, ready to continue on his way. But when Persie suggests he sit and wake up, how can he say no? This is Persie, after all. The smile he wears when he approaches and sits is about as beaming as a half-asleep person can get. "Thanks, Persie. How's your hand?" Then he glances at Isziyo and asks simply, "Tiriana?"

"A list of...?" Isziyo can't help questioning Persie; he's curious! He drops his damp towel into a nifty, handy hamper, and lifts his rumbled shirt from where it's loosely hanging from his belt to slide into it. There-- that should help Persie's focus. Maybe. "Of course," the black-eye'd stablehand-turned-candidate states in reply, padding barefoot to the nearest hearth to pour himself a mug of salvatio--uh, klah. In his typical, quiet manner, he questions, "Miss Persie, Betegal, would either of you like a cup?" The epitome of modern manners, Isz. Or maybe really, really old-fashioned ones.

Persie lets Betegal sit before she plops that wrapped hand in his lap. Ok, so it's not completely haphazard plopping --the thing is injured-- but there it is now, in his lap with her palm up and her fingers lightly curled. That's how the hand is. See? "It's okay. A little achey. I was doing my finger exercises." She will show him this too. Her fingers spread slowly and she makes a show of squinting and grunting before she relaxes the whole thing again and smile. That's the exercise. And the hand stays there. And when she glances up, Isziyo is putting a shirt on. She gives Betegal an 'oh, thank god' sort of look. She doesn't quite understand, though. "Tiriana? Huh? Oh, the list was... names. Of people. To greet. But once there are weyrlings, I won't really have time for that anymore." Ok, so even with the shirt, she does watch Isziyo head over toward the klah. "Um... sure!" Like she needs the caffeine...

Betegal tries not to watch Isziyo. "No, but thanks," he says to the other candidate, and he glances at Persie with almost the same looks she gives him. before glancing at her hand. "Is it actually healing? You must've done it in good," he notes, watching the exercise she shows and mimicking it with his own hand. "Oh! Tiriana is giving people black eyes for the scavenger hunt," he provides for Persie's benefit. "I already got mine." Except he's not all bruised up. "What people are you supposed to greet? I saw the Weyrlingmaster give A'son a knot." He adds the last kind of out of the blue but it seems to suit the conversation as far as he's concerned.

Isziyo didn't think he was that offensive, or would have put on a shirt a long time ago. "One for you, miss Persie?" Of course. He pours another mug, laces it liberally with cream and sugar - without asking Persie's permission - and picks his way back over to offer the mug, handle-first, to the greenrider. "Your klah, madame," he intones with the formality of an actor on one of Fort's stages. His own klah is back at the hearth, waiting it's turn. His gaze shifts from the rider to Betegal, who receives a bland once-over. He hasn't forgotten about the last time they spoke.

"Black... eyes..." Persie looks at Betegal again, because apparently she's missed something. Is his face all bruised too? She cants her head, studying him, a quirk of a smile pulling at her lips despite herself. It's still lingering there and getting brighter when Isziyo brings her mug over in such a manner. She gives him the very regal nod of her blonde head as she takes it. "Thank you very kindly, sir." When she takes a sip to find it so liberally sweetened, it makes that grin very broad and giddy. Her boot wiggles back and forth. But wait, back that trolly up: "A'son?" she asks Betagal, blinking round eyes at him. "You mean... an assistant weyrlingmaster's knot?"

"She didn't punch me," Betegal assures Persie, grinning his dimpled smile that's starting to look a little more awake but still lazy. He turns that smile on Isziyo when he presents Persie with her klah, then shrugs and turns back to the greenrider. "Well, I'm pretty sure it wasn't -hers.- He didn't seem very happy, though, so I dunno." His gaze goes a little distant and then he refocuses with a blink, "He's nice." Apparently not what he expected.

Has anyone mentioned how much of a sucker Isz is, for blondes? Ask Ajatha. That one has him twined around her pinkie, floating behind her like Pepe Le Pew. "You are certainly welcome," he replies in his gravelly bass to Persie, and glances from the rider to Bety and back again. "And now, I think I find my leave," he states, in a slightly shrewd tone, given it's coming from Isziyo. "It was good seeing both of you." An incline of his head, a courtly gesture; and then he's snabbing up his klah mug, and padding silently off towards the kitchens. Time to sweettalk the cooks into finding something edible for him to eat!

Persie is quite relieved to know that the Weyrwoman hasn't been using Betegal for a punching bag; she even lets out a sigh. "Well good." But as much as having Isziyo stand around in front of her seems to be a distraction for the poor blonde, she frowns a bit to have him making his departure. "Thank you for the klah," is all she can think to say, again, as he pads off, though that might because she's watching him leave. "That's quite a... shiner he has," she says aside to Betagal. And then she finally stops using his lap as a place to rest her booboo hand; it comes up to join the other one wrapped around her warm mug. "A'son is nice," she agrees. "I didn't know that he... this was just today? That you saw him with the Weyrlingmaster?"

"Do you have-" but Betegal cuts himself off as he watches Isziyo head for the kitchens, his smile fading but not quite turning into a frown. He gives Persie a slightly guilty look, glances down when she moves her hand then leans forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped in front of him. "Earlier," he says. "I was looking for Rimara but I saw him and didn't know if Carobet had gotten the carving from him. She hadn't. So I did." Babbling, just a little.

"Do... huh?" Persie looks between the remaining candidate and where the other one just departed. "Were you talking to him or me?" she asks with a confused laugh, all the more confused for the guilty look he gives her. Something about his manner or his babbling makes the greenrider shift her mug back to that good hand, so that bad one can reach for him again. Of course, there's no lap with him bent forward, but this time she's attempting to snake her fingers between his clasped hands, so she can have one of them. Random? Yes. "Are you winning, do you think?"

"He never hangs out where I am for too long," Betegal tries to explain. Clearly, Isziyo's departure is his fault from his point of view. He lets the greenrider snake her fingers between his hands and he gives a very, very gentle squeeze as though to say he appreciates it. "I don't really know. We need two more things unless Carobet's already gotten them. I'm not sure where the other teams are. You didn't give a bunch of people pieces or your bandage, did you?" he asks the last as he glances down at her hand, concerned.

"Why not?" That's the next natural question. "Did something happen or he just... runs away like that?" Now Persie frowns again after the departed candidate, though it's a little different this time. And she doens't so much squeeze Betegal's hand in return as her fingers just pitterpat against his skin. She seems perfectly happy to just sit there, holding his hand, drinking her klah. "What do you have left? I did... I gave some to Ajatha and to Whitchek." The latter makes her frown too. "I'd probably have held out on Whitchek but... Mikandros is always nice to me, you know? So I gave him some. And they both got things from A'son. Did you get one? From A'son?"

Betegal thinks about that first question for a moment or three. And he doesn't answer. Instead, "Mikandros is nice to everyone, near as I can tell. But, yeah. I got a tunnelsnake, I think. I can show it to you sometime but I have it back in the barracks right now." His gaze is forward and sort of lingers on nothing. "An instrument string from Rorkes. And something from Yori. But she doesn't like me so I don't think I'll get anything from her. And I haven't been able to find Rorkes. He doesn't have a dragon," he says the last and his grin creeps back since that's how he lassoed Persie.

That creeping grin has Persie catching her smile in her teeth lest it become too big; she even tries to hide it a bit behind the rim of her mug. "Well, maybe no one else will get them either. Can you still win, do you think? If you just have more than everyone else? Or does the game not end, then." Leave it to Persie to make it puzzling. However, for all her apparently flakiness, she doesn't miss the thing that Betegal left out. "So what happened with..." Damn, what's his name. She gestures after Isziyo with her mug. "The big guy."

"I'm not sure, actually. I don't know what will happen if there's a tie, either," Betegal says like that's really something he should have thought about before now. But then he shrugs, not worrying about it. "It'd be nice to win, but it's okay if we don't. I'll just avoid Carobet for awhile." He glances the way Isziyo had gone and scrunches up his nose when Persie notices he didn't answer. "Nothing," he says, which is more or less true. "We kind of butted heads awhile ago." Ignore his stupid grin, which he removes with a quiet cough.

"Well, hopefully you'll all have a chance to finish, you know? It sounds like the eggs are getting pretty hard. If it takes too long to win, it'll either be weyrling, from which there isn't any rest at all, or back to... whatever you were doing before." If this is not the most encouraging of speeches, Persie doesn't really seem to notice. Besides, she's curious now: "What did you do before?" And as for butting heads with Isziyo, she gives Betegals' hand a tug. "Okay, let's hear it," tells him with a put-upon weariness that's all show, particularly since it makes her grin playfully at him. "What happened?"

Betegal doesn't really seem to notice either. "I was a handyman," he says with a short laugh. "I'd just started officially not long before I was searched. I'd just gotten back from the smith hall a little before that." The hand tug makes Betegal sigh melodramatically. "It's nothing, I swear. I just act stupid around him. I can't help it. He, like, got mad about it or something." He shrugs. "I figure after this is over, it'll be easier to avoid him, too." Avoidance seems to be a common thing for Bety.

"You went to the Hall? That sounds kind of exciting." Or it does to Persie. Still holding onto his hand, she draws a knee up under her chin and wraps the klah holding arm around it. "What do you mean you act stupid? Like... like because he's so big, you mean? Or like..." She lets her eyebrows lift a little, that suggestive little. "Anyway, you didn't do anything stupid tonight. Just so you know."

"I liked it there," Betegal admits, but he doesn't go into depth about the subject. He does, however, blush a noticeable shade of pink for her suggestion. "I don't know what it is. It's just stupid. And I was trying really hard not to. I probably should've just kept going. I saw the way -you- were looking at him," and here he returns his own little lift of brows and a playful grin, greatly enjoying turning this back on her.

When Persie is called out, she gives Betegal a bright laugh, maybe even more giddy since he's blushing as he is. "I know! But who looks like that? He's enormous. And not, like, just a big guy, he's all... sculpted. Who looks like that? It's like he's not even real." Her eyes go all wide with emphasis. "I think I get dumber when he's around. And... I can't really afford to get dumber." She gives herself a little shake, like she can shiver the effects right off. "He must get it all the time, though. From everyone, not just girls." She's trying to make Betegal feel better, she really is.

The candidate laughs and then he sighs again, this time less dramatic and just kind of wistful. "You aren't anywhere near dumb, Pers. And maybe he does, I just didn't think..." his voice trails off because he's not really sure what he didn't think. "Anyway, I should probably get going to bed." He attempts to give the greenrider a quick kiss on the cheek, something sweet more than anything particularly male. "Don't stay up too late," he tells her as he rises to his feet, grinning.

"Just don't tell anyone I said that," Persie confides, chewing her smile as she withdraws her hand to cover part of her face with it. "I should go to bed, too." As she decides it, down the hand comes, creating the perfect opening for that quick peck to her cheek. It surprises the greenrider and has her beaming at him, utterly enchanted. "I won't. I'm going now." It's the sort of thing a child might say when being ushered off to a procrastinated chore. She gets to her feet as well and wastes no time heading off, though backwards so she can still say to the candidate, "Good luck with the hunt. I'm still hoping you win."

"I won't tell anyone," Betegal beams and he turns to start heading toward the barracks, calling back, "Thanks, Persie!" And then he's wandering off, looking far more awake now than when he'd first come across the greenrider and the eye candy. Oh, well. It was worth it.

A little lookin' after

2009-05-29T05:44:31Z

Persie is soaking her ouchie wrist when Devan comes to sit with her.

It is a few days after the ride, the fall. It's been a bit rainy and the ground is wet all around, but that doesn't stop Persie from laying on her stomach over a large rock at the lake's shore. Gray clouds threaten overhead, but at least it isn't raining just this moment, as the greenrider has her hand in the water. Just hanging there in the water, moving slowly back and forth, around in circles. It's with a distant, thoughtful expression that Persie watches the ripples and the ghostly way her white hand looks below the surface. The ends of a few stands of pale hair rest on top of the water like little golden insects that miraculously avoid sinking.

Maybe asking around for Persie led him here. Or maybe this is just circumstance. Devan has reason to look for her, sort of, and the chances of him just happening upon her like this might be small. Whatever, he's been walking towards her from the Weyr's bowl for as long as it's taken him to walk towards her from the Weyr's bowl, and only just now is he stopping on the shore next to her rock, his head tilting. His hands are in his pockets, because it's a little bit cold. And she's laying on what has probably become a damp rock. "Hi."

Whatever reverie has her staring down at the water like that, it keeps her from noticing Devan's approach, or the way he's watched her the whole time. It's not until he's standing there, hand in pockets, that she blinks over at him, the smile coming a beat later. "Hi." Good start.

Good enough! Devan's slow, easy grin curves his mouth in direct response to her smile. In the grey of the day he looks darker somehow than usual, the warmth in his black eyes cold, like the dark of the rock she's stretched out on. Still, he is so very himself. "Hi." Playful. He doesn't come closer, maybe because he suspects she might skitter away like a little creature. But he does advance with, "What're you doin'?"

"I'm soaking my wrist. It's too much trouble to mess around with ice or snow or.. the cold water works well enough. Maybe better." Persie stares back down into the water. "It doesn't look like my hand, does it." Apparently she means him to come closer and peer into the water with her. "It looks like a dead thing or a fish or... a dream." She glance back at him, and she must see whatever change is there on his face. "Are you okay?"

If she means for it, he'll make it happen. It's getting easier, this reading into Persie. Not easy, no, but easier. Careful not to get his boots wet, Devan nears until he can, with a hand to steady him on her rock, lean a little and see what she means. Or try. Her hand is a pale pale thing. It captures him up until she asks that question, which he answers by smiling at her. "You got hurt."

"It doesn't hurt so much right now," she tells him over her sholder. "I can move over if you want to sit. It's a little wet though. I suppose that's one of the things about the lake... Maybe I should just get a bucket, keep it on my ledge. That would be cold enough." Persie is thinking aloud, without much thought that bucket details probably aren't so fascinating to him. She looks over the man again. "You're not going to fret about me, are you?"

Bucket details actually seem to enthrall him some. Devan's giving her that smile the whole time, she'll see it when she looks at him again. He's leaning against the rock, so clearly contact isn't an issue, and when she invites him to sit he pushes away from it like he's going to take her up on the offer. "Do I look like the frettin' type?" he asks, a little distracted by the act of getting the short distance up. For him it's just a big step, really.

She shifts over as she said she would, and awkward lift-move-lift-move until there's enough room for him to take a seat beside her sprawled self. "You look.. Like you might want to fret about me." Her, specifically, at least. "Part of me always wishes that someone would worry about me, care. It's such a silly, selfish thing to want. But then, when people do..." It makes her brows nip together in confusion and she shakes her pale head, uncertain what to make of it.

He appreciates it, shows it by giving her that special, gentle little grin. It's a secret grin, he's sharing it only with her. Devan settles beside her easily, one knee up-bent while the other leg crooks on its side, between them. His knee might bump her. "I kinda wanna worry about you," he admits after she trails off, when he assumes she isn't going to finish. And though he hasn't made a big show of /not/ looking at her so far, he looks at her very directly now, like he might want to make this next especially pointed. "Ever since I first met you."

That look, it has her blinking back at him all doe-eyed, a rapt interest balancing the hints of anxiety. She looks like she might say something, instead Persie drops her gaze to her hand again, lifting it dripping from the water to consider the swelling, then dunking it again. "But why?" she wonders softly.

If she's gonna consider the swelling then so is he. It's something else to focus on. But she dunks it, and he's not looking at /her/, but he isn't really looking away either. He's just... looking. "Oh, I dunno." Pausing, Devan considers his next words carefully. Or at least forms them. The thoughts are already there, and he isn't so much concerned with offending her. Not Persie. "'Cause I like you. 'Cause... you seem like you need a little lookin' after. 'Cause I'm bigger'n you." His smile turns wry on this note.

"Everyone is bigger than me," Persie says with a small laugh and the shake her head. Now that she's not quite so reclined and those bits of hair aren't touching the water, they drip intermittently. "I think most everyone needs looking after. Even the people who act like they don't. Maybe they need it the most." There's still something quiet in her words, perhaps even something a little forlorn.

All these hypotheticals have Devan thinking, so he's a little bit distracted. It isn't until he hears that change in her voice that he looks at her again, noting the dripping strands of her pale hair and whatever might lie in her expression. "I know some people who aren't bigger'n you." They're probably the kids he escorts around sometimes, but hey. He's serious now though. His legs are now both bent off to either side, creating a nice spot for his hands to dangle, clasped, and he's bent over a little. This way he can watch her. "Someone in particular?"

Persie starts, but then she stops. Instead of answering, she pushes herself up, swinging around so that she sits beside him with her wet hand in her lap, soaking her pants. "I'm trying to let go, you know? To... to let it all drift away. But it doesn't, really. It crops up at weird times, at bad times." With her good hand, she rubs the bridge of her nose. "I don't think it will ever really go away. I don't even know if i want it to." And none of that is what he asked.

And he's okay with that. Devan listens to her not-answer with all the patience of the rock they're sitting on. They might make for a comical picture, the two of them, with her so small beside him. His eyes fall to her hand, the bad one, the hurt wrist, so that he's looking down when she finishes. Which doesn't mean he chose to, but he doesn't correct it. His reply comes slowly. For someone as sensitive as he seems to be, these sorts of conversations don't find him all that often. "People say you need t'get over somethin' before you can get past it. I kinda think the most any of us can hope for is gettin' through. Gettin' to the other side of somethin'." Now he looks at her, but he's giving her only most of his regard. Corner of his eye. "You should do what feels right. What feels good. No matter what."

"I thought... I really thought it would be the rest of my life. Like... like being in love with a painting. You can see it, you can imagine being in the picture, being able to touch. But you can't. And it never says anything and it never looks at you. I thought I'd just... spend the rest of my life imagining and remembering and I'd just wait, just in case." Persie looks over at him, looking down at the inert hand in her lap, then barely at her face. It's when he looks at her that she breathes in quickly, like this was all more than she meant to say. "Just.. get through it. I think you're right. I don't think there's any... any getting over it."

For that, Devan smiles again. He may not know what she's talking about, when you get right down to the specifics, but he gets the sentiment. And he can follow along with her without getting lost. He looks-- odd, just now, though. He isn't confused and he isn't sad, but there's something in the edges of him that speaks of... a desire to understand better. To know what she's seeing when she goes into her mind like that, maybe. He purses his mouth and doesn't look away. "You ever been hurt like that?" The kind of hurt you just get through.

It's probably a yes or no question, that one he's just asked, but Persie doesn't just say yes or no. Does anyone really expect her to? Isn't it a wonder she answers the question at all? But she looks back at him and all his not looking away. "Always."

Always. That's a fucked up thing to say. But maybe she's fucked up. And Devan, with all his seeming normal and like everything's always fine, with his big grins and his easygoingness, just stares at her. Not for long, but it's all he can do before what he wants to do kicks in. He makes a pained face, bunched-up eyebrows and his mouth all tight, and leans over to put his arm around her. And if she lets him get that far, he'll press a kiss to her dear blonde head.

She lets him. There's no tug away when he wraps his arms around her, all sweater and bone that she is. And after he kisses her head, Persie rests it on his shoulder. "It's not really as bad as all that. Getting through it is just... waking up and finding something to do until you go to sleep again. And it gets easier. Or, well, I guess it just gets.. normal." She's quiet for a moment, just resting there. "But... but that isn't the problem."

She's all sweater and bone, he's all dark jacket and muscle and big hands that find her back and the side of her neck respectively, until the latter drops away to her shoulder. He keeps his mouth to her hair, maybe he likes the smell or maybe he wants to stare above her at something off in the distance. Devan's listening though, listening and breathing and being alive are things he's good at. He rubs her back a little, tips his head down so some of those wispy blonde strands get a little stuck on his chin scruff, and asks, "What's the problem?"

Oh sure. Devan is there just sitting and listening and breathing and being alive and asking impossible questions. Persie's feature screw up in an attempt to wrap her head around all the things, all the little things that feel like they need explaining. "I'm trying to... let it go. But then it crops up again and I feel guilty. And part of me is sad to let it go. And... and part of me is scared to let it go. What if I start to dream of something else that doesn't come true?"

"There's a lot o'what-if in the world, sweetheart," Devan reminds her or tells her or something, in a rough voice that's pitched low for her little ears only. "You can't let 'em turn you over." He pauses there, because this is all suddenly very heavy and he wasn't expecting that, and maybe he should have since it's Persie. His hand moves again, to smooth her hair down over and over. "I didn't know you were so full o'worries, little bug." Which is kind of like an apology. He isn't prepared. Forgive him.

He smooths her hair and she rubs rather furiously at her face. "Isn't everyone?" Persie asks, since it seems to her that everyone is full of worries, somewhere under the surface, maybe if you dig down real deep. "I don't mean to be like this. I really.. I try not to be. Sometimes it just..." She takes a deep rallying breath.

She rubs at her face, he takes that as a sign. He's seen girls cryin' before, he knows the warning signs. So he takes a quick look around to make sure that nobody else is within earshot or close enough to see their moment, tugs the open sides of his jacket up around her so she can hide there. It's dark, and he's warm. "You tryin' to add more worry onto your worry pile?" he asks her, with a little smile in his voice. "C'mon now, dear. It's just me'n you here."

Persie hesitates for only a tiny second before she lets him put that jacket around her and leans in against his arm side. "I don't want you to get in trouble," she tells him quietly. "The lake and then my wrist. A'son will think you're dangerous or something." Is this the same conversation they've been having, or did she just start a new one?

Maybe she'll forgive him some more for his slightly muffled and bemused, "What?" Oh. They're not talking about the thing anymore. Devan's eyes shift to the side, a little suspicious about did he just get flushed out of her head? "A'son," and there's warmth in his voice, "knows I'm dangerous." He hides his grin somewhere in her hair. "Don't you put me in your pile o'worry, worry wart." He tries to make that sound lighthearted and... well, it sort of works.

Persie frowns, not that he's likely to see it. "How could he know that? Or, well, think that. Because he can't know it. Because you're not. Dangerous." She certainly doesn't seem to expect any danger, snuggled up against him as she is with her hands in her lap.

There's a sudden puckish slant to Devan's grin. He's biting down on one corner of it. Not that she can see. Still, it's in his voice. "Well A'son's known me a long time. Long, long time. He's my best friend. Plus, I don't snuggle with him like this anymore." Maybe that'll make her smile. "He might be more inclined to rememberin' my less cuddly attributes."

That jerks her head right up. Long, long time. Best friend. Persie lifts her head to fix wide open eyes on Devan's dark face. And those big eyes, they make her mouth look very small. Whatever is going through her mind, it looks to be moving very quickly, so quickly that there isn't any time for her little mouth to move at all.

And Devan can only look at her, his dark, scruffy face a mask of mild confusion. His eyebrows pull in, his mouth slanted. A long moment stretches out between them before he grins at her and lifts the eyebrows because he doesn't know what else to do, and asks, "What?"

"I don't know," Persie answers in a small, bewildered voice. "I just.. I didn't know. I don't know how I didn't know. You never... talk about each other. He wouldn't really think you're dangerous, would he? Wouldn't he... And you wouldn't... I mean, you wouldn't do anything..." All of this has her looking sort of helpless and frustrated with her inability to finish a sentence.

Well this is unexpected. Still, Devan's taking it like a man. This is just what might happen when you're talking to Persie. He gets it. As soon as her sentence starts unraveling he makes his mouth a line again and lifts his chin so that when he takes her hands he's giving her calm down-his-nose sort of look. "Hey hey hey, easy. It was a joke, the dangerous stuff was just a joke. Look, look at me. Look at my face." And he gives it to her, lifted eyebrows and that roundness around his cheeks and chin and all. "Do I look dangerous?"

Persie starts shaking her head very quickly, that blonde hair swinging to and for as she puts a hand on his cheek. "No. That's not what I meant. I know you aren't dangerous. You... you try to take care of me." Though that thought has her screwing up her face again. "Do you think A'son would be mad? At you? At me?"

"Mad?" Mad. Even though she has her hand on his face and her face is right there and he should probably be paying more attention to those things, Devan's eyes wander to the side again. She wouldn't know it, but he's trying to picture A'son angry. And the little furrow between those animated eyebrows suggests he isn't having the easiest time. But he's back to reality in the next instant, focused on her and quirking her a little smile. "I don't see why." Which implies a shrug.

"So I should tell him then," Persie figures, letting her fingertips fall from Devan's cheek. She might not know where he went, or what put that little furrow on his brow, but she knows he doesn't seem to think there's anything to be concerned about. As she withdraws her hand, she settles her shoulder against him again, lets her focus drift back down to the water. "I think he'll be upset."

Tell him? Devan's continued confusion is sort of lost when Persie arranges herself next to him like before. His limbs move automatically to give her the same niche she had, and he stares at the water with her. Upset. She'll tell him and he'll be upset. Something isn't quite right about this. So he asks, "Upset about what?"

Hasn't she explained already? Of course, with Persie, no explanation comes out clear, no matter how she might try, and with that being so, she remains patient. "About you being there in the lake. And that my wrist is sprained and you were there. I've been... hiding it. I don't want him to worry about me."

"/Oh/." Those things. Devan grins so very broadly. He has to, his misunderstanding was so... well, funny. "You can tell 'im, sure. I don't think he's gonna be upset." There's a long lingering pause after that, during which he thinks... /will/ he be upset? More to assure himself than her, maybe, he adds, "Besides, if he comes at me with any righteous kinda anger I'll just knee 'im in the balls'n run."

Persie twists quickly, her good hand on his chest. "Oh no you won't," she tells him very certainly. It's an order, the sort of order a weyrlingmaster probably doles out all day long. She's capable of that tone, yes she is. "He worries about me." She says this pointedly, as if surely Devan can understand the bronzerider's feeling.

Guys like Devan understand feelings. Guys like Devan understand guys like A'son's feelings. Especially when guys like Devan and A'son have been friends forever and kicked each other and picked each other up off the ground when one or the other scraped a knee. But there's a girl involved, and girls always haze everything over. Poor guys. He gives her an indulgent little smile. "I worry about you too." But, he also indulges her. See: little smile.

"Okay." Devan's response seems to have satisfied the blonde. Persie nods decisively, as if her orders have been obediently followed. But there's some little inkling of trouble that makes her lashes flutter as she frowns down at the water again. She doesn't seem to be talking about it. Instead, she's fallen silent and still, comfortably sitting beside Devan even as the rain starts to fall again.

Okay. Okay is a good sign. And she settles back in, and that's good too. It's just too bad Devan can't see the trouble there, her little mannerisms. He'd notice, probably. Alas. And then the rain falls, and that's a distraction anyway. He looks up into it like everyone who's ever been rained on looks up into it, squints his eyes and scoots in closer against her so that when he shrugs his jacket off he can try to use it as a canopy for both of them. And if it's mostly on her side and he gets wet, then so be it. "We should go in."

Everyone is in the Kitchen

2009-05-29T00:02:57Z

Persie goes to the kitchen and so does everyone else.

The kitchens are bustling with lunchtime traffic, cooks calling to each other, pots and pans clattering, serving boys and girls rushing back and forth with covered and empty trays to keep the tables full outside. All of which means a decided influx in the number of dirty dishes, Mikandros standing at a large wash basin, up to his elbows in hot water as he scrubs dutifully at the scraped plates continually getting piled on a table next to his station. Ugh.

Some people get assigned jobs they wouldn't normally do, like candidates, and other people just end up doing things because they like helping and have little better to do. That is what's become of Persie now. She's tailing a burly kitchen woman with her arms full of clean towels and washrags. So full she can barely see where she's going, which is somewhat dangerous in a kitchen during the lunchtime rush. But she survives passage and dumps her cargo in it's appropriate location. The greenrider is on her way out when she sees Mikandros and goes to flash a bright smile at him, but it's nigh a beat later that she notices the mountain of dirty dishes piling beside him. "You're behind," she points out sympathetically.

Bright smiles? Bright smiles are always welcome, and returned, though Mikandros doesn't stop with washing those dishes. "Heyla miss Persie. An'... aye. Tell me somethin' I don't know." Plate gets lifted out of soapy water and dumped carefully into the rinse bin. Someone else's job to lift them from there and dry, as he automatically reaches for another plate. "How ye been keepin'? Been a while since I saw ye last."

"I've been all right, I think. Things are... things are going pretty well." Persie says that as if she's surprised to find it true. Surprised and pleased. "Can... well, I can't really help wash, I only have one hand but... let me try to organize it a little? Maybe it'll feel less..." She describes the shape of that precariously piled mountain of dishes with the wave of her hands in the air; it's a mountain that is, in her estimation, going to collapse on them both. "How have you been?" And, one-handed as she says, she goes about moving this plate here, that bowl there, slowly sorting things out in the limited space.

"One hand?" Those words earn a closer look from Mikandros, a crease of worry forming upon his brow. "What happened t'ye, miss Persie?" Plate washed, dumped in the rinse water, another one grabbed from the top of one of those precarious piles. "Ah now, ye ain't got t'do that. Appreciate it, though, so thank ye. S'long as ye ain't gonna hurt yerself." A pause, the 'again' almost audible still even though it's unspoken. "I been keepin' pretty good. Enjoyin' things, pretty much. Wishin' it'd stop with th'rainin' an' get t'the snowin' though."

No whining about overdone eggs today for Whitchek. Or cold stew or limp salad greens or any of the numerous things that have been available out there. In fact, when he wanders into the kitchen, it's empty-handed and looking relatively sanguine. "Have you seen--" he starts to murmur to one of the cooks, before spotting a head above others. "Partner!" called out in a very self-satisfied sort of voice.

"I sprained my wrist," Persie says, her smile coming out a bit sheepish in it's pull to one side. "So I'm not much good with that hand. But I can do this," she insists. "And then I don't have to worry about the stack of plates falling on you. Or on the floor. They don't like that." It sounds like maybe she knows from experience. "I'm kind of enjoying the rain, actually. I know the snow is coming but... I don't know. Maybe I just like getting to anticipate the snow." The wide grin she's about to show Mikandros is interrupted by the sudden calling from across the room and she turns to blink toward Whitchek.

Mikandros' frown is definitely in the range of concerned now, "How'd ye manage that?" And unable to resist, slipping into teasing as easily as breathing, "Ye ain't been nursemaidin' any more benches, without me, have ye?" Puppy eyes. Puppy eyes that turn into a freeze, a squint, before his face settles back into his usual amiable pleasantness. A mutter, low enough Persie's likely the only one close enough to catch it fully, "Wish he'd stop callin' me that." Then his baritone is lifting, carrying easily over the noise and clangor of the kitchen, "Heyla, Whitchek. What's it t'day, too much salt in th'stew?" Sliding his attention back to Persie, continuing their conversation, "I like th'snow. Like it when it gets heavy enough to sculpt with. Bit old fer playin' in th'snow I guess, but don't care."

Friendly Whitchek is, yes, possibly a little disturbing, but he's all smiles and everything. "Nothing of the sort. Just finished eating, actually," he offers to the other Candidate. "Wanted to let you know that I did get our lavender from Madilla." It's only at that point, getting closer, that he recognizes the woman who Mikandros is talking to. "'Lo," with a respectful nod, to Persie.

"No no. No benches. I'm sure I'd have been safer with benches. I don't think they spook very often." And those puppy eyes do make Persie beam rather brightly. "I promise I won't work on any benches without you. Cross my heart." Only Mikandros' puppy eyes squint and change and she looks warily toward Whitchek. "What..." Of course, the wary look doesn't last long because if Whitcheck is coming this way, and he does seem to be, he'll get a bright smile, too. "Hi. You guys are collecting stuff for the scavenger hunt? You're a team?"

Mikandros shakes his head a little bit, choosing to answer Persie first as he grabs another plate and plunges it into the water. "Ye jus' be careful miss Persie," is his rumbling request, his grin flashing again for her promise. Aside to Whitchek then, the grin actually remains in place, "Ye did? Excellent. I got our sketches from Rimara, too, so ye ain't got t'worry 'bout that either. Remind me later an' I'll give ye yours, if ye want it."

"We are a team," Whitchek confirms, although not exactly as enthusiastically as all that partner business might have indicated. He leans on a hand on the counter and eyes Mikandros. "You didn't ask her? You've been standing here talking to her, and you didn't ask yet?" The end is just a little bit accusing, which evokes a sheepish smile. "Sorry, sorry. The sketches, great. "Whaddya mean, mine? They're actually pictures of *us*? I just thought it was supposed to be a picture of... well, something."

"You need something from me, right?" Persie asks, looking between the two candidates. While Mikandros washes the dishes, the greenrider busies herself turning his mountainous pile of stuff to be washed into neat, little piles that are far less likely to topple over. She does this one-handed as on the other hand, peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her sweater, is a pink bandage. "What do I get if I give you guys something?" Her smile turns bright and wide, caught impishly between her teeth.

Rolling his shoulders a little, Mikandros turning a little hint of a frown on Whitchek for that demand. "Was enjoyin' miss Persie's company an' a friendly chat," he states, matching that little accusation with a little disapproval. "Would gotten 'round t'askin' her." So there, nyah. The neat little stacks the skinny greenrider has made so far are going a long way towards quickening his hands, less care needed to keep the plates from toppling on anyone's head or feet. Though the talking is probably keeping him about the same level of productivity. "Aye, Rimara wanted t'make 'em personal. Got t'see 'em, she's got bitty sketches of all of us. Really funny. She pegged -ye- good, Whitchek." A waggle of a wet plate is unhelpful, but it makes the large young man grin. Nodding now to Persie, "Somethin' green or pink, th'list says. Should give Whit pink." Completely innocently delivered, that suggestion. For her last question, a thoughtful expression. Playful she might be, but he's actually going to give it some serious consideration.

The bit about the sketches gets a scowl from Whitchek, but it's the 'pink' comment that gets an angry rejoinder: "None of that, now," he snaps. "Not a nice thing to say at all." He's not making himself useful at all, of course. But, hey, he's got his own chores, enough to do without somebody else's. "Doesn't matter, anyway, we just need something that meets the criteria. It's not a personal present or something."

Persie doesn't get it. "What's wrong with pink?" she asks, sounding a bit worried. Now that things are neater with the dishes, there's plenty of room when another load comes in. She steps back from the counter and gestures for Whitchek to take her place at sorting. "I don't mind if you ask for it," she adds for Mikandros' benefit. "It doesn't mean we couldn't still talk a bit and catch up."

Into the kitchen, soaked from the rain but cheerful nevertheless, comes an Istan greenrider, jacket slung over his shoulder and dripping onto the floor. "Ista's duties - any klah?" He asks the question of the room in general, but gets nodded toward the greenrider and her two candidate companions, who get a quick once-over and a beam. He repeats, "Ista's duties," and adds, "Mic, green Aath's. Someone said there was klah?"

Mikandros just laughs in the face of Whitchek's anger, shaking his head as he reiterates from a previous conversation, "Lighten up. Faranth's shiny snout, ye need a sense of humour, Whit." A shake of his head for Persie, smiling happily, "Ain't nothin' wrong with pink, miss Persie. Prefer green m'self though. Pink don't suit m'eyes. If'n yer wantin' a trade off, though. How about one of m'carvings in exchange? Ye c'n take yer pick of what I got that ain't already promised t'someone else." Those don't-suit-pink brown eyes are then blinked in puzzlement at the Istan's dripping arrival. "Ah, High Reaches duties t'Ista, sir. Klah's over there, though." Chin lifts and turns, to the counter a smidge further along the way beyond the trio.

Lighten up. Lighten. Deep breaths. Whitchek manages to just let it go, although the temptation to seize hold of it and shake it to death is written large across his face. "Nothing... wrong with pink," he manages to say. "I'd just prefer not. That's all," he offers to Persie, and by the end of it sounds almost believable. The Istan greenrider gets barely a glance, a sort of mumbled greeting. He's managed all the friendliness he can, now.

Persie reaches to put a hand (the good one) on Whitchek's arm when he looks like this lightening up is so very hard for him to come by. The smile she gives him is a gentle one, as if this is a very serious issue, the issue of something pink. "Here, you sort the dishes," she instructs. Maybe that'll take his mind off of it. "I'll give you guys the same thing I gave Betty-, er, Betegal." And the newly arrived greenrider, he gets a wave of her hand, the one with the bandage. "Hey." She skips the duties and such and reaches for a dirty knife that doesn't look dirty.

T'mic looks where Mikandros chin-lifts and ahs for the sight of a pitcher. "Great! Can I get any for you? Any of you?" He looks between the three 'Reachians, letting two beats pass before tacking on with a grin, "Whoever you are?" He moves off to fetch the klah, though, and grabs a couple of extra mugs.

Mikandros' approving nod is probably not going to do a single thing to help improve Whitchek's temper. But it's given all the same. Look, the puppy learned a trick! And maybe they'll succeed in not killing each other long enough to stand a chance at a decent hand in of scavenger hunt items. "What'd ye give Betegal?" he asks curiously of Persie. Shake of his head given for T'mic, his smile becoming amused as he offers, "Mik. Mikandros. This here's miss Persie an' Whitchek." Helpfully offering the identities of his companions as well.

There's touching. That's... very bad. If Whitchek jerks his arm away, it's not a personal insult, right? It's just... Whitchek. He at least manages to smile at Persie afterwards, if tenuously. "Thanks," he offers to her. Direct offer from the greenrider brings a shake of the head. "No, none. Thanks," quickly. "Uh, yeah," to the introduction, not exactly polite, even going so far as to turn away once it's been confirmed that yes, he is the Whitchek of whom Mikandros speaks. "Think they must be doing pretty well, Betegal and Carobet. They'd already been to Madilla, too, and she said they had a plan for Tiriana."

Isziyo invades the kitchens with the intensity of a hungry Southern feline. "There are no meatrolls outside," he states to a nearby baker, with soulful eyes. Puppy-dog eyes. "None." Does he notice a cluster of people? Nope. Not at all. But he may bump into Mik as the baker shoo's him off with an impatient 'not now'.

Persie doesn't look terrbly hurt that Whitchek jerks away, besides, she's looking for a knife now. Which knife, which knife. When she hears her name, she looks up and toward T'mic. "Hey, do you need a cup or anything? Are there some over there? We have clean ones. Not these." That last bit gets tacked on as she points to the obviously not-clean pile of mugs. "Oh, you've found them already." She laughs at herself and shakes her head - there's so much going on, how can the poor blonde girl keep up? Then she turns to Mikandros to offer the chosen knife, even if his hands are wet and soapy. "Here, you hold this."

T'mic finishes pouring mugs, and returns to the trio-now-quartet with two in one hand and one - his own - in the other. "Another Mic," he declares, offering his namesake first dibs on one of the other mugs. "Well met - oh, say. /Persie/." He leans a hip into the counter, squinting at the other greenrider and letting Whitchek's tantrum pass without so much as a murmur. "Persie... Persie... Didn't you used to be at Fort? --Mic," he adds for Isziyo, "T'mic. Aath's. Ista's duties."

Mikandros gives a sidelong glance to Whitchek, his eyes rolling towards the ceiling. Leaning close to his 'partner' a rumble, "Don't think she's gonna slap ye again. I- hey!" A splash as the plate he'd been washing falls back into the water, turning to scowl over his shoulder at... Isziyo? "Oh, hey!" Cheer at recognizing the Elder Young Mountain. "What'cha doin' in here, Isz?" Of course then he's got Persie to worry about, again, as she's handling sharp objects. A quick, "Sorry, er, maybe Isz'd like it?" to T'mic for the offered klah, as he's got his hands busy with carefully divesting Pers of the knife, as requested. "What'm I holdin' this fer?"

It's time to sneak into the kitchen for a small, quiet meal. Only, there seems to be something of a little crowd of people not workers hanging around. The candidates are all given a once over look of vague interest before A'son's eyes find their way to the greenriders present. Persie is the recipient of a pleasent smile but then there's the sound of 'Ista's duties'. Ista? Where? From one vegetation-colored dragonrider to the next, his smile goes from pleasent to outright broad an excited when recognizes T'mic. For a man with a limp, he still seems to be able to bound pretty well. It's only at the very last second that he realizes his friend is holding onto some mugs and comes skidding to a halt.

Isziyo takes the knife from Mik. "Better let a trained professional do that," he deadpans to the Younger Young Mountain. He eyes Ace's crazy bounding-limp antics, and gets that Very Reserved Expression that he keeps only for crazy people and very young children. "What the shell is going on in here, man?" he questions Mik in a low tone, nodding - perhaps belatedly - to T'mic. "Isziyo," he exchanges his own name, in drawling Reachian tones. "Call me Isz."

T'mic could be holding onto a knife instead, and wouldn't that make things interesting? "Isz," he agrees with a nod, and gives him a quick once over, but when A'son comes limp-bounding up the Istan pushes off the counter like he could actually stop the other man's headlong plunge. "A'son! You're a sight for sore eyes. Did Paddy find you? Millie tell you we were here?" Belatedly, and since no one else is taking one, he offers the bronzerider a mug and a teasing, "Aath's been pining after Nikoth."

"I didn't think she was," Whitchek mutters, but with Isziyo's arrival he backs off in a big way. Lots of space. Like maybe Isz might have some sort of obscure infectious virus or something. Taking no chances. And then there's A'son, and funny how this kitchen is getting so crowded. "...pining?" Bit of a look at the bronzerider, but then attention returns to Persie. "So what is this we're getting, exactly?"

Does Persie look like her head might explode? Yes. Yes she does. Her attention is pulled this way and that and she's all but forgotten that she's handed a knife to Isziyo. Wait, that's because she handed it to Mikandros. How did it get... Oh, she's so confused. She doesn't notice A'son at all. What she does know is that T'mic has said her name with some emphasis and he's repeated his own such that it finally sinks in. "You're T'mic! You're Paddy's T'mic. Hi." She's all breathless and smiley and ready to forget everything else for a moment. Until T'mic is talking to A'son and then she's just left blinking again. She turns to Whitchek: "Huh?"

Mikandros -had- a knife, but now Isziyo's got it. Slanting a glance and a shrug for the bald one, and poor Persie's not the only one getting confused as a whole passel of people start converging on their ... -his- work area. None of them are helping him get those dishes washed, so he just abandons it as a hopeless task and reaches out to see if he can still benefit from one of those extra klah mugs T'mic's got. "Our somethin' pink or green, miss Persie?" he prompts, barely registering A'son's arrival enough to offer a respectful nod. Not really expecting it to be noted, but at least he made the effort. "Prolly don't want t'know, Whit."

A'son looks at the mug being held out to him with a bit of confusion. What's this? Was he thirsty? "Hopefully the image of me here in front of you is easing away the soreness in your eyes." He jokingly makes a punching a motion towards T'mic's arm, grinning. "P'draig? No, I didn't know either of you were here. I'm just down for some food." Persie is talking again and the bronzerider takes the offered mug, sipping from it. He draws away from the other man to sidle a little closer to her. Candidates are given nods of his head at the appropriate times and even a wave of his hand for the more friendly looking ones.

Isziyo wouldn't infect Whitchek even if he had a virus. That would be sharing, and Isz doesn't share with knuckleheads. Isz ignores Ace and the Istan to offer one of his rare, full-blown charming smiles at the blonde in front of him, however. "Miss Persie," he states with a respectful bow of his head. And then she's talking to the Enemy, and he sidles over closer to Mik. Shuffle shuffle. So unloved. And then /Mik's/ moving away, leaving him with a knife and dishes. With a sigh, the young man gets to it, rolling his sleeves up and picking up with Mikandros left off. Scrub a dub dub, three candidates in a tub, and who do you think they be...

Mug to A'son, mug to Mikandros, and that leaves T'mic with his own mug in the middle of all this chaos. "Paddy's Mic, yup," he tells Persie. "Hi." He studies the subtle drawings-away and moving-towards and leans against the counter again, just a lonely anthropologist. He adds to A'son, laughing, "Hit me again and I'll tell my boyfriend on you." To the Candidates, though, "So which one of you's the eye candy? Or do I just have to guess?"

Persie takes one look at A'son and she pulls her sleeve down over the bright pink bandage, hiding it. "I don't have anything pink today," she tells the two candidates with her eyes all wide and meaningful. Nothing. Pink. She leaves that bad hand down, low and out of view, particularly with all these enormous boys crowded around her. Isziyo's smile catches her totally off-guard and has her grinning back rather like an idiot. By the time she turns back to A'son, all she's got for him is a helpless laugh.

To be fair, all these enormous boys? Is two. Whitchek is not particularly enormous, and he's also not doing any crowding. He is, evidently, frustrated. "But you said--" Glance at Mikandros. "You see? You should have asked right away." He's not going to go responding to any comments made by foreign greenriders, even if he heard them, but it's entirely possible given the number of people talking that maybe he just missed the 'eye candy' bit. Whoever might be eye candy here, it is definitely not Whitchek.

Mikandros is moving away, but when he notices Isziyo picking up -his- job he'll be moving back again. "Thanks, man." Shooing a tired-looking and much smaller candidate away from the dish-drying station next to the dish-washing one, he sets down the mug of klah after gulping down about half in one swallow. Then, companionably, he picks up a hand towel and sets to drying. Awww, aren't they just so cute and -domestic?- But then T'mic is being cheerful in the wrong kind of way, and with a scowl sent in Whitchek's direction Mik leans towards Isziyo to mutter, "Don't know 'bout ye, but -I- sure as shardin' ain't gonna stick around fer this little show. Try t'keep him from gettin' himself killed, aye? Even if that means knockin' him out and dumpin' him in a corner." With that, the younger mountain offers some sort of general excuse about having missed lunch to the group at large, even manages a genuine smile for both green- and the one bronzerider. And then, he hitails it.

Isziyo points at Mik at T'mic's question. "He's got the hair," the mountain deadpans back to the Istan, glances out of the corner of her eye at Persie, and eyes Mik as he leaves. "Whoa, now. Wait for me, man!" And he runs, too.

Hmm. Big, handsome men grinning and smiling at Persie. A'son is nothing if not greatly insecure, so it's no wonder that he's inching even closer to the greenrider and trying to sneak an arm around her. "I could fight Paddy with on arm tied behind my back." He tells T'mic with a laugh and grin. When Mikandros and Isziyo both make their exit, it seems that his over-protective move was a little hasty. Is she hiding her arm again? He doesn't notice just then. "You don't have anything pink? Why not?"

T'mic watches Mikandros shuffle hastily away before beating an equally hasty retreat; watches Isziyo flee with the same amount of amusement. Which leaves him with... Whitchek. And A'son, and Persie. "Nice hair!" he calls after the fleeing Candidates, laughs and hops up to perch on the edge of the counter, sink of dishes be damned. "Yes, and then I'd get to watch," he tells A'son, still grinning. "You could watch too," he adds for Persie. "We might even be able to sell tickets, if we didn't want to keep it all for ourselves." He kicks one foot at Whitchek, probably hoping the Candidate will catch the motion. "What'd you say your name was? I didn't catch."

Even if Persie was looking overwhelmed, she also looks a bit sad to see Mikandros and Isziyo heading off so hastily. It's her turn for the puppy eyes that both of them had given her, even if it's a bit too late. She settles comfortably under A'son's arm, but it's a short lived comfort as Paddy remains the topic of conversation. T'mic gets a nervous little smile and she looks up to A'son to explain: "I don't have anything pink for the scavenger hunt. Not on me." She turns to Whichek, which somehow seems like the safer option. "I'll get you something, though. I promise."

There's a visible relaxation in Whitchek as the two other candidates depart, moreso for the latter than the former. He acknowledges T'mic's presence only long enough to repeat, in an irritated tone, "Whitchek." It's either ignoring or morality speech, ignoring is more polite. "Green also works," Whitchek points out to Persie. "Green would be just fine. Do you have anything green?"

"No one would want to watch the two of us roll around. Especially not me." A'son says with a touch of derisive humor to his tone. "Oh right. Scavenger hunt. I'm supposed to be giving... carvings out?" He drops his arm away from the blonde and begins patting down his whole body. "I know tht I left with something. I knew this would happen." There's a sigh of frustration. "There's a reason I don't normally do this crap."

"Manners," the Istan tells Whitchek evenly, though he sets his mug aside to lift fingers to the knot on his shoulder. "You can have my knot - what do you need something green for?" Of course, when A'son speaks, he flashes the other man a grin and an entirely unrepentant, "I would!" Of course he would. It's after that he cocks his head at the Reachian greenrider. "--Scavenger hunt?"

"I..." Persie looks like she's thinking hard, but then A'son's arm is leaving her and she reaches for Whitchek's hand - because apparently she hasn't learned the no-touchy rule yes. "Come with me. I'll... give you something." She seems to have every intention of leading the candidate away and leaving A'son to explain the scavenger hunt to T'mic.

"Yeah, well," Whitchek says with a shrug to A'son, "I wasn't the one who came up with it. And I can do without another day to get stuck inside in the rain going crazy with nothing to do, but Mik seems to want to put forth an effort, so." All of this trouble for somebody else. No wonder he seems a little cranky. Wait, no, that's just him. "What do you mean, manners? The green thing has to be from Persie. I don't care from your knot." The no-touchy rule is definitely in full force, but at least he's aware enough to keep his hand away from hers before contact can actually be made. "Um. Where are we going?" There's also evidently a no-going-anywhere-with-strange-greenriders rule.

A'son waves a hand when T'mic begins chiding for manners. "Save your breath. Not really worth your time." He continues to pat himself down until he finds something in his pocket. He produces a piece of partially carved wood. It was probably supposed to look like whistle or /be/ one for that matter. "Ha. Found one. There should be another though." The great pat-down goes on. He tosses it at Whitchek. "There." The bronzerider looks sort of glad to have been doing his part. "I guess it's Milani? Makes the candidates run around and get things. It's a little game to distract them." Persie is given the eyeball when she tries to leave with the cranky kid. "What's going on?"

"I mean," Mic starts, but subsides with a shrug at A'son's advice. "Eh, s'not my headache. Not like I'm weyrlingmaster here." He reclaims his mug instead, hands wrapped around the warmth, gives Persie a bemused nod farewell. "See you later?"

Persie blinks at Whitchek. She's just never going to learn. "To get you a thing. For the scavenger... Oh, nevermind." She waves her good arm at him. She's done. No pink or green things for Whitchek. And the talk between A'son and T'mic has her shrinking away a bit. But at least it gives her a chance to look around and wonder what brought her here in the first place.

Oh, oh, is someone leaving? Not yet! Ajatha's stealthily bl;ocking the door as she guides one of the younger candidates in with a try on one hand. Apparently she's helping him out with his chores for the day, poor dear. There's a familiar knot that she's spying though, and there's a lazy smile at Persie. "Hi, ma'am. How's the cold? Long gone, I hope? You wouldn't happen to have anything for that scavenger hunt, would you?" Blitheness personified sees her skirting around the woman and shooing the candidate to the sinks, hefting her tray in a true barmaid fashion. Wait. There's another voice that she recognizes. "..Is that Mic I hear?"

While Whitchek does handily catch the tossed carving, he looks at it like it's just turned into a frog. "Oh. Right. Uh--" Eyes A'son. "Thanks?" There's definitely a question mark on the end of the word, intended or otherwise. But Persie's wavering and there must be a stop put to that. "Look, does it have to be something you own, personally? If you give it to me, and it's green, is that good enough?" he asks, gently, gently, trying so *very* hard to push the frustration out of his voice and *almost* succeeding.

A'son's hand smacks the side pocket of his jacket. "Ah ha! Found it." He says triumphantly before sneaking back to the skinny blonde again. If she's not leaving with Whitchek? Well... "Not my headache either. I'm not weyrlingmaster of anything. It's all going to be on Persie on whoever else she works with." He grins, shooting a remotely amused look in Whitchek's direction. "You're welcome. I guess."

T'mic's not going anywhere, with strange greenriders or without them. He does hitch a few inches farther away from the sink when more Candidates arrive to splash, but that's not really /away/. "It's Mic," he agrees, watching the arc of whatever A'son's lobbed before turning a bright beam on Ajatha. "And what's your name, beautiful?" He lets Persie and Whitchek sink back under the metaphorical waves.

"No, Whitchek. You're so stubborn," Persie tells him, sounding rather wounded that he's pressing now. "I tried, you didn't want it. I don't know what you..." She lets out her own frustrated little breath as she shakes her head, utterly dumbfounded by the back and forth of the candidate's desires. She's distracted, though. Ajatha's talking to her, A'son is saying her name. She flashes another smile at T'mic for all that weyrlingmaster talk, but it's Ajatha she answers. "Yep. I'm all better." There is no bandaged hand. No there isn't. She's hiding it. "I uh... I don't have anything, no." Of course, it's okay for Persie to go back and forth on whether or not she has anythign to give, even if Whitchek can't go back and forth on whether or not he wants it. "A'son might?" He did just hand out that carving, maybe there are more.

"Oh, Mama called me Ajatha. But the barmaids at Ista just call me Jathi. And so does Paddy. Probably wouldn't remember me anyway." There's a full wave of a Southern-by-way-of-Ista lilting, but Ajatha's moving around to set the tray of dishes on the counter near the sink, but she's not making aaany move toward that dirty water. And the look on her face is full-on 'no way am I touching that'. "How're you? Heard much from Paddy, but only seen y'round the bar." Wait, who's A'son? Glancing between Persie and T'mic and A'son all three, she's already reaching toward her braid to unravel one of those lovely, glossily color beads. "Oh, are you A'son? Pleasure. Jathi. I think I'll be speaking to you too. I hear you so some wonderful little carvings?" Ambling near Persie, she sets the bead, a cheerfully lime green one, on the counter near the greenrider. "Ma'am, could you bear an absolute dear and hand me that bead there, pretty please?" Is that an exception to the directions of the Hunt?

"I didn't say I didn't want it," Whitchek insists to Persie. "I just don't go haring off after anybody without an idea where I'm going first, that's all." Two can play at this wounded game, never mind how much better it sounds on Persie. "C'mon, Mik was all in here being nice, wasn't he? You were going to give him something. If we can't find something *green* in a *kitchen*..." Pause. "You could give it to me to give to him. So as he doesn't murder me for screwing this up." Ooh, honesty. A glare at Ajatha, a mutter: "Cheater."

The more Persie says she doesn't have things, the more she insists that she's all better, the more A'son's eyebrows to furrow up. The greenrider is given a long look and then he's twisting to try and get a look at her left arm. The one she's hiding. "What? Carvings? Something like that." The candidate is practically ignored, since now he's like a dog with a scent up his nose.

"Oh, /you're/ Ajatha!" T'mic all but crows. "From Southern, where your Ma's a weyrlingmaster! Paddy was just telling me about you." He takes a last slug of klah and slips back to the floor, setting his mug in a spot where it can be easily cleaned. Once it's emptied, of course. To Whitchek, "Sure I was trying to be nice, but you didn't want any of it." His loss! "Time for me to get going. Looks like Paddy's parents are back. Nice seeing you again Ajatha, A'son. Nice meeting you, Persie." Those three get bright grins. Whitchek? Gets a nod. "See you." Whistling, he sets off across the kitchen, heading back for the living caverns.

Ho boy. A'son's giving Persie that look. She sees it and manages, if a beat late, to give him a 'what?' sort of look in return. All innocence. All believeable innocence, yes. And then she's instructed to pick up that bead. "I... I think Whitchek is right. That might be cheating," the greenrider hesitates with a wary glance between the bead and Ajatha. Though pauses all this to wave to T'mic as he leaves, she'll also take that moment, when hopefully everyone is looking toward T'mic, to slip away from the group and 'get some klah' with her back toward everyone. That's what she's doing.
.
Ajatha actually gives a full bearing of white teeth in a wide grin at Whitchek with a wink. "It's not cheating. No one ever said we had to go by exactly what it said. It only said we had to get something from the person. Not that it had to be theirs. That's perfectly within the margins of the hunt. Don't scowl at me, Whit. You'll make your face all wrinkly. Oh, was he? I hope it was good. If not, don't believe any of it!" From advising Whit to chirruping at Mic as he leaves - she can do this multitasking thing, too, she hums quietly and turns her attention toward Persie and A'son, but thankfully, says nothing.

"It's not it being *hers*," Whitchek points out sourly to Ajatha, "it's trying to trick her into giving it to you." He lets Persie wander off, perhaps, because moral fine points are always inherently more interesting than trying to beg for anything. "And, you see? She agrees with me." Moral superiority looks so good on him, doesn't it? Of course, he still doesn't have anything more from Persie than he had before, but at least now neither does Ajatha.

A'son did come here for a reason. He was hungry, he needed to eat. But then he got distracted by old friends and girlfriends and Whitchek-the-Crank. His stomach rumbles loudly again and he watches with a frown as Persie slips away. The bead is glanced at where it lays and then he shoves his hand into his pocket. A piece of wood that's halfway done just like the one he gave Whitchek is pulled out. This one looks like it was supposed to be a rose. Instead it looks like a half-dead daffodil. He drops it next to the bead. "There." The greenrider is eyeballed before his lips quirk together. An idea looks like it's forming. Then without even a good-bye he scurries out.

Persie peeks over her shoulder to see if A'son is watching only to find him leaving instead. She lets out a great big sigh of relief and when she comes back to the candidates, there's no cup of klah. What she has is that pink bandage from her wrist partially unwound and held between her hands. "Ok, someone get a knife," she instructs them.

"Hush, Whit," Ajatha directs with a lazily advising to her tone, batting her lashes easily at him, though she's turning on her head with the ease of a woman born in heels and strolls back toward the other side of the sink to find the clean dishes. Snagging a knife from the rack, she returns to flip the thing in her hand to catch the blade and offer hilt first, perched on her other hand. "Ma'am, you are all right?" Careful, the tone, with genuine concern.

"Get a--" Oh, but there, Ajatha's doing it, which means that Whitchek doesn't have to do anything. It finally dawns exactly what's going on as she comes back, enough so to distract from what probably would otherwise have been muttering about the other candidate's showing off. "Oh, good. Good. This way, Mik's got nothing to be pissed off about." Explains why he's breathing easier despite earlier protestations about not caring about all this business.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just... I sprained my wrist. I gave Betegal a piece of the bandage the other day and so you guys can have some too. Just... Just cut a little bit off," Persie tells them, or rather, she tells Ajatha, since she's the one with the knife. The greenrider holds the brightly colored fabric taut, good for cutting. "I know it's pink," she apologizes to Whitchek. "But... it's not like you have to wear it or anything, right?"

Ajatha takes in the look on Persie's face and the binding from the bandage for a long moment, but finally, she dips her head in a nod and eases in carefully to snip a little bit of the length away. Not enough to hamper the binding, but just enough to count for what they need it for. "If you like, ma'am. You'll be well soon enough, huh?"

A wan smile. "If anyone asks," Whitchek assures Persie, "I'll be telling them it's for Mik." He hovers to watch while Ajatha cuts off a piece of the bandage, then adds, probably superfluously: "*Two* pieces. Unless you'd like me to do the honors myself?" A hand is held out, either for his half or the knife, one way or the other.

"Yeah, you can each have a piece. I think there's enough. These things are always so long, you know?" Of course, these things are usually white, also. Or at least not pink. Persie pays that no mind. "It's getting better, not so swollen anymore. The healers say it was pretty bad. I -am- well, though. I just got a bump on my wrist is all." There's a difference, isn't there? She flicks a look at Whitchek. "I doubt Mik will mind if you do. I still don't know why you have such a problem with it. It's just a color."

"I thought you two had a truce," Ajatha tosses over her shoulder at Whitchek about him and Mik, though as his voice sounds, she deliberately leans away with the sharp edge of the knife away from Persie even more than before. "You want me to cut her? Don't squawk when someone has a knife so close to someone's arm." Not that she actually would, as her hand's as steady as a stone. "Well, if it was much worse than this and looks this way now, then I guess it'll be all right in time." Snip. There's another neatly sliced strip of the bandage, and the knife's turned into her wrist so it won't be slicing anything else up, Whit's strip dropping into his palm. "Here, have your trophy."

Fingers curl up around the bit of bandage, and Whitchek smiles triumphantly. "Thank you," he says, to Persie first, and then a little more grudgingly, "Thanks," to Ajatha. "Best be off. Plenty of other people to track down." And with that, he's making his way back out of the kitchen again, to report his scores to his partner no doubt.

Persie watches the young man leave and starts winding the shortened end of her banadge back around her wrist. "What's with him and Mikandros?" she wonders of Ajatha, since the candidate seems to know. "What truce?" She shakes her head, blonde hair swinging. "He's so angry."

Ajatha starts to say something after Whitchek, but she thinks better of it and shakes her head. Absently, she moves back to the sink to drop the sink into it and swerves back, idle fingers taking up the forlornly placed bead and the little carving beside it. "I honestly don't know, ma'am. He's so.. wound up, that anyone that makes even the slightest move toward what he calls indecent, he's likely to shoot you disapproving looks before you even say too words. Mik? He's big and likely said something that Whit didn't like. I thought that they called a truce between them, since I think they both were trying to be some sort of nice to each other, being partners and all, but.." A shrug of her shoulders. "He's hard to be friendly with. Even if you try."

"I don't think he wants to be here," Persie admits. "I mean, he didn't seem to want to after he got searched, but he felt it was a duty and I... I understand that." She's watching that bead in Ajatha's fingers. "But hopefully, maybe... he likes it a litlte better now. I don't know. How about you? Are you... having a good time here? With candidacy and all? How are you doing with the hunt?"

"Surprised he's even here. In the barracks, that is. That he agreed to do it. Though, yes, it was a duty that he cites for his reasoning, I guess," Ajatha agrees, absently turning the bead over in her fingers. "If he's starting to like it a bit more, then he's giving no indication of it, from what I see. He just thinks that we're all deviants or something. Me? I'm okay here. Weather's still getting me, but it's okay, when one gets used to it - and has many layers. Started going for a swim in the lake and is as cold as between.. but lets you know you're alive." Nevermind the shudder that the remembered cold. "As for the hunt.. well, we're doing all right." There's a little wave with the bead-hand. "Isziyo's my partner, so Whit and I have that in common. Having the two mountains of men for partners and whatnot. How about you? Besides your injury. Everything doing all right?"

Persie can only nod to the reports of Whitchek, as it's all just what she expects to hear. But the lake being cold as between? That has the greenrider's eyes going wide as she nods with emphasis. "That's how I got sick. I stayed in too long. At least, I think that's what happened. Devan was in with me and he got a cold, too. - Isziyo. He's the bald one, right? The..." Persie strikes a muscle pose, arms bend and fists curled in. "That one? He was in here before, but just for a moment." She relaxes the muscle-man impersonation and sets her fingertips lightly on the counter. "Things are good," she admits with a little twist of a smile. "I think they're good. And the wrist... it isn't so bad. It's just... I don't want A'son to worry so I told him I just bumped it. He doesn't really know that it's sprained or that I have to keep ir wrapped or anything."

Ajatha nods and leans up against the counter absently. "I know. I keep that in mind when I go out for a swim. A few laps, just enough to keep the heart kicked up and a few for a cool down. Then a hotfooting back to the Weyr. That is more than enough for me. 'Specially in the rain and all. Devan? I don't think I've met him yet. He all right? And Iszy.. Oh!" Laughter bubbles up at the impersonation. "Yes, him. He's real quiet, but he's a good guy. Only one without hair. Very cute. Though that might just be me." Nodding her head, she considers the bead for a moment and glances back up. "Well, the look he had, looks like you'll be having him snoop around you soon enough."

The response Persie gets to her muscle pose, and the comments about Isziyo being cute, have the greenrider beaming giddily. "I don't think it's just you. But he doesn't really seem all that quiet. I don't know, he sort of came charging in and... and," she waves a hand in the air, "And doing things and then charging out again. But he does have a very nice smile," she'll admit, giggling. And she nods quickly to Ajatha's care with the chilly lake water, and more for Devan. "He is, yeah. He was there, actually, when I fell," she tacks on, lifting that wrapped wrist again. "A'son doesn't know about that either. Or that he was at the lake with me." And all of that has her looking suddenly guilty. She tries to brush it off. "I just don't want him to worry about me. He thinks I'm just... I don't know." It's a sad thing to see a grown woman pout like that.

Ajatha brushes ha hand over her mouth to keep from giggling outright again. "Oh, he is, and he does. He likes to play at being quiet, but he's rather yummy. Not that I can say that with him being around. He'd likely rib me to death. And if Whit was there at the same time, I'd never hear the end of it." That one's innocently said, though she peers between Persie and the bound wrist again. "Well, y'know I won't tell him. S'long as you take care of yourself. Every time I see you, you're sick or injured." Nevermind that it's only been twice that she's seen her. "You're having a rough patch."

"Well, I won't tell either of them," Persie promises, leaning in a bit to make it a very girl-talk sort of promise. "But he is pretty..." She won't say yummy, she'll let her impish smile do that for her. Mention of a rough patch has her shaking her head, though. "I'm not really. I mean... I've had much worse times before, you know? Things are pretty good. People get sick. And people fall. I mean... I suppose I..." She starts to trip over something and it makes her cough out a weak laugh. "I just don't want A'son to think of me as weak, you know? I always get that."

"Oh, he's pretty.." Ajatha waggles her brows in notation for what he is. The latter makes her purse her lips. "Lemme guess." Silvery eyes take in the woman at length, studying her face intently. "'Cause you're female. And not just any female - cause some are hellions when it comes to men and wouldn't be called weak any day of the week. Because.. you're blonde. And a little more slim than most. Big blue eyes. That pale hair. Real pale skin, which makes the boys think you're super delicate, like a little snowflake. You'll melt away at the first sign of the heat of battle. Any battle. And from the color of your bandage, a little bit of a girly-girl. Make people just want to protect you, so that you don't break like a little doll that falls from a shelf?"

It probably doesn't help Persie's cause at all that, as Ajatha speaks, she looks at her with those big blue eyes and her mouth falling open in an expression of innocent bewilderment. "Yes," she says, breathlessly astounded. "And I'm not. Not really. I mean... maybe I do break but I'm not afraid to get broken." That counts for something, right? "I'm nice but that doesn't mean I... I don't have to be mean," she says rather firmly. "I don't know why people feel like they have to be mean. I mean, I do know I just don't... feel that."

Ajatha drops her gaze a little there to examine her bead and looks back up with a bit of a sheepish smile. "No, you're not. You just give off that effect. I know the feeling you get when you have everybody protecting you like you're easily broken. I get that a lot too. Yeah, we never can be afraid to be. Makes us stronger, in my experience. People don't have to be mean, not all the time. Some instances, it is more.. effective, yeah? Easier to get a person with the proverbial sugar, rather than something sour, y'know, but other times.. the stick is more. Well, it works better than the carrot. Depends, I guess."

"I think you seem... pretty confident," Persie says of Ajatha, her grin showing up again. "I would look at you and think that you were easily broken. Of course, I don't know that I look at anyone and think that, really," she admits with a laugh. "Everyone has those things that make them weak and the things that make them strong... I just don't want to be the sort of person who hurts someone. Everyone hurts so much anyway." She's started to watch that bead and now asks, because she missed it earlier, "Where did that come from? It's pretty."

Ajatha flashes her teeth in a little smile. "See. I'd think you were delicate, but that's just first impressions. But you're strong. You're still out and about, in spite of being dinged up. Even with it raining outside, so that you might get another cold. First impressions aren't always right." She glances down at the beat in her palm and turns it over, holding it up for the rider to see. "This? I wear them in my hair." A shift of her head shows a braid or more with several colors of the beads there. "Get them from Southern. Grampa gets them for me. Have some with carvings of shipfish and runners, firelizards, dragons, and whatnot. And some that are just painted. If you like, it's yours." An offering of the bead across, along with a pink one from her pocket. "Everyone has those things, too. A certain amount of things they're capable of. Or willing to be capable of. They don't have to do them."

"Oh! It's one of those? You just... take them out?" Persie asks, thoroughly distracted now by the bead. "I would take it, but I don't know what I'd do with it," she admits with a laugh. "You know, aside from handing them out as something pink or green. Which wouldn't seem right." She's started to rub lightly over the injured wrist. "I think I might need to go soak my hand," Persie admits with a frown. "Before A'son finds me again. See if I can make it a little less puffy."

"Yeah, I just thread a lock of hair through them in one of my braids," Ajatha murmurs with another shake of her head to show off the slim braids that waggle here and there in the pale mane. "I usually keep a few colors toward the end. Green happened to be the one that I put in it today. You could.. thread a bit of leather through it and make a bracelet or something. Or, ass them to a wider bit of cloth with those at the ends or something for a headband, use the beads to help keep it secure behind y'head or something. Decoration." There's a bit of a frown of her own and a shake of her head. "Good luck, Persie. I'd hurry along, though. That look he gave you - I wouldn't be surprised if it was in the next while he popped up. Hope it feels better."

Persie cants her own blonde head. "Actually... Ok, yeah. If you want to give them to me..." She's interested now that she's heard all these lovely ideas for what can be done with them. And also, "I think you're right about A'son." She might draw in a big breath, nervous about being found out, and yet she can't help but smile a bit anyway. "Thank you, Ajatha. It's.. been really nice talking you." The candidate gets a very big, genuine smile before Persie slips out to tend her wrist.

Ajatha readily supplies the other blonde with the beads and a genuine smile. "It's been nice talking to you, too. Now, hurry. Don't want you to get into trouble with one of those overprotective males that think you shouldn't be doing anything, that seem to pop up everywhere." Shhoing, she makes her own way out, too.

Betty Girl

2009-05-28T17:54:13Z

Persie is summoned to meet some Betty girl and hand over something pink.

Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
With its entrance located between the kitchen and the living cavern, this tiny bubble cavern is cozy, always kept warm and is filled with comfortable chairs and a small round table. At the far end, there's a hearth, outlined in ruddy, aging bricks, where a pot of stew simmers in the evening hours. Generally quiet, the nighthearth is the haunt of insomniacs and those seeking quiet from the bustle of daily Weyr life.

Betegal had had to bribe a dragonrider to ask about Persie. He didn't know her dragon's name exactly, but he'd known that she was a rider and that seemed to help. There are some uses to being born in a Weyr, after all. He'd had the rider's dragon ask Persie's dragon if she could meet him at the night hearth before dinner. And now he's waiting, sprawled in a seat and starting to doze off in front of the warm, not wet fire.

Not long after the request was sent out, a blonde woman comes wandering in. She has a green sweater and a brightly striped scarf and both her hands are on her head, smoothing down that pale hair and combing it into neatness. One hand is more useful than the other and a pink bandage peeks out from under the sweater's cuff. She's look rather lost, teeth sunk into her lip as she scans the room and sees only the young man. "Has there been a girl through here? Named Bette or Betty, something like that?"

"No," grumbles Betegal ungraciously. He looks the woman up and down, then sighs and sits up, gesturing to a seat nearby with an absent wave of one hand. "If you're Persie, then I'm Betegal. And I'm -not- a girl." This must be a touchy subject for him. And then he realizes that he's not being very friendly and he tacks on a, "Ma'am."

"I am Persie..." she says, turning her head to give the young man a wary look as he seems to get a bit huffy and puffy. She eyes the seat, too -- is it also annoyed with her for mysterious reasons? But then he says his name and she blinks back. "Betegal? Oh! Betegal! I thought they said 'Betty girl'." Her smile is quick and honest and apologetic. "No, you're not a girl," she agrees with a laugh. A hand goes out to him, not the one with the bandage. "Hi. I'm Persie." Because it's really not a proper introduction without a handshake.

"Well met," Betegal says, relaxing somewhat now that he's pretty sure this isn't some Weyr-wide conspiracy against his masculinity and just a simple mistake. "What happened to your hand?" he asks, noting it when he shakes the other. "And," he adds quickly, deciding to apologize, "I'm sorry. Some of the other candidates like to call me Bety to bug me."

"Well, then I won't call you Bety. I'll call you Betegal." It's such an easy thing to do, really. She smiles so brightly, trying to assure him, but attention to her bandage has Persie tugging the sleeve down a little lower, once her hand isn't busy with his of course, and it makes her smile more sheepish. "Oh, nothing exciting. I fell and sprained it," she answers with a shrug of one skinny shoulder. "So..." Her pale brows dart inward, serious and confused. "You... you asked for me?"

"Thanks," Betegal says, sincere. He glances at the way Persie tugs down her sleeve and doesn't ask anymore questions about the injury, either satisfied with her answer or just not the sort to keep asking questions. "Oh. Right. Uh. Well, the scavenger hunt thing says we're supposed to get something green or pink from you?" It's a question, a little uncertain. He's not really sure how else to go about broaching the subject.

There's a flicker of gratitude on Persie's face, perhaps in the shy glance of her eye or the pink of cheeks that could be rosy from the warmth of the hearth as easily as anything else. But the hunt! Her expression brightens right up again. "The scavenger hunt!" She looks down at herself, caught unprepared it seems as she pats empty pockets. "Um..." Her wrapped hand lifts against her chest, against the green sweater that is not up for grabs. "Let me think..." And then, finally, she does take that seat he's offered, as if overwhelmed by this little dilemma. She'll buy herself some time and ask: "Have you collected much already?"

Betegal sits back in his own seat, watching the woman with some measure of curiosity, all traces of his defensiveness gone. Teenagers are so moody. "I'm not sure what Carobet has gotten since we talked last, but I've seen the Weyrwoman and we both met Madilla. I'm still supposed to find Rimara and Rorkes. And Yori. Do you know her?" he asks the last with some glimmer of hope.

"Do you need to get all of it to win? I don't remember," Persie asks, canting her head to the side. Her gaze slips from the candidate toward the ceiling, maybe Yori is up there. "Um... no, I don't -think- I do, but I'm not very good with names. I suppose if you knew what she looked like, then you'd know her and you wouldn't be asking me..." She has to squint an eye to follow that logic. Or maybe she's thinking of something else, because a beat later she's eyeing him again through those narrowed, thoughtful lashes. "You don't have a knife on you, do you? Or scissors?"

"All of the stuff?" Betegal asks, then nods anyway because the question was kind of rhetorical. "Yeah. I think so, at least. I mean, I don't think it's just most of the stuff." Anyway, that's where he thinks that was going. "Uh," he says, feeling his pockets and shaking his head. "No. I don't have any sharp objects on me." But he's looking at Persie now like he's wondering what she wants them for.

"Well, it could be that you just have to get more stuff than anyone else," Persie figures. "What do you get if you win?" She's distracted now though, looking around, patting her pockets again. She pops up from the chair to go nosing about the hearth, feeling across the mantle. "I do have something pink," she explains. "I just can't give you the whole thing."

A brow wings upward with somewhat more interest, then comes back down when Betegal glances away. "What is it?" he asks, then steps back a bit conversationally and says, "Well, maybe. I guess I'm not sure if you have to get it all or just more than everyone else. But whichever team wins gets a restday." He makes a small face, "I'm not sure all the work is worth the restday, but it's nice to have an excuse to bug some new people."

Persie looks back over her shoulder with her giddy smile caught in her teeth again. "I like bugging new people too," she confides. But the search on the mantle has turned up nothing but a dusty hand that she now brushes off on her thigh. "I have my bandage." She lifts that injured limb, with its pink wrapping standing out so brightly against the green of her sleeve. "I could unwind a bit and cut it off for you. It's not gross or anything, I swear. It's just a sprain." Just in case he was worried about that.

Betegal smiles because it's a little hard not to for some reason. It puts dimples in his cheeks. But soon enough his deep blue eyes are glancing at the wrap around her hand area and he looks a little surprised. "What?" he says, uncertain, "Are you sure that's okay? I mean, don't you need that? All of it?" He glances between her and the wrap again, thinking, then sits forward. "I can go get something sharp real quick if you want?"

Oh, it's one of those smiles. Persie loves those smiles. It's written all over her face and it makes her own grin even brighter. "There's plenty here, really. It goes around and around." She's pulling her sleeve up now, to show that indeed the length of vividly dyed bandage is well wound about her wrist. "Get a knife from the kitchen?" she suggests. "We'll just take a bit off the end."

Betegal watches for a moment, then he shifts forward more to rise. "Sure. That'll work. It you're sure it's okay." He steps away, turning to watch her while he walks backwards a few steps, then he turns again to jog toward the kitchen to fetch a sharp pointy thing. It doesn't take him too terribly long and he's jogging back with a knife in his hand. At least he's holding onto the blade while he moves and not waving it around like a psycho. "Here!" he says when he comes back and flops back into his seat.

"I'm sure," she tells him as he stands. "I don't need -all- of this." And when he comes back, Persie is ready, having unwound a length of the bandage and holding it taut between her hands. "I'll hold, you cut. This is enough, right?" There's a three inch wide strip to be cut off. "You're the first one, you know, that I've given anything to. Maybe that means you'll win your rest day." She gives her hair a toss over her shoulder; it's good to keep all that blondeness away from the blade.

Betegal brandishes the knife and sits forward, scooting his seat to get a better angle rather than actually standing up. He looks a little nervous but he says, "Sure. Yeah. I can do that. Really?" The last flickers his gaze up. He's surprised that he's the first, but he schools his face and goes back to the task at hand. "I hope so. Carobet will probably blame me if we don't." Small chuckle. "Okay, don't move," he says, slipping the blade under where she holds and sliding it toward him. You're not supposed to cut toward yourself, but maybe he'd rather risk stabbing himself than the greenrider.

"Well, if she does, just remind her that without you, you wouldn't have a something pink from Persie," the greenrider says with a impish little smile and a decisive little nod. She surely knows that it isn't such a great feat, but they should pretend it is anyway. "You might need to saw a bit. It's pretty sturdy." But the little strip start to cut free and then there it is, dangling from her fingertips, held out for him. "For you, sir. One pink something from Persie."

There's a slightly triumphant look on his face when Betegal is left with the pink piece of bandage that he takes from Persie. Which might look a little weird if someone were to pass by and see him just now. "Thank you so much!" he says and, without thinking, he moves to try and hug her, careful of her injury. And the knife. Definitely an odd little scene that would be to walk in on.

His triumph is her triumph and Persie couldn't look more pleased to have helped him out. The first sign that he's going to hug her makes the blonde squeak in surprise, but then she wraps her skinny arms around him to give him a good tight squeeze in return, it's only a little lopsided with that one hand uninvolved. That unwrapped bandage is still hanging and as she lets him go and steps back, she goes to wrapping it back up. "I hope you win, but don't tell anyone I said it," she shares, that impishness back in her smile and her giggle now as well.

Betegal stuffs the piece of pink into his pocket for now and he sets the knife down on the floor at his feet. "Do you need hand with that?" he asks, eyeing the bandage she's trying to rewrap one-handed briefly. "I hope we win, too. I'm not telling anyone that either," he says, dimples full in his cheeks when he smiles at the greenrider. "You're really nice," he tells her, then he blushes a little because he realizes that's kind of a childish thing to say. "I mean, you're ... well, nicer than a lot of people around here. Not nice like Gr'kaif, mind. More genuine."

Persie doesn't say yes to his offer in so many words, but she does stick her arm out for him help with the bandage-winding if he wants. And honestly, what girl could hold up against that dimpling and blushing? She laughs again, quietly, warmly. "I'm normally the one who says that," she admits to him with her lip pinned in her teeth. "I was just thinking it. You're really nice." With her good hand, she rubs at the side of her nose, her own bit of childishness. "I think a lot of people are afraid to be nice." Not that she's saying anything about people around here, oh no.

The ex-smith is no healer, but it's not like he's never had to help someone wrap themselves up. Betegal has a gentle hand and a good idea of the whole 'not too tight' thing. His blush deepens just enough to be noticeable when she returns the comment and he clears his throat after he finishes the wrapping thing and sits back in his seat again. The candidate stares at the ground for a few moments, then lifts his gaze, nodding. "I think you're right," is all he says on it and he doesn't bring up any specific people either. "I'm not making you miss dinner, am I?" he asks, suddenly feeling a little... maybe self conscious.

Persie must be happy with the wrapping because he doesn't get any 'not so tight' or 'tighter, tighter' pointers. What Betegal does get is a curious look, the blonde's head tilted to the side like an inquisitive bird. "No, you aren't. Am I, am I making you miss dinner?" Even though he's the one who summoned her here. "Did you..." Now it's her turn to seem self-conscious, though in truth, she seems to embrace that akwardness, starting to laugh at herself. "Did you have something to... say?" If she has any guesses, they're completely absent from the innocence of her question.

He gives his head a quick shake and reaches down to grab the knife so he doesn't forget it should he need to flee in short order, which is apparently the plan. Betegal thinks, he really does, then he shakes his head again. "No. Maybe I should go," he adds, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Um. Thank you for the pink thing. Let me know if I can do anything for you to make up for it," he says as he rises and steps toward the inner caverns. He pauses and turns around, opens his mouth, then doesn't say anything, grimaces at himself and turns back around toward the inner caverns.

"Okay." She accepts that, though there's the quickest twitch of her brow to say she might not wholly understand. But she's stepping back anyway and letting her grin take over once again. "Good luck." Persie is even grinning as he pauses to turn back, as he grimaces in silence. She just lifts wrapped hand, waving at him and beaming bright before he disappears.

Twice as mature as half of us

2009-05-20T22:10:24Z

Persie's still sick, but she wants to get out for a bit, even if it's raining. Apparently Ajatha likes being out in the rain, too.

Rain, rain, everywhere, and nary a drop to - wait, that's the wrong story. But it is raining, and apparently rather hard. In spite of it, there's still a figure perched up on one of those rocky outcroppings with their legs dangling off. Head down, seems that person, the white-blonde candidate Ajatha, is watching the way the water ripples in the water below. Fine day to be outside, too. Oddly she doesn't seem to mind.

Probably more unusual than a person sitting out in the rain would be a green dragon walking along the lakeshore with one wing stretched out to the side and held that way--particularly when the dragon sound to be coughing. Except, of course, it's not the dragon coughing, it's far too small and human a sound. Instead, as the green nears, it's revealed that her wing is acting as umbrella for an overly-bundled blonde walking beside her. "I don't care if I'm *cough* coughing. I want to be outside. I'll blow my nose when I'm good and ready." Persie is either talking to herself or this is an on-going debate with her lifemate; the dirty look she shoots the green indicated it's likely the latter.

Just unusual enough that the candidate's dark eyes lift, her head canting up to the side toward the pair that appears at the shore. Straightening up, Ajatha surveys the blundled blond and absently tucks a slick lock of her hair behind an ear, rather ignoring the rain that pitterpats atop her head and calling out. "Hey. Should you be out here, when y'sick, ma'am? Rainin' a little hard for y', isn't it?" Not like she can help hearing the half-conversation, so she doesn't try to hide it.

"More ma'am!" Persie exclaims mournfully to her lifemate, just before she sighs and rubs a hand over her face. But then she peeks through her fingers. A thought has come to her. She sniffles loudly and wetly and asks, "Wait, you're a candidate, right?" They're nearer now, reaching the range of easier conversation, also the range where it wouldn't be any trouble at all for Secath to shelter both of the blondes under her wing. Persie points up at her green umbrella: "Want some?"

"Yes'sum," Ajatha confirms and manages to hide at least half of her wry grin at the reaction to the semi-title. "Take it you prefer not to be called that?" Glancing upwards at the offered wing with a slant of her eyes and shifts a little with an upnod of her head. "Uh, sure. Why not. M'Ajatha, though most call me Jathi. Have a cold, do you?"

"I don't know. It's weird, you know?" Persie scratches at the side of her head as Secath moves in to make a canopy over both humans, though she rather arches and rests the tip of her wing on the ground. "When I have weyrlings they call me ma'am all the time and it doesn't feel odd at all. Because they're weyrlings and it's not really 'ma'am' it's more like it's just short for 'weyrlingmaster'. But I know who all the weyrlings are, so I'm never surprised. But with you guys, it seems to come out of nowhere. And you can't be -that- much..." She eyes Ajatha. "How old are you anyway?" All of that is meant to answer that first question the candidate asks, a long rambling explanation. And the second question is answered with another sniffle and a phlegmy clearing of her throat. "Yes. Don't go in the water."

"Oh, you're a weyrlingmaster?" Ajatha peers more closely at the rider in search of something and finally purses her mouth. "Should have guessed. Y'd think I'd have a sense about it, granted I was raised by a weyrlingmaster." Pause. "Oh, yes, and there're so many of us, too, so it's understandable, that you'd get it when you're not expecting it. too." Pause. "Me? Twenty-two turns. One of those on the older end of the scale. ..Can't see how standing out in the rain with the temperature as it is would help with that much." Nevermind that she's been doing exactly that same thing for who knows how long of the past little while.

"See? You're not that much younger than me. I'm twenty-eight. That's only six turns. That's hardly anything, really." Only Persie's certainty on that topic is fading right before Ajatha's eyes. "I think. Maybe. I don't know. Anyway, I don't feel old, you know? I feel like I can't be this confused -and- be a real *cough* grown up." The cough turns into a whole fit and she has to hold a hand up to beg Ajatha's patience while she gets it under control. "I've been stuck in my weyr for days. I just wanted to get out. I'm trying to stay warm, though." She gestures to the excessive clothing, including a hat and scarf. If her skinny legs are any indicator, that padded look she's sporting is all clothes.

"That's not old. And not too much in between. Think Isziyo's a little older than I am, so you're not too much older than some of the others, either. And, yeah, not always the case, being grown and not confused - know several back home that are quite dimwitted and still consider themselves adult. And some that are just kids and twice as mature as half of us." Ajatha babbles on and on happily enough, finally casting a quirk of a grin at the green in a show of thanks of the cover. Turning back, she nods and bides her time through the fits, only to furrow her brow at the bulky clothes. "If I didn't know any better, I would say that is overkill. Or that you're not a native of here. But, sickness requires preventative measures, especially since you're out here. Guess that's better than being in the air all the time, and you do have her to help you." A nod toward Secath. "From around here?" Curiously.

"Twice as mature as half of us." Persie has to roll that one around in her head. "Twice as mature as half of us." Slowly it makes her smile, a big broad smile that barely sees a hitch even when she coughs again. "I'm not a native, no. Just sick. It's kind of early to be this bundled up but... I'm out and its raining and I thought 5 should... yeah, preventative measures. Anyway, I've been here long enough that I'm not... I'm not a native, but I'm from here. This is home. If that's what you mean." She seems just a smidge confused now and she looks at Secath. The green looks between the two blondes and lets out a sigh.

"Twice as mature as half of us," Ajatha repeats again and absently plucks at a leaf of the bramble creeping up near her perch, absently twining the stem through her fingers. "Meant, born here or elsewhere. Like.. I am from Southern, by way of Ista. And anyone that I know that is from there doesn't so much like the cold." Oh, she confused someone? Score. Not that she seems to notice at all. Not at all. "How long you been here?"

"Fort. Then here. I like living someplace with seasons. Plus, well, I have a theory that if you life someplace that's a vacation all the time, where do you go when you have to get away? Somewhere less nice?" Persie shakes her head at all that, and sniffles loudly again. "Plus if you live somewhere warm, you have all that trouble with the cold. Like you said." She has to consider that last bit, chewing her lip while she count and comes up with: "A while. Long enough. Turns and turns now."

Ajatha has to purse her mouth for the theory, thinking that one over in her mind. "Guess so. Or somewhere just as nice, but different people. Used to come here a few times when I was a kid, when mama decided, so that falls in line with your theory, I guess." Her nose twitches faintly about the cold, though she's curling closer into her damp coat. "Yeah, I remember all that trouble." Another nose twitch, but she straightens her back and peers at a little nick in the leaf she liberated from the bramble. "Guess that's long enough that it's no great change. Seasons are nice. Don't think we really have any change back there. Always warm. Have to go somewhere else to see changing leaves and snow and whatnot."

"I like change. All sorts of change. New things, new places, new people. New food, too. People eat all sorts of different things." But then Persie is caught by another fit, coughing until she's leaning against Secath. The green is giving her a dirty look, too. "She wants me to go home soon. Really, I'm feeling so much better than I was."

Ajatha nods her head in agreement and tucks a dripping lock behind her ear again so that it'll stop getting plastered to her cheek. "Change is good, no doubt about it." Still, she's eyeing Persie at length still and folding her arms over her knees. "Maybe it'd be good to -change- your surroundings for a bit. Go for a walk inside. Through the living caverns. Think there's still juice from breakfast. Might help you some."

"That's not a bad idea," Persie laugh/coughs, her grin wide again. "I can walk around the caverns like the little old ladies do in winter." But something about the way Ajatha is eyeing her has Persie pausing. "Do I look really bad? Really sick? I'm really not that sick anymore. It sound worse than it is." She does her best to assure the candidate, for whatever purpose.

"Pretend you're showing a kid about the way that old auntie that's always pinching y'cheeks does," Ajatha offers as an alternative and winks to push the playful point. "Not looking really bad, but it sounds worse than that. When y'can't breathe, it's not really all that good. Had a rider nearly drown when she was swimming and her green took her between to get her back to Ista. Coughing a little bit worse than that, so she had healers after her a bit, camking sure she doesn't overexert herself. So you just watch who you cough in front of, if you don't want it to happen."

"Pinch their little cheeks and then cough on them?" It makes Persie giggle, because she'd never do such a thing. Not on purpose at least. "Getting juice sound good, at least. I think I'll skip doing laps of the living cavern and just go back home and maybe take a nap. Naps are good for colds. I'll be okay." Her eyes drift up to Secath's wing and she points. "I'm going to take this with me, though." As in, the umbrella is leaving.

"At least the juice, then." Ajatha compromises with a twitch of her lips into that grin that has just been -waiting- to surface, laughter at the image of the pinch-cough attack. "Sounds like a good way to get out of babysitting." Thoughtfulness in that tone, really. Innocently. "Naps are good. Take a good long one. Uh? Oh, good, good. I think I'll take my lunch in a few, so I'll be along. Have a good one."

"Don't say out here too long or you'll get sick like me," Persie warns, smiling nonetheless. "Wait, what was your name again? I'll try to remember. My head might be too full of snot but... What is it?" Her head is too full of snot to remember that she never bothered introducing herself, either.

"Meh, I'll be all right." Ajatha blusters and quirks her lips. "Ajatha. Jathi. Jath. Aja. Blondie. Generally 'hey, you' works, too. Who were you again? Don't think you ever said." No amount of icky snot will keep her from not remembering, though.

"It might be weird calling someone blondie," Persie says with the squint of one eye. And really, with so many names offered, it doesn't seem like the older blonde has caught a one of them. "I'm Persie. Just... Persie." Secath doesn't get an introduction, largely because she is leaving now. Undeterred by the continuing conversation, she just starts walking off toward the bowl, taking her sheltering wing with her and keeping her rider from lingering any longer. "It was good to meet you!" Persie calls back to the candidate as the dragon drags her away.

"You too. Just Jathi, then!" Ajatha calls after them and just shakes her head, her fingers taking hold of that stolen leaf and watching them shred it to bits. The bits soon find their way drifting down to the surface of the lake, thanks to a passing wind.

Blame it on the swimming

2009-05-20T17:00:01Z

Persie isn't feeling very well, so she ends up in the infirmary. So does Devan.

It's nearly lunch time and as such most of the infirmary staff are off eating and prospective patients like Persie are left to sit on a bench and wait for the return of qualified personel. She's alone and quiet, her expression a bit drawn and her attention focused on the floor beneath her feet while her hands grip and release the edge of her seat repeatedly.

Well at least their lunches aren't ruined. Optimistic thoughts like that one are what fuel Devan into the infirmary where he stands, a little lost and a lot forlorn, until he realizes there's nobody there really to greet him or tell him what to do. Clearly he doesn't visit this place very often. Indeed, he looks a little uncertain about being here /now/, even though it's obvious he should be when he balls up a fist to his mouth to cough into it.

Footsteps? Someone's coming? Persie's eyes lift with a bit of hope that it's a healer, someone to tell her what's wrong and maybe give her a magic tea to make it all better. But no. He doesn't look like a healer. He looks like... She blinks, confused. "It's you."

Blearily, "What?" Oh. Persie. On the bench. Like she's waiting for halftime. Because she's the only other person in here, and because he knows her -- well, not really -- Devan mosies long-leggedly on over with his hands held carefully at his sides like he's afraid to touch anything. He looks a little stiff. "Hey there, sweetheart." And he sounds /tired/. And he drops down onto the bench next to her because he /is/. And he coughs some more.

Devan might be afraid to touch anything, but when he sits down next to Persie, the greenrider slumps sideways with her head on his shoulder. He's not the only one who's tired. "I don't feel very good," she mumbles. That's just before his coughing makes her pillow shake. "You have a cough." She's very observant.

Shaky Devans don't make good pillows. He tries to put a cap on it pretty much as soon as she leans over, because he knows this. The little fit ends abruptly with a harsh throat clearing, then he swallows. Gross. "Yeah. 'm not feelin' very good either, t'be honest with you." And as if he's confiding in her his most secret of secrets, he turns his head a little and murmurs, "I think I might be sick." And boy is his voice rougher just then as if it's eager to prove that fact for him.

"I feel all weak and warm and shakey," Persie returns that confidence, shares her own secrets of ill health. Though that's just the beginning. More quietly, she adds, "I threw up, too." She tips her head to look up a bit when he turns to murmur. "You don't sound very good at all." Resettling her head on his shoulder, she tells him, "You can go ahead and cough." Generous.

He will. But only a little. Only enough to shake his shoulders some, and he keeps it in mostly so it doesn't come hacking out of him like before. Her face is right /there/. "You threw up?" Even when dealing with his own ickiness, Devan shows concern. He presses the underside of his wrist to her forehead and lets his brow furrow. "You feel like you got a fever there, darlin'."

If she knew the sacrificing he was making, she would surely appreciate it, but at the moment Persie only knows that his shoulder bounce and he sounds terrible and she puts a hand on his leg, one meant to be comforting. "Yeah." That's for the throwing up. "I don't know," is for the fever--his wrist will find her forehead warm, maybe warm enough to be the start of a fever, but maybe not. "My throat hurts a little, too, but that might just be from the..." She makes a rolling gesture from her mouth, vomit sign language.

He gets it. "Yeah, might be." The hand on his leg brings his attention down there and the little smile that curves his mouth up is fond. Aw. "I puked a couple o'times," he shares, or fesses up. And while referring to his very limited and inexperienced bank of knowledge, she could be sick as anything. So he puts an arm around her all companionably and also offers her his side, which might be more comfortable than the stiff length of his arm, there. After a long moment he risks, "We're sick."

"You did?" Why does that make her sound hopeful? "I guess that means it's probably isn't bad stew or something." With him making a place for her against his side, Persie relaxes a bit more against him, draws in a long breath and lets out a sigh. "I don't have a cough, though. Am I supposed to have a cough?"

"Boy I sure hope not," Devan replies easily, with that hitch in his voice. It must be a tickle or a catch or something, because it triggers another little onslaught. At the end of this one he makes a pathetic little noise and gruffly informs her, "I'm dyin'." Big baby. "Go on without me."

The one hand stays on his leg, but as Devan starts coughing, Persie's other hand moves to his chest, like she might hold him up while he hack and gasps, or maybe just hold his ribcage in place. "You won't die-" It gets clipped off as she closes her lips tight and tries to sit up, to draw away from him a little, to go back to staring at the very still floor.

Maybe unconsciously, he puts his big hand over her little hand, there near his heart, and takes a deep, admittedly wheezy breath that brings about another few little coughs. What a mess. He's coughing over what she says, but she's close enough that he hears it. And notices when she starts to pull away from him. Quietly, "'Course I won't." And when he trusts his voice not to trick him again, he adds, "I'm just bein' a big sissy." And again, and while keeping a careful eye on her -- she might puke! -- he asks, "You ok?"

Persie nods very carefully. Just like Devan had to wait a moment to see if he could speak without coughing, the greenrider seems to be taking a similar moment to make sure it's just words and not stomach contents that will come out when she opens her mouth. "I think you made me seasick." She pouts rather pitifully and looks over at him. "It was supposed to be purple spots and boobs, not being all queasy and sick-feeling."

While Devan never had kids, himself, and certainly doesn't seem to be in the running for fatherhood, Devan seems to have a few care-y tricks up his sleeve. For instance, if someone's going to puke, find them something to puke in. Like that rubbish can over there. He sort-of gets up, doesn't have to really, to reach, and pulls the little thing over to set it there in front of the greenrider. "Didn't mean to." He pats her on the back a little, then rubs a few circles on it.

"Do I..." Pause. Swallow. Try not to ralph. "Do I have any purple spots?" Persie asks hopefully, sliding the can a bit closer with her draw of her foot. "Or boobs? I really wanted boobs." Her hand shoots out to his shoulder, trying to still the hand that is methodically coaxing the vomit from her with those rubbing circles. "Don't do that," she tells him breathlessly.

All she gets is little shakes of the head, until she gets to boobs. /Oh/, that's what she meant. Devan can't help the grin from splitting his mouth. It's bright and white, and completely at odds with all the weird shadows and tiredness on his face. "No more'n you had before." Which, he implies, there were. Her hand stops him instantly, he hadn't realized, but he doesn't take his off her back. He only stops moving it. "It'll make you feel better."

That big bright smile, odd as it is, does manage to reflect on Persie's face, making her own mouth curve in a weak, nauseated version. "What will make me feel better? Throwing up will? Do you think? Because I've been feeling pretty bad since the first time. And I didn't eat lunch." That bit of information might have no bearing on present circumstances, but Persie shares it anyway.

She didn't eat lunch? Oh right. Well she wouldn't have, it hasn't even /been/ lunch. "Did you eat breakfast?" Devan looks pleased about her smile, for a moment, but then he's all concerned again. /He/ isn't the one looking all throwuppy sick. A little cough, in comparison, is like no big deal. Speaking of, he turns his head a little to do just that, hack hack, and makes a sick noise. Ugh. "You want me t'go get you some food? Little crackers or somethin'?"

"Yeah. Or, well, I did, but I don't think it's still with me. I..." Breakfast, that is. She has to pause again, but this time, Persie lifts her hand to her forehead to test around herself for how warm it might be, any sign of fever. "I feel all warm and woozy again. Do you think... do you think this is because we went swimming?"

"I /definitely/ blame it on the swimming." Not on her. Not even close. Whose choice was it to come in? His, that's right, and Devan's completely aware of it. While she's touching her own forehead, he'll lay the backs of his fingers against her cheek, to help. "I think I'm gonna go get you some bread'n juice," he decides, and stands. And makes for the door.

"I'm sorry I made you swim. And cough," Persie says, her hand quick to grab his sleeve, to keep from from leaving right away. She looks up, her complexion looking more sickly than just pale, her eyes wide and glossy. She swallows again. "Just some water?" she asks in a small little voice.

Sleeve grabbed, little fingers, Devan turns. And sees her. And really sees her. He smiles, not because anything is funny or because he's happy, but because maybe it'll help. "I'll be right back, Persie," he tells her, in a warm voice, and reaches to unplug her hand from his arm so he can go. And he isn't gone long at all, maybe he ran all the way because his cough precedes him back. There's a glass of yeah, water, in one hand, a small napkin-y package in the other.

When he comes back, Persie is wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, dabbing her eyes with her sleeves and nudging the rubbish can away with her foot. Not that it doesn't smell a bit like someone just threw up. "I'm sorry," she greets him, looking as much ashamed and embarrassed as apologetic. And his fit of coughing only makes her blink at him with more concern. Aren't they a pair.

She's full of sorries today, isn't she. Again, all Devan does is smile at her. And eye that rubbish can, because he knows exactly what's going on in there. "We're in this together," he reminds her, indicating his runny and or stuffy nose with whatever free finger he can come up with. Resettling next to her, he hands over the things he brought. Water and a biscuit, when he unwraps the napkin-y thing. And if she takes those he'll reach over with his sleeve pulled down around his hand so he can dab at her damp cheek a little with it.

She's always full of sorries, but at least it makes her obedient and quick to follow the implied orders of eat 'drink water, eat biscuit'. Persie sits there looking rather pitiful while she nibbles the bit of food, her big eyes watching his face as he dabs her cheek. "I don't regret it," she tells him quietly and earnestly. "Swimming. I don't regret it. Even if I get really sick. Really sick." The sort of really that requires repetition.

And attention. From healers. Or, when they're not around, a big sniffly Devan. At least he's doing things a little bit right, for as little as he knows about this kind of thing. His sweater is soft where he dabs her, the water's cold, the biscuit is fresh but not hot. "You don't?" It isn't that he doesn't believe her, he just can't imagine why she wouldn't. "Why's that?"

Persie does seem soothed by the soft sweater, cold water, fresh biscuit. Her eyes still watch him, though she's slow to respond and delays a little longer to brush the crumbs from her lips. "I thought," she starts, her eyes finally falling from his face. "That if I went in the water and never came out, that no one would notice."

His hand stills, stops. Devan is staring at her, not open-mouthed and wide-eyed like some might. It'd be a natural response, anyway. The way he's staring, it's dark, he can't help that, and a little stunned. But it's also nonjudgemental, and gentle. And he says, in that soft, rough coughy voice, "I'd notice."

Persie shakes her head. "No, you wouldn't," comes out so calmly and innocently. "Well, you'd notice but it wouldn't... change anything. It wouldn't... it wouldn't really matter. Because I don't really matter. You're nice and sweet and funny and you've been so... I like you. But we just met, really." She sucks down a bit more of the water, her eyes on him again over the rim of the cup.

They did just meet. But since they met she played x's and o's with him and he went into a whole lot of really cold water with her for long enough to get sick. So maybe that means something. Devan lifts his chin under her over-the-rim scrutiny, his eyes gone all halflidded. His cheeks puff out when his lungs force up another cough or two, but otherwise he's unruffled. "That's a pretty fucked up thing to say." Maybe he thinks it's obvious, which part.

"Maybe I'm pretty fucked up," Persie replies, gracing him with the first smile that isn't green about the edges, instead it's just sort of knowing, maybe relieved. "Do you want some of the water? For the coughing?" She offers the cup toward him. "I promise I don't backwash."

He's still eyeing her when he takes the cup, unconcerned it seems about backwash. It isn't like anything she could spit out is gonna be grosser than what's going on in /his/ mouth. After a small few sips, he hands it back to her and clears his throat. "Maybe I don't matter either." And he lifts his eyebrows at her. What about that, huh?

"You probably do. Most people do. Most people have someone who would miss them. They have someone who would have to adjust to a world without them in it. There are still times when I can't quite believe that I'daur isn't here anymore." Persie takes the cup back, frowns into it for a moment. With a deep breath she looks up to consider him again, quirk a weak smile. "There's probably someone somewhere who can't imagine a world that you aren't in. I bet you can think of someone."

In the face of her weak smile, Devan wears a concerned face. And yet, he proves himself to be the kind of person who doesn't say things like 'there there now, don't say things like that'. "My mother'd probably be pretty torn up. And there's people who would miss you, too," he tells her, convicted. "You miss-" Ah, convenient coughing interruption. This one's a bad one, he turns away from her again to hack up a lung.

For all that her smile isn't the brightest one, she doesn't seem, really, to be feeling very bad about the subject at hand. 'There there now' would probably miss the mark anyway. "See, your mother would miss you. I think that if I went into the lake and never came out..." Persie pauses then, to watch while he fights with his own lungs, reaching for his hand to give it a squeeze even as she passes the cup of water back toward the other one. "I think that people who know me would say, 'Aw, that's sad. She was sweet' and that would sort of be... it. Then they'd go eat lunch or tie their shoes or whatever. That's how it always felt. I'm trying to..." She gives up, smiles, lets out a breath through her nose.

He takes the cup again, but maybe only reflexively. Afterall, there isn't much he can do with it, not until he gets his body under control again. At some point during his fit he had it in him to look over at her with his eyebrows down like '/what/?', and now he looks at her again, similar. They're gonna be holding hands unless she takes hers away, because he doesn't let it go. Maybe he doesn't realize it. "/I'd/ miss you."

Persie doesn't mean to let his hand go. She keeps a hold of it, like a little anchor just in case the coughing threatens to blow him right out the door. "You don't know me enough to miss me. You would miss me like you'd miss... bubblies if you got to the tray too late. You know there will be more. I'd be gone and in a few days there would be some other pretty girl and you'd forget all about me. And that's okay. We just met. You're not supposed to miss me. I'm not good at explaining it. It never comes out right. Nothing ever comes out right."

The more she talks, the fiercer he looks. It really isn't all his fault, he has really dark, thick eyebrows, they make him look intense when he has that look in his /dark/ eyes, and he's scruffy since being sick, that doesn't help. And if she's holding onto /him/ like she might keep him grounded should he cough himself all to pieces, he's tightening his hold on /her/ hand like he might be able to keep her from walking into any lakes. When he gets his chance to speak he sounds all raspy. Again, with the fierceness. "Look. If I wanna miss you I'm gonna miss you. Who else is gonna play games with me'n hold my stinkin' hand in the stupid infirmary?"

She blinks at all that fierceness, certainly finding it unexpected. And maybe for a moment she almost believes it, but nary a beat later she's wearing a quiet, knowing sort of smile. "All right. If you want to miss me you can. I'm not going to go into the lake again anyway. I made a promise that I wouldn't." She might sound sort of convincing. Sort of. She's trying at least.

And he buys it. Because he wants to, and because he really /doesn't/ know her that well yet. Devan backs off, shrinking almost to the point where it's physically obvious. He hunches, anyway. "Well. Good." That's really all he can think of to say, and then it's like he kept it all in for that one little moment they just had because he turns away from her again to cough and try to breathe somewhere in there too.

"You got yourself all worked up," Persie frowns, worrying over him with all that shrinking and hunching and coughing. "I'm sorry I said anything. I shouldn't do that. I shouldn't talk about it. And it's very nice that you want to miss me. It's very sweet, you're always so sweet. And then I go and get you sick. I didn't mean to. I knew I might get sick but I didn't think you would. You're, you know, bigger and stronger."

Again, he's making a lot of noise over pretty much everything she says. But he must get the gist of it, because when he finally stops it all with one giant sniffle he grins at her. "/I'm/ sweet." Which is supposed to say he isn't, and definitely not in comparison to her. Since he's still holding her hand he squeezes it and puts his other one in there too to completely engulf her little fingers. "You should talk about whatever you wanna talk about, sweetheart." Pat pat, hand. "Eat your biscuit."

Persie sicks sideways against the wall, turned to face him with the biscuit largely forgotten in her lap. "You don't think you're sweet?" she asks, her head tipping to rest against the stone. The biscuit remains forgotten, despite his prompting.

If she doesn't wanna eat it, he's not gonna force her. But maybe he'd rather she chose nibbling instead of asking him that question. But she's Persie, and he's Devan, and that equation means he's gonna lean back against the same wall and turn his head to look at her, give her a weary half-smile. Slump. "I don't think about it much," he answers her, not just a little bit wry.

"But you think you aren't sweet," Persie figures, watching him and that half-smile. "How can you think that? When you would swim in freezing cold water and dry my cheeks. Only a sweet person does those things. And you don't even know me, so that makes you especially sweet." Her eyes half close for a moment and she pushes more of her cheek against the wall. "It's nice and cool," she murmurs.

The half-smile disappears, but only so he can flatten his mouth at her. He doesn't have a response ready. Luckily, she provides him with an idea for /something/, when she mentions the cool stone. He reaches for her biscuit, but especially the napkin, which he shakes free of crumbs before dipping it into her -- their? -- water. Once he's squeezed all the extra drips from it, he presses the damp square of cloth to her forehead with the flat of his palm.

"Wiping my face with a wet napkin is sweet too," Persie says, letting her eyes close and her smile curve gently, plainly enjoying the cool water even as she teases him a little. "Did you do something bad once? Is that why you think you aren't sweet?"

/That/ makes him grin, tilt his head a little to be more at her angle. Maybe so he can see that smile right. But her question makes him serious again, draws down his mouth and makes all those sick-lines and the grey in his sick-oily skin even more obvious. After a pregnant pause he says, "Sometimes I think so."

She can't see those sick lines, or the way she makes him grin. Persie still has her eyes close, and her swallows suggests that maybe, just maybe, she's starting to feel a little nauseated again. But she asks anyway, her attention barely distracted from him. "What did you do? People think that if they do bad things sometimes, it makes them bad. I don't think that's really true. I don't know that I've ever met someone who's bad."

He can tell she's swallowing, but he doesn't know to put two and two together and grab her the rubbish can again. Too bad. Leaning against their wall, shifting the napkin to her cheek, Devan focuses, albeit a little hazily, on her face. It's easy to do when her eyes are closed. "I'm not very-- reliable, or... faithful."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Persie breathes out. There's all that time for him to study her features, to watch the periodic tensing of her expression as she swallows down the queasiness. "I'm faithful. At least, I always thought I was. Maybe I'm not, though." She draws in a great big breath and lets it out very slowly. "I can't say. I don't make any sense to anyone." She peeks at him, her eyes barely focusing on his face before they close again. "So you have a girl."

Maybe now he gets it, maybe that's why /his/ face is tensing. Uhoh. His eyes move from her face down the length of his arm to the can beyond her. It's close enough, he just needs to switch hands, there, and reach, there. He has long arms, this is a good thing. He drags the can closer, grimaces at it -- ew, but what else is there? They really are quite a pair. He's just about to say something about her making sense or not, but instead he gives her a weird little look and a smile to match. "No ma'am."

The sound of the can has Persie opening her eyes, sitting up to stare at the barf bucket with a touch of horror. "Oh no. Oh, no, I don't want that thing near me. It'll make me throw up. I don't want to throw up." She drops his hand to reach for the can, to stand and move it away from both of them. She keeps her head well turned and holds her breath. "You should have anything to do with it, either," she scolds through clenched teeth. Whatever Devan did once upon a time, he seems to be off the hook now.

"Woah, woah." She's standing. She can't be well enough to stand all fast like that. Nothing good can come of this. Devan's up on his feet right after, chasing the very short distance she's made with the can so he can grab it from her one-handed. "Easy, easy, I got it." Hopefully it won't slosh. /His/ stomach is fine, though, the concept of barf container doesn't seem to bother him at all.

"No, no." It's like 'woah, woah', but different. It's Persie pushing him away as she sets the container down a little ways from the bench. As soon as it's out of her hands she turns to hold him by the sleeves, to keep him back from the can and hold herself up. The biscuit fell on the floor; she didn't notice. She's just looking at him like she's trying to say something.

For a big guy, Devan is absurdly easy for Persie to push. He kind of steps around her pushes, so she doesn't push them both over, but she's keeping him at bay. When she turns towards him she can have his sleeves /and/ his hands, because he curls both around her little wrists to help. And he looks down at her, his eyebrows up. It's a frozen moment because /he/ isn't gonna say anything.

Persie swallows again, which, considering that she's aimed in his direction, should probably be a little disturbing. But instead she just takes another deep breath. "You're too nice to me." This being nice thing seems to trouble her a little. "I'll be okay. I've been sick before and I've always lived. You can relax." Not that she doesn't sway a little.

It is disturbing. Very disturbing. He looks disturbed. But he doesn't waver, he doesn't even hold himself away from her, even a little, like he might want to lean. In fact, he's sort of looming over her, protective-like. He can't help but loom, naturally, but he seems to be looming for her. "Walked into lakes before'n lived too?" That doesn't make much sense. He doesn't care, but he does wince a little and make a face. "I wanna get outta here."

"Don't you want something for your cough?" Persie asks with a blink, looking rather confused by... well, it could be the comment or the wince or the desire to leave. She lets her hands release his sleeves so she can try to step back--after all, he seems to want to leave.

"They're not comin'. I don't like bein' in here." Devan's almost pleading with her, even though by now she's let him go. "They're only gonna give me somethin' that's gonna make me sleep'n be weird'n I'm havin' no problems doin' that now, so." Not the sleeping part, obviously. He lets his hands slip away, except for the one that catches one of hers. "What're you gonna do?"

"They'll be back soon," Persie answers, her brows all drawn together. "What about your cough? They could give you something for that. Some tea. Or something for your throat. What's...." He catches her hand and she looks down at her captured figures. "What's going on?"

"I don't wanna just wait here'n cough all over you. I can come back later or somethin'. I'm tired." And it isn't even midday! But Devan looks tired, he does, when he looks down at her looking down at their hands. "Are you gonna stay?"

"Yeah," Persie nods, still seeming bewildered by the whole line of discussion. "Why wouldn't I? Why..." Her brows snap together for all her trouble. "Did I do something?"

/That/ snaps him out of it, whatever 'it' was. Did /she/ do something? "What? No. You want me t'stay'n cough all over you?" Like he's been doing, apparently. "You want me t'stay I'll stay." Becaus suddenly that's occurred to him.

"It's my fault that you're coughing. I'm not going to complain about it. But I don't want you to stay if you don't want to. I don't want you to be uncomfortable or sit next to me while I throw up or... I don't know." Persie unwinds her hand from his and steps back to take that seat on the bench again, though she watching Devan the whole time.

Which doesn't answer his question. Really. "It isn't /your fault/ I'm sick. Or you're sick. Sick happens." But she pulls away and sits down and leaves Devan standing there, feeling like an idiot. And maybe she's still watching him when he sighs all big and comes over to join her again on the bench. He looks over at her, his face blank.

"I'm sure they'll be back froml lunch any moment," Persie tells him, not having any answers for that blank look he gives her. She retakes the position she was in when he first arrived, barely pitched forward, staring at the floor, her hands gripping and releasing the bench. "You can go first. When they get here."

"I don't wanna go first. I want you t'go first." And, maybe, last. Devan looks at her in her stiff and tense position for a while; he's sitting with his hands clasped in his lap, and is silent save for the few little coughs now and then. After that while he leans over like he's gonna say something to her, and just then a few of the infirmary staff walk in, so he aborts the mission.

Sea Pickles

2009-05-12T05:16:07Z

Persie peeks in to say hi to Milani and realizes she isn't wanted.

Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
This room is too small to really serve as anyone's room but a little too big to be relegated to closet status. Oval in shape, it has a large wooden door that grants or bars access and smooth walls carved with inset shelves that hold tidy rows of scrolls and ledgers. To the right of the door, a table large enough for six to squeeze in at is often occupied by the assistant headwomen during tithe season and a pitcher of water and glasses stand ready to serve in its center at all times.
Squarely in the center of the room is the headwoman's desk, a massive affair of well-polished wood and many drawers bearing neat stacks of hides, incoming and outgoing baskets, many paperweights and a glowbasket stand with several small baskets that allow the light level to be adjusted to suit the task at hand. The rear wall of the office, behind the desk bears a vividly hued tapestry depicting a tithing scene with wagons pulled into the Weyr being unloaded. To the left a small hearth shares a flue with the main fireplace in the common room and is capped with a stone mantel that currently holds a collection of small rocks, shells and other knick knacks that presumably belong to the Headwoman
Contents:
Milani
Obvious exits:
Common Room

Afternoon-time sees a slight lull in activity in the caverns. A tithe train came in just before lunch and it was all hands on deck there for a while, but now, everyone's taking a breather, now that crates and boxes have been unloaded, stowed in the proper rooms, ready for unpacking. Milani's retreated to her office and is reviewing manifests and lists at her desk, door swung wide open.

If a person were watching the open door, they might see Persie ready to walk right on by. Her glance only slips toward Milani's office at the last moment and her steps only hiccup to a stop a beat later, such that she has to back track to peak in. "Hey."

Steps going by are common and Milani doesn't immediately register that someone is lurking until Persie's hail brings her gaze up and blue-green eyes settled on the blonde. There's a moment's breath and then the headwoman welcomes the greenrider with a pleasant smile. "Persie ... looking for the new list?" she inquires and pushes aside a paper or two, apparently looking for said item.

"Oh sure," Persie answers, letting her peeking-lean right itself as she steps into the office. "If you have a new one for me. I was just poking in to say hi," she says with a shrug or her slim shoulders. Her eyes go toward all those papers on the desk and she frows a little. "It's no problem if you can't find it."

"There's a new one, a couple of people came in with the tithe train looking for work," Milani explains and pulls up a page, sets it aside then beams as she finds the right one and extends this across the desk. "There you go. It's just been a little bit hectic today." Beat. "Hi."

"Thanks," Persie answers with her grin growing eager as she glances down over the list, skims it quickly. Then it gets rolled up to be tucked in her back pocket. "I can let you get back to work. Or I can fetch something for you, if you need." Her brows go up, asking the question.

"Oh no, don't need anything," Milani says with a little shake of her head and nudges some more papers around. "Shells, looks like an avalanche hit in here, doesn't it?"

Persie gives a little chuckle. "Yeah, it kind of does," she admits, letting her teeth catch her lip. "Aren't you supposed to have assistants? You know girls who help you take care of things so that you have time to..." She chuckles again "Time to shovel or something." But the blonde quickly shakes her head at herself. "I'm sure they're all working hard. I was just joking. But are you doing okay?"

"They're off doing their jobs," Milani replies with a laugh. "Most of this is the result of their industry. They'll be back later to help me shovel. I gave everyone a half hour break after the craziness earlier," the headwoman explains. "Crates and crates of pickled sea cucumbers." Her head shakes slowly back and forth. "The cuisine this winter is going to be ... interesting." Blue-green eyes lift back up to Persie and she nods just once. "Mm, busy day you know." Voice light.

Persie makes a face, lips pursed, brow cocked. "Pickled... sea cucumbers? Who sent those? And are you sure that counts as, like, tithe? I mean, do they just send anything they don't want and we have to take it? That doesn't sound quite... Oh well. I guess it just means our cooks are extra creative." Her own smile goes awkward, hiding behind the knuckles she brushly back and forth across her lips.

"Small seahold down the coast of Tillek." Milani hastens to add: "Not Sea's Peak. Theirs isn't in yet but I expect the usual shipment of salted fish from them." The headwoman shakes her head. "It's not so much that they can just send /anything/ but there's leeway in the agreements. You know, like, 'twelve barrels of the fruits of the sea'. Well. Sea cucumbers are fruits of the sea. So just blame whomever wrote some of the agreements," Millie says with a little snort. "And it's not like it's inedible just ... funky."

"I guess that if a pickled cucumber is called a pickle, then a pickled sea cucumber would just be a sea pickle. Unless a sea pickle is actually something else." Now Persie's glancing around, like some sort of list of sea life is hanging around in the air. "Anyway, I'll have to keep an eye out for them. When they show up dinner, that is. So you're... you're good?"

"Search me," Milani says with an actual laugh and props her chin up in her palm. "All I know is it's all getting stored away carefully." Her head bobs a few times and she blows out a breath. "I hope ... they manage to make them taste good, because the idea is just not sitting that well with me. There's some paper shuffling and a sheet flipped over and finally, quietly: "If you mean, about A'son, if he's talked to you ... I don't really want to talk about it Persie."

"Maybe they'll be a garnish. Like pickled ginger." That's all Persie can come up with. And then Milani's last works make the greenrider's expression fall. "I meant you. I meant you, with all the work you have and all the things that have happend with the Weyr and you being the sort of person that you are and..." Her brows pull together sharply and she shakes her head again. "I'll leave you alone."

"Crisp, fresh and tangy?" Milani queries with a final quirk of humor about the seafood. "It's coming along," the headwoman says with a nod at the papers. "It's going to get busier before it gets quiet again though. You know how it goes. Have you had much chance to meet the Candidates?"

"No, not really," Persie says, though her steps keep backing up toward the door. "I... I'm glad things are going okay, even if they're getting busier. Things are going okay with the lists. And I'm having fun. At least until the eggs hatch, at least. I should probably go. I... you..." She's still looking troubled.

"Fun is good, Persie. I'm glad," Millie says gently and smiles across at the blonde. It's a sincere expression for all the headwoman looks a little tired. "Should be a good group, from what I'm getting out of the candidates."

"I'm glad. That's it's a good group. That you like them. Milani... I'm gonna go. I don't... I don't feel comfortable." It's unusually forthright of the greenrider to say such things, but Persie stands there now by the door, looking every bit as uneasy as she says.

Lips press together and Milani nods. "It's all right. I'll see you soon, I'm sure," the headwoman says with another wry little smile and draws her work back in front of her.

Persie nods quickly and makes her exit without any delay.

Bench Surgery

2009-05-01T18:22:35Z

Persie is hanging out with some of the Weyr's wayward kids when she picks up another odd job: assisting Mikandros in bench surgery.

Lunch time! There's a somewhat steady flow of people passing through the inner caverns, leaving areas of work or relaxation and beginning to head in the direction of food. Many groups are formed, as those who know each other and keep to similar schedules meet to cht briefly before continuing on together. Mikandros is not a part of this human river. Indeed, he can barely be seen at all, just a pair of boots and green trousers sticking out from underneath one of the low tables within an alcove. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. The sound of light hammering.

Persie isn't part of that flow either. She's the blonde sitting in the alcove across the human river, sitting with one leg tucked up under her and the other dangling with a sandal nearly hanging off her toes. Her current company is a pair of kids, a boy and girl both at that awkward in between age. The girl is looking surly and the boy is looking addled and for whatever they're talking about, Persie just bounces her thin shoulders. She doesn't seem to know what they're talking about either, but she's listening anyway, even if her glance is slipping toward the mysterious and somewhat disembodied boots and green trousers across the way.

Persie is a skinny, lanky girl, all bones and angles. Her build gives the impression of gawkiness, but instead, there is an ease to her movement, fluid, almost loose. She's a pale sort: fair skinned with smooth blonde hair and a heart-shaped face. Large blue-green eyes and fine bones would give her a doll-like look, but the effect is slightly marred by a prominent, up-turned nose. She appears to be in her early twenties at most.

For summer, Persie wears a lime colored shirt made from a thin, billowy material that floats around her slim body and is held up with ribbons of lemon that tie at her sharp shoulders. Her shorts are indeed short, the dark dusty brown only accentuating the pallor of her long, thin legs. Pale, that is, when she isn't sporting a touch of pink sunburn.

The sound of hammering doesn't last too terribly long, and then Mikandros is sliding himself out from under the table. He keeps a cautious hand on the edge as he sits up, marking the location so that he doesn't bang his head. Bits of dirt and other debris of the sort floors tend to accumulate no matter how frequently they're swept are brushed out of his hair, and a mostly ineffectually plucking at the back of shirt-and-vest to try to dislodge more of the same. Then he's rising to his feet, stooping to pluck up the toolbox that had been hiding on the seat of a chair. A patch of hide is withdrawn from his belt, before he turns to start counting the alcoves on the other side of the room, nodding briefly at each one. As he works his visual way down the room, it's no surprise that he should catch notice of the aggravated children, a quirk of curious eyebrows and a pause to consider.

Persie watches that whole thing: the careful hand and equally careful rising, the appearance of the hide, the apparent counting. When he looks her way, she even offers a slow smile. It doesn't last long, though, because whatever the kids are talking about it's percipitated them leaving. "Good luck, guys," the blonde tells them as they get up to go. "Let me know how it turns out." Once they're gone, Persie looks back to the man in the green pants. "Do you need to get at this?" It's a completely innocent question and she's certainly talking about the bench even if she's sort of pointing at her own rear end.

He's lost count, but rather than start over, Mikandros crosses the room at an easy amble when the angular woman addresses him. Arguing children are summarily dismissed from his concern - if they're not asking him to fix something or pummeling each other, he's so not gonna stick his nose into the squabbling of unknown littles. "That depends," he answers as he nears. "This th'bench as wobbles on th'left side?" A curve of a smile, deep dip of his chin in a polite nod of greeting.

"Well," Persie answers with a ready smile. "Let's see." With that she goes about wiggling, trying to get the bench to wobble as descibed. There isn't much movement where she's sitting, but when she scooches down to try out that left side, the legs splay and shift much more loosely. "I think it is," she decides with a little nod, and with a little laugh she adds: "I suppose I should get up then, huh?"

Mikandros chuckles at the wiggling test of the bench. "Aye, looks like." He moves to one side, starting to kneel down, toolbox coming to rest on the floor. "Shouldn't take me too long to knock it back into place. C'n give ye yer seat back in no time. That is, if ye don't mind, miss...?" Looking up, head tilting to one side. "C'n come back later, if ye'd rather risk gettin' dumped on th'floor."

"I can get up," Persie assures, proving it right away as she unfolds her leg and gets to her feet. "Do you need help? Are you flipping it over?" She reaches for the bench's arm, giving it a test-pull to see just how heavy the thing might be. "And what if there's more than one? This one is wiggling, but what if this isn't the one on your list? What if there's another one? That -is- what's on your list, right?" She even peers over to see if she can see where that hide has gotten to and what might be on it. The chance for her to supply her name goes by without her noticing.

"I'll count again, make sure this's th'right one n'not a really weird coincidence," Mikandros replies easily enough. Hunkering down further on the floor, he leans down and around to peer at the underside of the bench, one large hand gripping the side to give it a testing wobble. "Dunno yet," deep voice now muffled. "Might need t'flip it, but might jus' need t'give it a few good whacks t'resettle th'side b'fore pounding in some new pegs." And the list? The list is resting on the top of the tools in the 'box, perfectly visible, though perhaps not very legible. If she can read scribble-scrawl, it's full of boring stuff like '7th table, broken centre support' and '6th bench, 4th alcove, loose on left.' The missed opportunity of the name might ordinarly receive a reaction, but with his head under a plank of wood, any sort of thing like a quirked eyebrow won't be seen.

Persie does look at the list, since it's there, waiting. She picks it up and, as his head -is- under the bench, he'll be missing her own lifted brow at the scibble-scrawl, and then the crease above her nose when she finds deciphering it to be rather troublesome. And ultimately not worth it. She's still got the list in her hand, though, when she doubles over. Her pale hair hangs on the floor before her face appears, upside down, peering from the other side of the bench to see what he's doing. "What do you think, healer? Will he make it? Will he need an operation?"

The hair was a warning, so thankfully Mikandros doesn't startle and hit his head when her face appears. What does happen, though, is he tilts his own head sideways, trying to bringing her face back into a proper persepective. It's not going to work; not unless he rolls over onto his back, but imitating a kitten won't get the bench fixed. "Minor surgery," he replies good-naturedly to her joking. "It's jus' come unseated, here. See?" He lifts a finger to trace the air next to the groove-and-slot fixture that would normally hold the bench secure. "Prob'ly jus' got loose over th'winter, gradually enough no one noticed, n'now in th'heat th'wood's swelled up again so's it won't fit right." Explanation given, he's grasping the bottom support of the bench as well as the side, wiggling and shoving to get it to return to its proper alignment.

"A dislocated joint!" Persie assesses, twisting a little more to eye the spot he's pointing to. The wiggling and shoving, it's not a surprise really, but it still makes her jump, has her hair dancing on the floor. "So you can just pound it in? Will it stay? Isn't it harder to work like that? Without turning it over? And it's so dark under here. You need to be holding a glow in your mouth or something." Questions questions. She just babbles on chipperly.

Mikandros's laugh is full-throated rumble this time. "Oh aye, but I'll be reinforcin' it with some extra supports I got in m'toolkit. Once a join like this comes loose, it likes t'-stay- loose. Mind yer ears." This gentle warning giving before BANG! he slams the heel of his hand into the side of the bench with force. "S'light enough fer this." And another BANG! will follow, these two smacks just enough to seat the join so that when he removes his hands, the two pieces don't immediately separate again. "Jus' need m'mallet." And those words see him scrambling out from under the bench again, turning towards his toolbox and, "Hey, where'd m'list go?"

The blood is sinking to Persie's face, turning her pale cheeks a pink, but she keeps watching anyway, even if she puts her hands (one with the list still in it) to her ears. "That's how joints are when they get dislocated. They're all weak and slip out again. On people, I mean. Well, dragons, too. See, you're just like a healer." When he pulls out from under the bench, the greenrider rights herself quickly, enough that she sways on her feet as all the blood rushes back out of her brain. "I could have handed you the mallet. I could be the nurse. I'd be a good nurse." She presents the hide swiftly and firmly, like a surgical instrument. "List." It's a bit more crinkled now.

"Are they really?" Mikandros asks, genuinely curious and not just humouring her. A hand reaching out, perhaps intending to offer a steadying support for her sudden swaying. "Woah, careful. Y'was upside down a while." His eyebrows do quirk slightly, smile playing around the corners of his mouth, as if he's suddenly not quite sure if she's just got an odd sense of humour, or is perhaps slightly... off. He'll eventually settle on the former. "It'd help t'know th'name of such a good nurse," he notes mildly. "Thanks." To the return of the list, with a slight hint of dismay for the crinkled appearance of it. His neat folds, woe! Briefly his fingers try to smooth it, before he just shakes his head and tucks it back in one of his many belt pouches. "If'n ye do care t'help, could ye brace th'other side while I beat up this one?"

"They really are. It's something we teach weyrlings. If they have an injury they have to be extra careful after that because it's really easy to repeat it." Perhaps, if Persie's lucky, that makes her seem just a smidge more on the ball and a little less... off. However, she must either not see that expression on his face or be so used to seeing it that it hardly registers, which might end up losing her whatever sanity points she's just won. "Persie," she answers him, leaving her hand out after the list is taken, for introductory shaking. "I can do that, yep. Just hold onto it?"

Mikandros nods slowly, processing that little tidbit of information and filing it away in his memory. "Makes sense. Kinda weird t'think about m'body along th'same lines as a fallin' apart chair, though." An easy grin makes his cheek dimple, dark brown eyes holding the laughter he doesn't voice. And while bowing over someone's hand is somewhat ridiculous at the best of times, trying to execute the gesture while on your knees is just downright goofy. But, perhaps he knows that, directing an impish wink upwards. "Pleased t'meet ye, miss Persie. I'm Mikandros." Names finally properly given, he turns to fish out his mallet. "Lean into it a bit, brace y'self. Th'bench is pretty heavy, but don't wanna risk it takin' a slide and thwackin' ye a good'un. Jus' say when yer settled." For when she is, he'll give several solid whacks of mallet to bench side, hard enough to send vibrations jarring through the length of the bench and slam that recalcitrant join into place.

The goofiness, the wink, it all makes Persie beam briliantly at him. "Very nice to meet you, healer Mikandros. And an honor to assist." She even gives him a very formal sort of bow while her hand is still in his. After that, she takes up her place, hunkered low against the floor and trying to hold and brace the bench for the forthcoming whack. Despite all that preparation, when the hit comes there's a pained squeak from the blonde on the other end.

A laugh, a depreciating, "Ain't no healer." Mikandros might be rather industrious about making sure the job he's been given is not only done, but done well, but he's not about to go putting the welfare of a bench over that of a person. In between swings, the pained squeak makes him stop, looking across with sharp concern. "Y'okay, miss Persie? Did it slip?"

"I..." It's an uncertain sort of answer and her head is bowed with her pale hair giving little glimpse of her expression. "Did you get it fixed?" Persie asks instead of actually answering. Whether or not she's okay, she's still bracing the bench with hand and shoulder. Then, finally, "I think I got a splinter."

Mikandros doesn't even bother to check to see if the join has been settled properly. Stubborn women, something he has experience with. Without answering, he just watches her quietly, waiting her out until the confession is made. A sypathetic wince, as he pushes to his feet and slides sideways between bench and table to get near. "Here," he says gently, holding out one large paw of a hand. "Let m'see?"

If he's going to stop hammering, Persie will let her arms relax. Instead of giving him the injured hand, it's the other one that takes his offer, using him to pull herself to her feet before she shows him where a rather large splinter has slipped well into her sink right by the web of her thumb. Feeling rather silly, she purses her lips and looks down at her hand bashfully. "I thought you said you weren't a healer."

Whether he really needs to or not, Mikandros braces himself but otherwise holds rock steady as Persie pulls herself up, offering a solid base but not pulling. He leans down when she finally offers up the splintered hand, cupping his own gently beneath it as he looks it over. "M'not. Jus' a trader who knows 'bout splinters. Woodworker." Klah-brown eyes flicker towards her face, a brief moment of consideration for her sudden bashfulness. "It's a deep'n, miss Persie. I ain't got m'normal tools on me, or I could twease it out. Y'should prob'ly go t'see a real healer, they got the finicky tools fer this." Gentle concern, all worried brows and sincere expression. "Don't leave it sit, or it's like t'fester. N'soak yer hand in some salt water after it's been pulled out."

Persie is visibly touched by all that concern, lifting her sheepish smile for him and taking a little moment to appreciate all that generous worry on his face. "You're a sweet thing." But then comes a sigh and the withdrawl of her hand. "I'll go let the healers pull it out," she says, sounding terribly put upon. "But don't think I'm a bad nurse because of this. I'm a fine nurse. Even if I'm nursing benches." Firm nod. "You'll be okay with out me, right?" She's walking away now, backwards for a few steps, her grin twisted to a playful smirk. Then she turns to disappear among the midday foot traffic.

Mikandros's grin is pleased as punch at being called sweet. "A'course not, miss Persie. Best bench-nurse a fella could ask fer." As she walks away, a wave that's half-shooing motion. "Y'get yerself taken care of. I'll be jus' fine." When she leaves, he'll return to that bench, and probably get the job done a lot faster now that he's no longer distracted. But a happy little smile lingers on his face for the encounter.

Adrift

2009-04-18T20:18:45Z

There have been all sorts of rumors about A'son, so Persie stops by to see how he's doing.

It's the day after the day after the flight. The old creamy furniture has been dragged out to the ledge. That's where A'son can be found, he sitting out there, reclined in one of the chairs. His eyes are closed and he has a wide-brimmed hat placed on his head. Nikoth is no where to be seen, so it's just the bronzerider this afternoon.

It's possible that Secath and Persie were just passing by without any intention to stop in on A'son, but the oddity of seeing that creamy furniture out on the ledge catches their eye, adjusts their course, and the green lands rather daintily on the absent bronze's ledge. Persie just sit there, though, peering at A'son, trying to determine if he's awake under that hat before she says anything, as if a dragon landing is so unnoticeable that he might sleep through it.

A'son stays in that position for some time. But eventually he lifts the hat from his head, eyes adjusting to the light. He looks at Secath, smiles slowly and then waves lazily. "Persie, afternoon." Then he's dropping the hat back down over his face again.

"Are you sleeping?" Persie answers that greeting with a question, because sleeping men say hello all the time. "We can go," she adds in. She must assume she should, as Secath is already turning around, getting ready for take off.

"I wasn't sleeping. You can come on down," A'son peeks the hat up to look again, "If you want." He watches passively as Secath begins to turn around.

Invited to stay. Persie doesn't delay then - she lets out a relieved sort of sigh and slips down from Secath's shoulder to walk over and flop on the seat next to A'son. "So."

A'son pulls that thing off his head and tosses it onto the ledge. "So. What's going on?" He asks, voice filled with trepidation. He looks over to Persie for a second before he takes his eyes back to Secath.

He tosses the hat and Persie moves quickly to retrieve it, to pull it down onto her own head and collapse herself back into her seat, a leg slug in A'son's lap. She smiles, not one of those big blinding ones, just a usual smile. "I'm here." That's what's going on. "Heard things, though."

A'son moves back just a bit as the leg is coming in. He puts a hand casually onto her, watching with a small amused smile as she puts his hat on. "You are here." For the part about hearing things, his small smile starts to disappear. "Oh yeah?"

"That you got hurt," Persie supplies. She chews her lip though, since his smile is fading so quickly. "Are you hurt? Badly?" Her eyes flick over him, searching for signs of blood or bones sticking out of his clothes. His face gest a bit of extra scrutiny and her fingers reach out to take his chin and turn his face this way and that. "Is that a bruise?"

A'son lets Persie turn his face around, "Yeah. It'll get better in a couple of days, I'm sure. I kept ice on it last night, it's not so bad." He takes his hand off her leg and pats his right shoulder lightly. "Here. This hurts. But..." The bronzerider shrugs in a 'what are you going to do' way. "It's my own fault I'm hurting anyway."

While the shade of his hat might hide the way Persie's pale brows pull together, the worried downward curve of her mouth is clear. She lets her hand fall frm his chin to his chest, away from the shoulder she's looking at now. "What happened?"

He slips his hand down onto the one of hers that's pressing his chest. "I... didn't want to be Weyrleader. So I took myself out of the flight." There's explanation number one. He points to the bruise on his face, "And then Tiriana didn't like that I didn't want to be Weyrleader." A'son sighs and smiles a little again. "Don't look worried. I'm okay, really. I just... I did this. Don't worry."

"Oh A'son," she says with a little shake of her head, no more drama than that. But Persie's looking at him with her brow all furrowed and her teeth in her lip. "You're just... all adrift. Aren't you." It's anyone's guess where that came from,

"Adrift." A'son repeats the word. "Yeah, it's something like that. I don't know. I just don't feel like much of anything anymore." He leans pats her hand and then lets the contact break as he takes his away. "It's nice to just sit here and not think about anything."

Persie isn't looking much at ease, no matter how little A'son makes of his injuries. Her brows are tightly pinched together as she stares at his shoulder, even if there isn't much to see. With an exhales she sits back again and tries to rub that crease from her forhead. "I have trouble with that. Not thinking. I always end up thinking of something, no matter how much I mean not to."

"You remember how we talked about not thinking, or giving up on thinking?" A'son asks as he reclines back in the chair. He stretches his legs out and yawns, "I've decided to go ahead with that. In my personal life. For the remainder of it, however long that is."

Her mouth twitches a little, pulled this way first, then that. Persie's eyes have dropped to watch her hands in her lap. "What happens when you think?" she wonders quietly.

"It's a little painful." Pause, "Correction. A lot painful. I'm done with it. I'm going to live moment to moment and then that's just going to be it." A'son purses his lips and sighs. "I don't want to remember anything that happened before today."

"Will you remember today tomorrow? Or have you decided not to remember any day before whatever day it is?" This thought distracts Persie for just a moment, coming out of her mouth as quickly as she thinks of it, her head canted to the side. But then just as quickly she's looking back at him again. "I'm sorry it hurts." Her legs stretch, just to move over his and relax again. "I don't know how to not think about yesterday. Sometimes I feel like I remember all this... stuff. But it's not the real stuff, it's just all the things I felt. Or didn't feel and should have. I can't remember anything useful, but I remember all of that."

"No, tomorrow I'll remember today. I'm just not going to remember yesterday. As in... yesterday." A'son furrows his eyebrows, having clearly not thought too hard on that. He watches as her legs come back over his again, almost as a reflex is hand is there. "It's alright. I don't want to remember the actual memories or the feelings that went along with it. Yesterday was terrible and so was the day before, really. I'm pretty much going to try and blot that all out."

"Well, that's good. Remembering today. If you weren't remembering today then... I don't know." Her foot bounces, just once, just randomly, but thre isn't enough movement to dislodge that hand from her leg. "So I shouldn't ask you about yesterday, then. Because it didn't happen." With her head relaxed back, she pulls the hat down over her face, hiding her expression.

"You can, but I won't know what you're talking about. Because yesterday didn't happen." A'son points out, lifting one finger and smiling faintly. "I'm going to remember today. It's a new day. A different one."

She misses the finger, her face still hidden behind that hat. And now her voice is a touch muffled by it. "Do you think it will work? I don't know that I've ever really... tried. I hate feeling things but there's something... important? Maybe that's the word. There's something important, to me, in feeling things."

"To me too. But I just don't think that I'm equipped to handle them. I just... I don't know anymore. They're too hard and I'm too tired of trying to figure them all out." A'son runs his hand along her leg. "I don't know if it's going to work." Quieter, "It probably won't. But I need to do something. Even if it's just consciously doing nothing."

She could probably speak to that, being unable to handle feelings, doing nothing, but A'son doesn't want to think about those things, so Persie looks forward instead. "We're going to have eggs and the we're going to have weyrlings." The smile is already audible even in her voice, even before she lifts the edge of that hat to peek out sideways at him. "I love having new weyrlings."

"That hat looks good on you. I got it at..." A'son trails off and then laughs, at himself it seems. "Someplace." He begins to smile, a bit more genuinely when she sounds happy. "You certainly seem too. It's been a long time since I was in those barracks. What got you into... that? The weyrling instruction, all of that?"

"Someplace," Persie repeats, still peaking and also letting that compliment fly right by. "Is that a place you actually can't remember or just a place you've decided not to remember now?" But he's smiling more and so she keeps smiling, glad to see it. Only then it hitches on one side to turn rather less happy and more bittersweet. She pulls the hat down turning it between her fingers, her blonde hair rather mussed. "I'daur. I'duar asked me to help him."

"It's a place that I'v decided not to remember." A'son replies with that smile turning mischivious. "This could be like a game. I point out something and then we try to guess where I got it from." When the other bronzerider's name is mentioned his smile turns down, fading away. "I'daur was a character."

"He was... a lot of things," Persie says, that sweet, sad smile still holding on. "I'd like to say he was my friend but I don't think... I don't know. He was very good to me. He didn't have to be." She draws in a breath and slips her glance toward A'son again, a smirk growing. "How can you forget if we talk about it?" Which doesn't mean she doesn't guess anyway. "Ista?"

"He saved my life." He scratches at the scruff growing on his cheek. "And N'thei's." A'son drops his hand and looks out across the ledge. "I don't know how many poeple he considered his friends." Her question draws a quick look from him and he grins again. "I don't know. It's not a perfect plan. And yes."

"He probably saved mine too," Persie adds as she sinks her teeth into her lip. But better not to dwell on those things. It's better to smile and laugh at A'son's admission that she's guess correctly. "That was too easy. What else do you want me to guess?"

A'son's eyebrows lift at her own admission, but she doesn't readily explain so he lets it slide. For now. "Right, I guess it was. Maybe we shoul go back and forth. You ask me to guess something. Then we see if I get it right or wrong, then I'll ask you another one. Otherwise it'd end up all lopsided."

Persie brings that hat up again, squishing it down on her head and squinting up into the sunny sky. "What kind of thing should I ask? Where I got my shoes or my shirt or something?" Then her foot bounces again and her eyes slip toward the bronzerider. "It will all be lopsided anyway, since you only have today to answer about and I have yesterday and all the days before it."

"You can just pretend that all your days before this didn't happen. Or, just only ask me to guess about things that happened to you today." The best solution he can come up with. "Or we could play cards or something that's not so convoluted."

Persie makes a face, nose wrinkled as she shakes her head at cards. "No, I'll think of something." She stares at her own foot, the one still thrown across A'son's lap, lookin very serious, very thoughtful. "Wait, am I asking you something about you or something about me? It's hard to ask you something about me." She's going to try, though, and hold the brim of her hat on either side, pulling it down so that it starts to take on a bonnet-like appearance. "Guess something that I like... to eat? No, that's a dumb question. I like to eat everything. Guess my favorite animal?"

A'son watches as she bends the hat around, he smiles a tiny bit as he lifts his eyebrows. "You're supposed to ask me to guess something about you." The eyebrows hike up further. "You like to eat everything? Literally everything?" He asks back, looking incredulous. "Kittens?" A stab in the dark, for sure.

"Not -everything-. I don't eat wood or hides or clothes or anything like that," Persies laughs as she rolls her eyes. "But, you know, food. I'll eat anything. I like it all." Her thin shoulders shrug and then she's shaking her head, turning that botten back and forth. "Everyone loves kittens. They aren't my favorite." She wets her lips, tucks them away inside her smile and asks, "Am I supposed to tell you the answer or do you keep guessing?"

"Oh good, I was sort of worried there for a second. I wish I loved to eat everything. It'd make dinner time so much easier. I could just put together a big plate of anything." A'son frowns when he gets his guess wrong though, bites his lips. "Not your favorite. How about... two guesses total and then you tell me the answer? Runners?"

"Or just a big plate?" Persie laughs lightly. And then she tips, letting herself fall against A'son's side, shoulder, whatever it is that's nearest, her hands still gripping her hat. "Not runners either. They're pretty though. I like... goats. I mean, I like all sorts of animals but goats always get overlooked. And they're so cute and silly and mischievous. And I like their horns. I bet it would be fun to have horns. Today, I think the goat is my favorite."

"Goats?" A'son repeats, looking surprised. "Yeah, I wouldn't have guessed goats. That's for sure." He throws an arm companionably around her as she leans into his shoulder. "What do you think is going to be your favorite for tomorrow?"

"Hm." Persie gives it thought, oh yes she does, though with the hat he probably can't see her face anymore. "Oxen, I think. Because they do all that hard work and seem so... nice about it. They seem gentle and strong. I like that. Plus sometimes they have that ring..." She turns her head so that she can see A'son then, or so he can see her, and she pinches at her nose. That ring.

"I've seen people with that same time of ring before. Through the nose? Only ever the type that are on the ships though." A'son notes idly, he glances at his hat covered friend and begins to laugh. "What are you doing? You're going to suffocate yourself in there."

"Would I look good with one of those rings?" Persie wonders, pinching, releasing, pinching releasing, making her voice go nasally for certain syllables. "Oh, you have to ask the next question. I think? Or did we both go now? You should just ask something. Whatever kind of something you want."

"I don't think that type of nose ring would look good on you." A'son continues to laugh while she pinches and releases her nose, eyeballing her. "I don't even know." He sighs and looks across the ledge. A hand rubs at the stubble on his cheek, "How long do you think I've been sitting here for?"

"Maybe a few hours?" She pulls back examine the wrinkliness of his clothes and the length of that stubble. "Since... the flight? Was it so bad?" Persie's lips purse in their effort not to frown, but she shakes her head at that last guess. "You'd have had to get up and pee at some point at least."

"A couple, yeah. And right again. I did have to get up at one point." A'son drops his hand away from his face. "It was pretty bad. The flight, the morning after. The stuff after the morning after." He frowns and shakes his head. Putting forth a smile, "Today has been nice though."

"Did you drink too much?" That's what happened after the flight, right? Persie is settling down against him again, her head resting on his shoulder, her expression hidden by the bending brim of the hat though her gaze is off across the bowl anyway.

"I didn't drink anything after the flight. Except maybe some water. I went to the infirmary afterwards and they patched me up." A'son's free hand starts to play with the brim of her (his) hat. Not bending it like she is, just running his fingers along the rim.

Persie watches that finger on the edge of her hat, and she rounds her lips to blow at it. "They weren't nice in the infirmary?" Eventually Persie will figure out where things went wrong, or rather, how they went so wrong. Then she's distracted again. "If you're not remembering anything before today, what about all the time we've been friends? When you came over and when we painted and how you gave me those birds. Do you get to remember all of those things?"

"They were nice, I guess. They were just sort of concerned and really confused about everything." A'son wiggles his finger at when she blows on it. "Alright." She's got him there. "I'll remember those things. This is really more like a selective memory thing."

"Well, I'm confused too, I guess. But I'm always confused. I don't know why you didn't just... leave the weyr before hand. But then maybe it's hard to do that, too. My dragon doesn't chase. I don't know how it feels, really. But still." She looks up at him, plainly concerned. "You aren't hurt too badly, right?"

"We'd just returned from doing sweeps. I didn't know that she was going to go up that day. But then... she did." A'son shrugs helplessly. "No, I'm not hurt that bad. I missed anything really important. It's going to be fine."

"Well, I don't like it," Persie says with the shake of her head, disapproving that this is the way things have turned out. "Are you going to tell me what happened? Why you want to forget everything? Or, well, almost everything." Her hands sneak over to catch on of his in the tangle of her fingers.

"Well, it's sort of a done deal." A'son points out, even as his finger gets stolen by hers. He gives a little squeeze. "It's just... It's not the flight that I want to forget. I sort of want to. But I could live with it."

"At least you're not weyrleader?" Persie tries to put a positive spin on it.

"Yeah, really. Thanks for small miracles." A'son quirks his lips into a half-grin as he continues wiggling around the caught finger.

Persie sits there for a little while longer, watching her hands and his hand and thinking whatever it is that rattles around in her blonde head. But then she's sitting up, drawing her hands away from him and taking the hat off. With a smile she puts that hat back on A'son.

"Tired of it already?" A'son asks, settling the thing back onto his skull. He tips it up so he can see her better and looks questioningly at her face. "Are you leaving?"

"I like the hat. I might have to get one. I should have more hats." But Persie does seem to be getting ready to stand. She pulls her leg from A'son's lap and pushes herself up onto a knee before she pauses. "Did you want me to stay?"

"I could get you one. They have really nice ones at Ista. With fabric flowers and ribbons and everything, I know a person who makes them." A'son got only one connection at Ista. A hat maker. Go figure. He looks a touch morose when it seems she might be leaving. "Of course. I like when you stay, you're good company. But if you have things to do, I understand..."

"Ribbons," they make Persie smile. And while she might be posed in mid-leaving, she still doesn't move. "I just... If you don't... I don't want..." Since that apparently doesn't work, she just shakes her head and smile shyly, apologetically.

"If you want to stay, I want you to stay. If you have something to do, go. I'll be okay." A'son tells her, giving her a small encouraging smile. Then, "Ribbons, yes. Some of the women's hats are really nice that this guy makes. I think he turns a really good profit from them too."

"I don't know what I want to do. Whatever is best. You don't want to talk about whatever it is and maybe you don't want to talk at all. Maybe you'd just rather be alone. And maybe if I stay I'll just babble and say the wrong things, just to say something." It all comes out in a stream as Persie frowns at herself. "I never know when people need company and when they need to be alone. I always guess wrong."

He makes like he's going to do some babbling of his own, likely about the hats. When A'son stops himself to look down at his hands. He wrings them together a little. "I want to. I want to talk about it. But I just don't even know where to start, it's just so... I never thought it, I was just. I thought I was done. I really did. But then I- I did something I didn't think I would do. And it was good, really good. But then it was gone. I guess, I deserved it. I don't know. I don't know, Persie." He bites his lip hard and continues to stare down at his hand. "Just don't go yet, please?"

Persie is sinking back down onto the couch before he asks, before he even starts to talk. It's when he starts wringing his hands that her posture relaxes and her weight starts to drop down again beside him. She's trying hard to follow, blue eyes big and sympathetic. She hardly knows where to start any more than he does, so she just asks the frist thing to come to mind. "Done with what?"

"Milani." A'son says with a sigh and shakes his head. "Stupid. Stupid. Stupid." His fingers are tightly locked together, a little white showing on the knuckles. "I should have just stayed away. I knew it wasn't going to work before. I knew it. And then, after the flight when I was in the infirmary? She was there. Right there." There's more headshaking. "And I went back to her rooms with her."

Her hand is gentle when it touches those white knuckles. "It was a flight," Persie reminds him. "Things like that happen. The first time I went home with I'daur was after a flight." The tip of her head waits for more from him.

"It's not just the sex, it was..." He takes in a deeper breath, "I stayed the night and left in the morning. To take a bath. And my shoulder," A'son points at it. "Started to bleed again. So I went to the infirmary. I got waylaid and it was awhile before I got back." The white knuckling starts to happen again. "I felt different. I wanted to see her, to talk. About everything. When I finally got there again, her door was unlocked. So I just went in." His eyes are fixated on some point. "And she was in her bedroom. With someone else. K'del, I think. I'm sure." There's a pause. "I was gone a couple of hours and she was fucking our new Weyrleader." A roll of his eyes. "I just left."

Persie listens to the words like she's watching a movie of A'son going through these moments, or maybe as if she's watching it all happen from somewhere over his shoulder, feeling some muted version of his reactions as she would expect them to be. Hope turns to hurt, or so she guesses of his feelings. "A'son," the greenrider murmurs, letting her gaze drop down. With a big breath is seems like she might say something else, but it stalls and dies without finding her voice.

"Then I took a short cut back to the bowl. And as I was walking through the tunnels, I ran into Tiriana. She gave me this." A'son unwrings his fingers long enough to point at the bruise on his face. "We got into a big fight. I'll be lucky if she doesn't kick me out of High Reaches and send me packing to the southern continent." He chews on his lip some more, "That's why I don't want rememeber yesterday. It was just really bad."

Persie has an easier answer for that one. "Well have you told her you're sorry?" she wonders of his fight with Tiriana. "Unless you want to get sent away." The prospect makes Persie, well, she pouts guilelessly.

"I let her punch me in the face. And then in the shoulder. And then she didn't stop, so I... it got ugly. I may have smacked her." And when A'son says 'may', it definitely sounds like he totally did smack her. "I don't think that 'I'm sorry' is going to work." He rubs his face and then pauses. "Did you just tell me you slept with I'daur?"

"You -may- have smacked her? A'son, you smacked the weyrwoman? A girl?" Persie just stares at him for a moment with her eyes all big and her mouth slack with surprise. And then she's just snuggling up against his side, trying to get her arms around his middle. "A'son," mournful. "You're out of control." - "And you have to say you're sorry. When you do something you know is wrong, you have to say you're sorry. Even if it isn't enough." She lets out a heavy sigh for all of that, he cheek rested on his chest. I'daur? "Huh? Oh. Yeah." It sounds like she can't imagine why that would be interesing at a time like this.

"She's not a girl. She's..." A'son stops when she tells him, with that mournful face, that he's out of control. He leans his elbows onto knees, bends over and starts to sob. It's a very pathetic sight as he rakes his fingers into his hair with one hand, and covers his face with the other. "She's just going to punch me again." As if this is the worst thing in the world. "I /am/ out of control. I've just ruined everything. She was right, I'm not man enough. And now the Weyrleader is a kid and I fucked everyone over. Why didn't she just listen to me before? I told her before I didn't want to be the leader. I don't want it. I can't. I'm not... I'm not that. I won't ever be." This statement is followed by more crying, more full-body wracked crying.

When he leans forward A'son effectively dislodges Persie from her spot against him. But she doesn't seem to mind. She just crawls behind him, a leg to either side as she wraps her arms around his middle again and leans her cheek against his back. She doesn't say a thing but instead just holds him and lets him sob and talk as he needs to.

The talking for now, has ceased and he simple cries. Lets out all of that pent up emotion, allows the up until now surpressed pain come out. After awhile, he starts to relax and just takes deep breaths. He leans back into Persie and touches her hands with his, "Thank you."

Her fingers move to catch his when they come near. "Do you regret losing now?" Persie wonders of him. "Now that you know what happens when you don't? Or are you still sure you don't want to be... the weyrleader." She says it funny, but it's hard to pinpoint what about it is off.

"I don't know. I don't want to be the weyrleader, I'm glad that it's someone else. But. I'm not so sure that I'm glad it's K'del." A'son shakes his head and lets his fingers wrap into hers. "You slept with I'daur." He's back to that again, as if he can't wrap his mind around that fact somehow. "I'm sorry. I just... I never thought you two were... I didn't know."

"Maybe K'del will grow into it and be wonderful. Maybe he'll love it and be happy. You can't know. You can't even know all the things a person could be." Persie might murmur these things, and being behind him, it might be hard for her to be well heard, but she says them with conviction anyway. Then she turns her face against his back, resting there with her forehead. "Were what? We weren't... anything really. He took care of me, in his way. He might not even have meant to, but he did."

"Maybe he will." A'son returns in a quiet voice. He twists arounds to wrap his arms around her and burrows his face into her shoulder. "It must have been more difficult for you though, then it was for a lot of other people. When he left. Even if he didn't mean it, he still was and now he's gone." There's a regret in his voice, a sadness for it. He pulls away to look at her face, "I can take care of you. I can just... watch and do something. I don't know. Whatever you want."

She goes so still when he turns, when he says those words, but surely with his arms all wrapped around her A'son can feel the way Persie trembles, the way her breath catches hard in her chest. When he pulls back there are already tears running quickly down her cheeks, one after another, even if she hasn't let loose a single sob. She just looks at him, rather like she isn't capable of saying anything at all.

A'son's eyes go wide at the sight of her crying and he wraps her up all over again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry." He pulls up a little and kisses her hair. "I promise, I promise I will. If you want me to. Anything." Then he's quiet, not anything anything else as he presses close to her.

"I just," Persie starts to say, but opening her mouth, daring to speak only makes her breath grow suddenly choppy and hard to manage, refreshs the stream of tears. "I just try not to think about that part. The part when he left." She sniffles wetly as he holds her close again. "Don't be sorry. You don't have to be sorry."

"I made you sad, I'm so sorry. I just... I have no idea what I was thinking. I'm an idiot." A'son doesn't move away, just presses his forehead into her hair and gives her more of a hug.

"A'son, don't hurt yourself," Persie breathes out once the jerk of her chest is under control. She tries to push him back, gently, her eyes going to his shoulder. "I'm okay. It's just that..." It looks like she might tear up again, but she manages to keep it under control, forgoing whatever it was she was going to say to blink at him instead.

"I'm not hurting myself. I just feel bad." A'son tells her quietly, moving away when she gives him that gentle push. He looks at her and the guilt in his eyes is evident. "It's just what?" He asks, letting go of her and brushing a piece of hair away.

"People aren't like that to me. People say things but they don't.. I'm not... And I'daur didn't say anything but he was there. When I needed someone to sit next to, he was there. And then he wasn't there and I..." Persie gives up, shakes her head, sniffles again. "I don't want you to hurt your shoulder. You're not bleeding or anything, are you? Are you supposed to be moving your arm around like this?"

"It's a little sore." A'son admits, glancing down at it. "I don't care, I'm not worried. It's going to be fine." He starts shaking his head. "Persie, Persie, you can come here anytime you want. I'll sit with you, I'll be quiet for a couple of minutes and not open my big mouth if you need me to not open it."

"I know, A'son," Persie smiles for his offer, a hand lifting to touch his cheek. "I know. But I don't want you to be I'daur. And I don't think you have a big mouth." She laughs then, rubbing the wetness from her cheeks and where it's dribbled down her neck. "Relax. I cry. I'm sad and I cry."

A'son smiles a little when she laughs, "I'm still sorry." He tells her sheepishly, dropping his hands into his laps. "I don't want to exactly be like I'daur. But I want you to know that someone's still going to be here for you. That there's still someone, you're not all alone or anything."

Persie sniffles once more. "I didn't mean to cry. It just... caught me off guard. I don't even know how we got to talking about this," she laughs again, if a bit breathlessly and awkwardly.

"Because I asked and said stuff." A'son tells her, then leans into the couch and sighs. "Now that I've made both of us upset... What's next?" He smiles a little, catching some humor now that she's laughing.

Persie sniffles once more. "I didn't mean to cry. It just... caught me off guard. I don't even know how we got to talking about this," she laughs again, if a bit breathlessly and awkwardly.

"You know," Persie begins, reclaiming her space on the couch, drawing her knees up under her chin, "I'm actually pretty happy now. You know, in general. We're going to have weyrlings and Milani found a way for me to help more and be useful and... I might not be much of anything, but I'm okay right now." There isn't the slightest reason to believe that she thinks 'right now' will last.

"I'm glad that you're okay." A'son says, with genuine feeling behind it. He rests his chin on the back of the couch, turning his head to keep facing her. "That you're okay and happy." He glances away from her to notice the the sun is starting to come down and set. "Are you hungry?"

Hungry? Persie nods her head, little bobs in quick succession. "Yeah. Did you want to go down to the caverns and eat?" She looks over him again, like before, looking at the wrinkles and scruff. "Have you left this ledge since... since?"

"I had some crackers here... I kind of ate them already." That was probably last night's dinner. "So yeah, it'd be nice to get some real, hot dinner." A'son sits up and stretches. "I can change into fresh clothes and then we can go?"

"Okay," Persie answers with another nod, another smile. There's something else running around in her head, something that makes her watch as A'son sits up and stretches, something that can't decide between curiosity and wariness. But ultimately, she'll wait there on the couch.

He'll leave Persie out on the couch while he goes into the inner part of his weyr. There's some rustling around in there, the sound of things being tossed and moved aside. However, he does eventually emerge. His hair has been brushed out and he's wearing clothes that are clean and wrinkle free. When A'son walks out, he seems to notice that something is missing. That something is only missing for a minute. Nikoth flies up from the bowl and lands with some semblance of grace on the ledge. "Okay." He says, gets his riding gear together and sets to the task of putting it on the bronze quickly. "Whenever you're ready, Persie."

Just so exciting

2009-04-06T05:47:36Z

Persie is doodling on a chalk board when the very lively Aeyne and her friend T'goran come into the Snowasis. It's so nice to meet like-minded people.

Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr
The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor, and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern.

With an errant chill, even a few flakes, in the air, Persie has tucked herself into one of the booths with her hand curled around something warm instead of potent. She's sitting cross-legged with her head bowed and her pale hair hanging over some hides and a slate. The hides are mostly ignored and instead of writing on the slate, she appears to be doodling.

Aeyne looks like a giant puff ball, so bundled up she can barely move. When she does move? She waddles. A taller man walks beside her, his eyes glancing sidelong every few minutes like he can't help himself. He makes a joke, and she giggles, tittering into her hands and then looking around. "Oh this is just so exciting!" She enthuses, somehow managing to get her hands together and clap. It's that exciting, yes. He chuckles and nods his head, indulgent of the pretty girl. "Want anything, Aeyne?" he asks her, glancing at the bar. She clucks her tongue. "You know I don't drink," and it sounds like she's scolding. "How about cider then?" he offers, not the least put out. "Ought to warm you up, too. Go have a seat, I'll get it." She turns the look around, her curling gold hair bobbing around her face. It might be pure coincidence that takes her to sit near Persie. It might be curiosity. She definitely seems to be leaning in, trying to catch a peek of what the rider's up to.

Persie is not so enthralled in her doodling that she doesn't look up when Aeyne and her escort arrive. With a quirk of amusement curving her mouth, the greenrider glances over the overly-bundled stranger, all that clapping and excitement, all those clothes. "It's not -that- cold, is it?" she laughs. "You should drink something warm." That's Persie's advice; she lifts her own mug for a sip. With the side of her other hand she scrubs the doodling from the slate.

Aeyne looks visibly disappointed when Persie scrubs out the doodling, her pretty face falling like a small child denied a toy. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that! It was so nice!" Persie gets a huge grin from the young woman and then a hand shoots out, twice as big as it should be in all those layers. "Hi! I'm Aeyne." When Persie examines her clothing, her mouth folds into a pouty little moue. "Cold? It's positively freezing, I don't know how you can stand it." She gives an exaggerated shudder, and giggles into her other hand, clearly finding it too hard to keep that sulky look up for long. "I grew up on the Igen penninsula, and moved to Ista Weyr recently," she adds, and this probably explains her dubious view on what's cold. "I had to borrow the jacket! I've never owned one before."

The praise makes Persie sheepish. "It's just doodling," she says, her teeth setting into her lip. "And it's on slate too, so it had to go away sometime." And now she's trying to brush all the chalk dust off her hand so that she can offer it, the hand, to Aeyne. "I'm Persie. How can you be so col - oh!" See, since she interjects, she get the information she was looking mid-asking. "See, that's another reason not to live someplace really warm. You don't have any cold-weather clothes. And then what do you do when you need them?" It's very much as if she's picking up a conversation mid-thread, even if it wasn't with Aeyne that she was having that conversation. "So what are you doing here? And who's your friend?" She glances toward the man is off supposedly fetching cider.

"Oh, well, you should draw on something you can keep!" Probably the most brilliant suggestion Aeyne's likely to come up with all day. "Oh, it's just ever so lovely to meet you, Persie. Have you lived here all of your life? Do you ever visit Ista? Isn't it lovely?" She pauses her outpouring of enthusiasm like a screeching tire. "Oh, but why would I need cold weather clothing? This is the first time I've been anywhere cold. Gosh it is cold too!" She twists in her chair. "That's T'goran, isn't he handsome? He and Naibith let me tag along on errands today. He comes into the Sandbar every night. I'm so excited to get to come along! Aren't dragons wonderful?" And through all this chatter, said rider returns with a mug of steaming cider for the blond girl and something stronger for himself. "Has she been talking your ear off?" he asks Persie with a wink.

Persie listens while her eyes getting slowly wider and wider for the the speed with which Aeyne delivers the story and her myriad opinions. Startled and amazed, the greenrider giggles breathlessly, a rapt, ready expression still hanging on her face when T'goran shows up. She look at him then and laughs again. "Well, maybe just the earlobe," she tells him, flicking her finger at said body part, half hidden in her blonde hair. "But I think she's only just gotten started." It's with a bright teasing that she grins back at Aeyne. "I haven't lived here all my life, no," she answers that first question. "And," eyes flick to T'goran again, "yes, he's very handsome." After all, it wouldn't be polite to say otherwise, or nothing at all.

Aeyne seems to decide she can at least unzip her jacket, and this she does. "Oh, thank you ever so much!" This said while beaming up at T'goran. "No problem, kid," he answers with an easy laugh, messing up her hair. She groans and begins pulling her curls back into some semblance of order. "Yeah, she does like to talk," he agrees, pulling his chair around backwards and straddling it. He gives Persie a wink, his smile coming quick with a dimple in his cheek. "Not so bad yourself there, darlin'." Aeyne just rolls her eyes and continues her effervescent giggling, pulling her mug in and sniffing at it before taking a careful sip. "Ooh, hot!" she announces, smacking her lips and tongue in a most undignified way.

"Well aren't we all just pretty things," Persie laughs when T'goran turns the compliment on her. For the other blonde, "Don't burn your tongue. I hate that. And then everything tastes funny and your whole mouth feels sort of wrong. I don't know why they make stuff so hot. I guess that some people don't notice it so much? That would be nice, huh? To have a mouth like a dragon so nothing was ever too hot for your tongue?" She curls her own mug a little closer. "So you're here from Ista?" It's time for the greenrider to try to keep track of the information she's heard. "But before that you were at Igen? Is that both of you or just.. you?" That latter you being Aeyne.

Aeyne goes about blowing on her mug, the little curls of steam swirling out and away. "I don't know! People are so silly." She giggles some more and takes another careful sip. "Better," she concludes. "Oh, I wouldn't want to have a dragon mouth. They have stinky breath. Especially if they've been chewing firestone. I was around when some of the weyrlings were practicing flaming. Did you know they throw up afterwards? That's so gross!" And then she has to dispell Persie's question. "Oh, no, I've only been at Ista for.. um...nine months now? That's about right. And I lived at Big Bay before that, across the straight from Ista Island. So I guess it's technically Igen. Some people call it Igen Sea Hold, but it's really much closer to Ista than Igen. I don't know how they decide all that." She waves the hand that's not holding her mug. "I just met T'goren at the Sandbar. We're great pals, huh?" The rider just laughs and nods. "Sure." And disappears into his mug. "So where did you live before Reaches, Persie?" Aeyne asks.

"I did know that," Persie says with a few nods for the post-firestone vomit. "And it does smell awful. I don't think I'd want dragon -breath-, just to be able to drink klah or cider or tea without having to sit there and wait for it to cool off." In fact, she'll now gulp down a bit of her drink, just being thankful that it's a drinkable temperature. Over the rim of her mug, she looks between her two companions, back and forth, watching something without bothering to hide it. "So you're from Big Bay and you moved to Ista Weyr. And you don't like the smell of firestone." This is the collection of facts that she has. "Why did you..." She doesn't finish, though, before Aeyne asks after Persie's origins. "Fort. I'm from Fort. I don't go back there much now. Have you been there?"

Aeyne seems to enjoy Persie's slow tallying of facts, if that's what all her giggling is for. "Yes. I used to clean fish. Well, they smell too..." she wags her hand in front of her nose to emphasize her point. "But! I had a dream telling me that I was destined for greater things, you see. And so I just had to follow it. So, I left. Well, Daddy wasn't happy about that, I'll tell you! But I'm a woman now and he respects my decisions." She nods firmly, backing up her own point. Her head twists to ask T'goran and Persie, "Do either of /you/ like the smell of firestone? I think it smells awful." She shakes her head. "Oh, no, I've never been to Fort. Just my own hold and Ista Weyr. And here now! Isn't it exciting?" T'goran laughs and leans over to tell Persie quietly, "She does get excited easily."

"Fish?" Persie is visibly surprised by that. "You don't look like the sort of person who would clean fish," she chuckles, her nose wrinkling a little though it doesn't mar the delight on her face. "Maybe it's the clothes," she adds in. The dream, however, as Persie leaning forward, eager to hear more. "You had a dream? Like an actual dream?" She lets the firestone slip by without further comment, but T'goran's side comment gets a bright smile. "It's exciting to go someplace new. I love new places." She's on Aeyne's side, there.

"Oh, everyone cleans fish when the fishers bring them in." Aeyne explains. "And when the weather's nice and there's not Thread, we have fish fries!" She titters. "Of course, the weather's nice and Thread hasn't fallen in Turns so there's lots of time for them now, and lots of fish to clean!" When Persie leans forward, her face is overcome in delight. "Oh, yes, a dream! Dreams are omens, you know. If you listen to what they tell you, you'll never go wrong. They're very important." T'goran nods in easy agreement and chuckles. "Oh, new places are nice, of course. I suppose it's different when you travel everywhere. I run messages for the Weyr pretty often, so there's not much to be excited about anymore."

"Oh, a fish fry. That sounds good." There's a moment of distraction that crosses her face, as much as she obviously likes the idea. And it's source? "I think I might be hungry now," Persie laughs, her mouth twisting a bit. But nevermind that. "So what happened in the dream? I mean, what did it tell you? I want dreams that tell me what to do." And T'goran, well, he gets a little shake of her head. "I go all over. I still like it. New place and new people and not knowing what you'll find. Or, well, if you go everywhere, just seeing people again and catching up and enjoying all the different places there are to be. I like it." Thinking that perhaps her rambling has been nearly as easy to follow Aeyne's is, Persie's grins turns shy.

Aeyne nods her head enthusiastically. "Oh they are!" And then she gasps and leans forward, hands flat on the table. "You should do a fish fry /here/!" she squeals enthusiastically. "Is there a beach? You could!" T'goran groans a little under his breath, leaning back and sipping his ale. No comments from the peanut gallery this time. "Oh, I just dreamed that all the walls were closing in on me, you know? And of course they were! How can anyone think in such an uncreative space. Nothing but unloading boats and gutting fish all day!" She shakes her head. "So of course I had to change that!" And then she throws it in reverse and asks with barely a breath between statements, "What's Fort like?"

"But the dream didn't tell you where to go? Just that you should leave?" That seems rather distressing to Persie, her brow furrows. "How did you know where to go?" And she's a little troubled about a fish fry at Reaches. "We'd probably have to wait until summer. It's too cold during the spring. And then even when it isn't, you don't know when it might be. It changes every day." She sits back with her cup, relaxing a little, leaving her hides and slate alone on the table. "You should go to Fort in the fall. With all the leaves changing. It's pretty. And, well, it's pretty here, too. Different, though. More blue. If that makes sense." She looks to T'goran, considering him for a moment. "I don't know where to go in the spring, though. I'd say somewhere warm but that's where you're from." Her brows lift to him; perhaps, with all his traveling, he has some ideas.

Aeyne shakes her head. "No, see, but I /knew/," she says, eyes aflame. "There were all kinds of people coming through, all the sailors, talking about projects happening at Ista, and it just seemed like it was meant to be. After all-" she flips her hair over her shoulder-"I'm /obviously/ meant to be somebody special. And so of course I'd have to go somewhere where I could be really special." Her face falls only a little when Persie mentions weather. "Well. Maybe this summer," she agrees, disappointed. "If you do though, you should let me know. I'd love to come." She looks over at T'goran and asks him, not missing a beat, "Will you take me to Fort this fall, T'goran?" Her head turns expectantly to the rider, her face lit up. Put on the spot, he clears his throat and leans forward, brown eyes looking around. "What? Er, uh, yeah, sure, Aeyne." He shrugs at Persie, looking sheepish. "I'd say just about everywhere has it's own charms during any season, greenrider."

Somebody special. Persie's face lights up and despite having met Aeyne, she seems to agree. "So even though the dream didn't tell you, you knew anyway. I bet that's exactly how it works. Maybe you wanted to go to Ista, hearing those sailors talking about it all the time, and so that's why you had the dream." She nods, liking her own take on the whole thing. And then her stomach grumbles audibly. "All this talk about fried fish," she laments. "I might have to go find something to eat. I think I'd rather go to Big Bay for a fish fry, though, than have one here. You know, a real one instead of a copy. So maybe -you'll- have to get word to -me-." She just grins over at T'goran and, sitting up, starts to gather the slate and hides. "I would have to agree. I like everywhere, all the time. Mostly."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to have kept you, Persie! Yes, please, do go eat!" Aeyne says, waving the woman off. "It was lovely to meet you. Thank you for speaking with us for so long! And if I hear of any fish fries happening, I'll be sure to get word to you." So solemnly she nods, her eyes twinkling irrepressibly. T'goran lifts his ale to salute Persie as well. "Clear skies, greenrider."