deatiaev

LOG: Flour and Violence

2008-06-26T06:56:22Z

WHO: Aeriste, Samantia, Giremi, S'fox
WHAT: Aeriste and Tia gang up on Giremi, and later, Aeriste and S'fox turn the tables on her.
WHEN:
WHERE: Kitchen, Harper Hall

Early evening or late afternoon? It's kind of a strange hour to define. Either way, dinner is actually /soon/ but Giremi's eschewing the dining hall and tucked away in one of the kitchen nooks. He's got the table precisely set, with a mat under the plate, the cutlery gleamingly shiny and three serving dishes in front of him, from which he is meticulously taking portions and aranging them on his plate. Nearby, a stack of hides but pushed well out of harm's way of any spilling.

Samantia is being hauled into the kitchens by an angry baker, "And you'll be helping us replace those pies you stole, Apprentice!" She's yelling at the girl, who meekly stalks along, though she licks her lips proudly like the cat who knocked over the milk carton. "Of course, Journeyman." She says, her voice just the right ton of ashamed and contrite. None of that tone is anywhere on her face.

Giremi continues arranging his meal and looks up and over at the kerfluffle. "What now?" he asks the Baker, eyes shifting to the other knotted Crafter. After a moment, he reaches for the hides, picks them up and moves them to the far side of his plate well out of reach.

The Baker journeyman dips her head respectfully to Giremi. "Caught her out in the kitchen garden eating a pie, and what had gone missing just a half-candle before but the very pies I'd just baked?" Samantia just smirks, rubbing her hands together. "Well then, let's make some pie!" She proclaims, and the Journeyman scoffs. That is, until Tia dives her hands into the flour bowl and sends a plume of white rising up into the air. Then, she just stares in stunned silence before diving foward. "Ack! Not like /that/." She squeals, scandalized.

And Giremi doesn't look much more pleased, eyes crossing as the flour goes flying. His fork pauses midway down to a neat pile of fanned, thinly sliced beets. "Faranth," he mutters under his breath. "Samantia, are you seriously aiming to get sent home or locked up with just bread and water?" There's an edge of impatience in his voice.

"Is it true, then," Aeriste inquires brightly from the doorway, "That there's a room in the Harper Hall where they string bad apprentices up by their toes?" He watches the goings-on from a safe distance: no flour is going to muss *him* up, thank you!

Samantia, now with flour clinging to her lank hair and streaking her cheeks and nose, twists to look at Giremi. "I'm not aiming for anything, i'm baking!" She proclaims proudly with two fistfuls of flour. These she slaps down on the rolling block. "Where's the dough? I'll roll the crust." She reaches for the big wooden rolling pin, but the baker slams her hand down on it first. "You'll do no such thing. You can wash and peel the redfruit." Defeated, Tia glowers at the woman. "But peelings the DULL part." "Exactly." As she stalks to the barrel of fresh fruit from the orchards, she sticks her tongue out at Aeriste. Ooh, spiteful.

"Ah, no. Just one of the spare rooms. Nothing interesting in it," Giremi answers Aeriste, turning slightly from his nook seat towards the Senior Apprentice." Samantia's shenanigans are eyed again and his hides pushed all the further towards the wall. "Would you care to join me Aeriste?" he offers to the young man and finally takes up his knife to slice off a neat square of beets and only beets.

"Is it safe?" Aeriste asks bluntly, edging sideways and away from the ominously-tongue-sticking-out Samantia with his hands raised in an 'I surrender' sort of way. "She's probably not silly enough to pelt you - us - with condiments, but one bad aim and we're all doomed, right? Oh, is it beet salad today? You really *do* like to keep things ordered, don't you?"

Samantia sniffs as she drags the fruit over the wash basin and begins dunking each fruit. For a moment she looks like she is seriously considering chucking a redfruit at Aeriste's head but then she simply picks up the peeling knife and begins stripping the skin off of it, glowering at the other apprentice like she's imagining it as his head. Safe? Never.

Actually it looks more like steamed beets, steamed carrots, white rivergrains and a little bit of roasted wherry on the serving dishes Remi's got. Everything is very plain and undressed and on his plate it's all neatly separated. The Journeyman sends a brief look Samantia's way. "Mind your fingers," he suggests to her.

"She's going to skin us in our sleep," Aeriste states with absolute certanity. But he does spare another glance for Giremi's plate. "And Faranth's great gold back*side*, you're going to eat that, sir," because if he's going to say something like that, he may as well tack on a title lest *he* get served bread and water, "Not archive it. Your stomach doesn't care if it's all alphebetized.
"

Samantia lets out an overloud laugh of amusement at Aeriste's second comment. "Never mind, you're alright." She decides of him, tossing the first peeled fruit onto the counter to be cut up and boiled down for pie filling, starting ont he next. She nods her head to Giremi, "Yeah, thanks for the warning." Oh so sweet.

"I'll thank you kindly to keep your commentary to yourself. Eating this way keeps my face from twitching," Giremi replies to Aeriste calmly. His gaze skips back to Samantia. "You're welcome." Blandly polite.

"But *I'm* not kind." Aeriste doesn't seem too ruffled. "Didn't you hear Calliosae that one... well, several times? How does it twitch, anyway? Does it sort of start somewhere and spread out, or does it do it all at once like a great big sneeze, or?" He flashes Samantia a cheerful smile, friendly enough despite being a pain.

Samantia shrugs and tosses another fruit on the counter. The Baker turns to make sure she's not getting into trouble and then resumes rolling. "Twitches are really fascinating." SHe drawls sarcastically. "Where else do you twitch, Journeyman?"

"You could be," Giremi points out and eats his food however he damn well pleases. A bite at a time from each section of his plate. He offers no further commentary on twitching though his brow jumps a little at Samantie's rough treatment of the fruit. "That's not really an appropriate discussion for an apprentice."

"Never." But, red-faced - probably at Samantia's comment - Aeriste wanders over to get himself his own meal. Pastries, mostly, with a few token late-season asparaguses posing as proper nutrition and in no way making up for the rest.

Samantia snorts, "How not?" She asks, with the pugnacious innocence of youth. And then she realizes, and her nostrils flare as her nose wrinkles, "Oh, /nasty/. You old cooter, that's not what I meant at all." She resumes peeling with fervor. "Gross." She affirms as she speeds through another fruit. They're just going to get cooked down, who cares about a bruise or two.

"Then don't make smart remarks," Giremi says flatly and goes on eating. In fact he's actually eating a little on the fast side and he's ignoring his hides. The atmosphere in here likely not agreeing with the 'mark essays' idea.

"I thought it, too," Aeriste points out, even though he's still a little pink. He finally joins Giremi, mindful not to dust powdered sugar toward the paperwork. "Look, I won't ride you about your, uh, peculiarities. They're not *that* bad. I could probably learn something."

Samantia snorts. "Then you're a cooter too." She informs Aeriste waspishly. Of the baker she asks, "How many more of these do I gotta peel?" The Journeyman looks over and barks, "Keep peeling." Glaring, she resumes. "What are you learning?"

"If it's any consolation, I work on overcoming them," Giremi notes to Aeriste. "However, it's not something that I can change overnight." His eyes slip back over to Samantia, but he doesn't say anything this time, just concentrates on eating.

"I don't need to be consoled about anything." And to Samantia, Aeriste shrugs. "I'm not sure yet. Journeyman Giremi is trying to instill discipline upon my wayward organization. He gave me a ninety-five the other day, did you know?" He preens. "So it must be sticking, even though I've been a terrible pain. You might surpass me, though. What've you learned lately?"

Samantia looks Aeriste over and shrugs, "I learned you should never punch anyone until they show you their knot." Sage advice. She looks at the redfruit in her hand and then makes a face at it as she's peeling. "Hah, take this, Captain Deathsprout."

"Self-discipline can yield promising results," Giremi intones rather drably and finishes the last bite of food on his plate. Then using his napkin between himself and the dirtied plate, brings it to the sink. The leftovers follow. He makes a number of trips, very careful each time. "You might try 'never punch anyone except in self-defense'. If you get your hands broken, you won't be able to play anymore."

Aeriste stares at Samantia in a kind of horrified fascination. But he keeps his tone pleasantly bland. "Who did you punch?" True to his word, he makes no remark about Giremi's leftover disposal process.

Samantia says loftily, "I was defending Hall secrets, that's a worthy cause. And I'm a singer, I don't need my hands to sing, so if I break a finger or two, I'll be okay." All the wisdom of her fifteen turns speaking here, folks. To Aeriste, she lays a finger against the side of her nose and winks, "That's for me to know."

"If you plan to make Journeyman, you'll need to play at least a little. Enough." Giremi's returned to the table and is gathering up his hides. "And you should only defend if you're being attacked. Defending secrets can be done with words. You're a harper after all. Learn to use them." With a polite nod he excuses himself: "Good evening to both of you. Samantia, I hope you manage to survive the week. Aeriste, see you in class tomorrow." And with that, the Journeyman is heading out.

Aeriste looks from one to the other, and then just shakes his head at Samantia. "Please don't punch anyone again. Even I know better than that."

Samantia snorts, "He didn't even care about it." She watches Giremi's back and snorts, "What a stick." Shrugging, she continues to peel. "Who cares? So I punched a guy. He was sneaking around after hours."

"Then you get a Journeyman or a Master and you have them deal with it." Aeriste frowns at her. "If it was truly serious, he should have been questioned. If it wasn't, you shouldn't've punched him."

Samantia shrugs, "I thought he was a thief. He wasn't wearing a knot. How was /I/ supposed to know he was a Weyrleader?" completely unconcerned with the fact that she punched a weyrleader in the gut, she goes back to peeling. "If you're going to be a sissy about it, you can leave me to my pie making."

Aeriste rises. "I'm not a sissy," he says forcefully. "You could get *kicked out* for that. Shards, did he forgive you? Or is he going to file a complaint?"

Samantia just snorts. "They ain't gunna kick me out. They don't have enough sopranos with my range. A'course he forgave me." This is not completely truth, but not a lie, either.

"They don't need a soprano with your range when a good treble can fake it until they find a replacement for you," Aeriste states grimly.

Aeriste stands in one of the alcoves, a plate of pastries before him; he's facing off with Samantia, who's at a table and peeling redfruit. Given their expressions, the conversation seems like it might not precisely be all casual cheer.

Samantia grins patiently, "No treble can hit the notes I can." She taps her peeling knife against the edge of the wash basin. "Nobody's going to catch me, and I ain't gunna punch nobody anymore. Unless they deserve it." And that's almost everyone. "Stop nibbling at me about it, you're just being a wet blanket."

"I probably could have," Aeriste mutters. His epression shifts from irritated to something a little more concerned. "Fine, fine, but... it'd just be a shame to lose a major asset just because she couldn't control her fists. And what if something happens to your voice? Girls' voices change, too. You'll probably still be good, but if you're not what you are now, what then? You break a hand, and then what do you do?" And he trails off.

S'fox arrives with a little old woman, an elderly auntie of some harper who is tugging him along by his sleeve into the kitchens. "No, no, just a taste, it won't take but a minute," she tells the bewildered rider who tags along after her trying to protest. Finally, he gives in and tells her, "Okay, all right. Just a taste." And while she bustles off to dig up some dish she wants him to try, S'fox loiters out-of-the-way as best he can: near Aeriste and Samantia's alcove.

Samantia is standing by a big barrel of redfruits, holding a peeling knife. Behind her on the counter is a slowly growing pile of peeled fruit, ready to be cored and thrown on to cook down for pie filling. A baker works nearby on a crust, ignoring the talk going on around her. Aeriste is at a table. It looks as if someone recently had an accident with the flour, because a thin coating of it shows on everything for a foot around where the baker is rolling her dough. "Eh, I'll become a spy, then. I'm great at using my ears to pick up secrets." And usually use them for blackmail, but she's not admitting to that one.

"You can't say that out loud, now everybody's going to know, and you're not subtle enough to be anyway, you'd probably dress in black and skulk around and look suspicious and then punch your target when he started to laugh and-- Hi there!" And Aeriste notices the rider, and he straightens up a little more. And plasters a pleasant smile on his face. "Do you need any assistance, sir?"

"Oh, er. Hey," says S'fox, a second later when he realizes Aeriste is speaking to him. He blinks and glances that way, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Naw, I'm fine. Just waiting on somebody now--had to bring 'er back to the hall, now she wants to feed me. Not that I /mind/, just--she don't have to," the bronzerider tries to explain, clumsily. "Don't let me interrupt you or anything, though. 'M in the way now?" He shoots a quick look around the kitchens, frowning.

Samantia shrugs, "Who's to know except you." She lifts the knife just a little and asks with an all too feral grin, "And you ain't telling nobody, right?" Her eyes twitch right, towards S'fox as he approaches and she goes back to peeling promptly. Sweet, angelic Samantia, yep. You saw nothing. She twists her head so that only Aeriste can see her wink, and drops into a drawl, "Well what brings you here to Harper Hall, bronzerider?" She croons, reading his knot with efficient eyes. "Duties to Fort and its queens. Hear y'all got you some eggs." Not that anyone could miss hearing, the way the Harper Hall constantly hums with gossip, particularly when it comes to the Weyr they are beholden to. She chuckles politely at S'fox's nervousness, "Now don't you worry none there, dear. You aren't in any body's way. Have a seat there at the table, there's a good man. Of course she wants to feed you. Harper hospitality, you know. It's the least we can do for the men and women who protect this very Hall from Thread."

Aeriste holds his hands up at Samantia as she speaks so casually about probably plotting his gruesome demise if he squeals. Wink or no wink, she's the one with the knife and those redfruits have been positively *mauled*. "You're not allowed to punch this one," he nonetheless says to her. "This one's polite." And he turns back to S'fox. "...Oh, good, she's being polite too. Maybe we'll get through the week without a major diplomatic incident after all. Fort's duties!"

Samantia's obsequiousness does little to settle S'fox, and he eyes her a long moment, then Aeriste as thought the other man can make sense of it. And finally he just blinks, then manages an easier smile for them. "What, you two guards or something?" the big man wonders. "Diplomatic incidents, really?" He doesn't look like he believes it for a minute, as he moves back to lean up against the wall, waving off the offered seat. The little old lady still hasn't shown up again yet.

Samantia goes from sweet southern drawn to livid fury in just under a picosecond. "You sharding stupid wherry!" she exclaims, brandishing the knife dramatically, "You blew my cover. How's a person supposed to be a spy if you can't figure out to keep your yapping mouth shut! Of all the hair-brained useless fleabags!" Huffing, she stabs one of the redfruit, ripping the core out of the center of it with scary ferocity. Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes. "Let it go, Tia. He can't help being stupid." Shaking her head, she sighs and eyes S'fox, smiling a tight, unnatural smile. "Sorry about him." Because he's totally the one brandishing a knife like a psychopath.

Aeriste edges closer to S'fox, who is larger and much more athletic than he and, therefore, potentially a very useful shield. "I heard," he informs the rider very quietly, "That when she gets *really* mad, her forehead splits open and a watchwher peeks out through the crack. I'm pretty sure one's starting now. Can you tell?"

"Whoa, hey," says S'fox at once, an automatic caution when Samantia's temper flares. "Settle down. No call for all that." He gives the girl a funny look for her outburst, though Aeriste receives one equally so for his attempts at hiding. But the petty disagreements do seem to clear up his general unease with the hall: apparently they're at least somewhat a familiar thing to him. So he queries, with a crooked grin over at Aeriste but his eyes still watching Samantia, "Watchwhers, really? Sounds like my little brother, now you mention it."

Samantia pouts at Aeriste. "I ain't gunna hurt you, dummy. I already said you were alright." She snorts and shakes her head, tossing another fruit into the pile of peeled ones. "You should check on that old lady, she mighta gone and broke her hip."

"Don't ever let them meet," Aeriste opines to S'fox. "Pern would never recover from the devastation." And he rolls his eyes at Samantia. "You *lie*. You're going to murder me when I'm not expecting it. I'll be practicing some magnificent solo and WHAM, I'll have a knife buried in my left eye. And you looking suspiciously innocent. 'Why, no, sirs,' you'll tell them. 'He just, uh, fell on it! Right! Tripped on my outstretched foot and fell right on my hand. No, I was supposed to be there. Redfruit love being peeled in the voice hall, truly!'"

"Yeah, you think so?" wonders S'fox, with a look off toward where his passenger vanished. "Maybe I should." He doesn't. Instead, he tells Aeriste, "Don't worry about that. I don't let him out of the Weyr. Not when I can help it, anyway, considering he's, well. Gotta be about your age? I dunno, bad at guessing those." Good-naturedly, the Fortian rider shrugs, with another chip-toothed grin for the pair. Although at the other man's dramatization, S'fox does repeat, "Maybe I /should/ go check on her." But he still doesn't.

Samantia asks of S'fox, "Who's your brother?" Aeriste gets another tongue stuck out at him, "Nah, I'd slit your throat so you couldn't sing no more. Can't risk the competition. Especially if I kicked you in the nads and /really/ made you squeal. There can only be one.. or something." S'fox is eyed, "I don't kill old ladies. I wouldn't kill anyone."

"I'm sixteen." Aeriste looks between them, but it's Samantia who gets eyed longest. Hmph. "She might've gotten waylaid by someone, since she's been away, maybe a message or a chore or a lesson. We can send someone to check if you want, and get you something to eat in the meantime?"

"Gerrit, s'his name," S'fox responds lightly to Samantia. Then, he blinks at Aeriste, grimacing slightly as the younger boy admits his age. "Okay, so maybe not your age. He's about nineteen now, but I got a baby brother that's fourteen, fifteen or so now, if that counts? Told you I was bad at this," admits the rider wryly. "And naw, don't worry about it. Not in a hurry or nothing." Pause. "Yeah, you got me convinced," he teases Samantia then.

Samantia isn't the type to pout. But she's really trying to behave and not prove Aeriste right. That's even worse than being seen as weak. So she huffs, "You're making fun of me." She complains. Her nostrils flare and she sighs, stumping over to the mauled fruit she's already peeled and beginning to core that as well.

"I'm tall, that's probably why." Aeriste does his best not to look vaguely disgruntled at the word 'baby'. Samantia's efforts don't go unnoticed, though, so he tries, "And he's being nice, Samantia. Don't get mad. Maybe he'd like a redfruit? You're really good at chopping and peeling them, you've murd- er, managed to get through almost the whole lot!"

S'fox grins at Samantia, unperturbed by her attitude still. "Only 'cause we like you," he returns. "Don't mean no harm." Whatever of Aeriste's pique at S'fox's terminology is visibly, S'fox still doesn't really notice, more focused on Samantia's.

Samantia glowers at Aeriste, and picks up one of the redfruits. For a moment, she looks like she might throw it at his head, just for the compliments. Her back stiffens as S'fox speaks. "/Nobody/ likes me, and that's how I like it." She folds her arms over her chest, her knife wagging next to her hip.

Aeriste is quiet for a moment. And then he states cheerfully, "It's good, then, that I don't really care what people like, because you're really not that bad. Threats on my life and flying fists and sharp cutlery aside, you seem pretty pleasant."

"Mmhmm," agrees S'fox. "I bet you do." And he grins again, but it's hard for that to not sound patronizing, even if he doesn't mean for it to be. "Wouldn't mind that redfruit," he notes, with a nod of his head toward the one Samantia picks up. Toward Aeriste, he then wonders, "That happen a lot? Threats and the... everything?

"You're a masochist." Samantia says bluntly to Aeriste. "I bet you'd /like/ it if I punched you in the nads. Here, why don't I try?" She takes a threatening step forward. "Yes." She answers for Aeriste, and announces proudly, "I make it a habit to hit, trip, or ruin the day of at least one person a day. And the more, the better." She grins, "I haven't hit my quota today, though. S'cuse me while I take care of that." She indicates Aeriste with a quirk of her eyebrows.

Aeriste looks up at S'fox. He might be tall, but he's no full-grown man, not yet. "...I think she's just had a bad day," he temporises. "Stayed up late, cranky this morning, you know how it is." Riiight. But then she's pointing him out! So he sidles behind the rider. "Hmph! See if I make up nice stuff about you again."

"Girls," supplies S'fox, with a commiserating sigh and look for Aeriste. But then Samantia is making noises about hitting the other harper, and S'fox, of course, has to object. "Don't think that's such a good idea," he remarks, while Aeriste hides behind him. "Wouldn't want your... masters? Do you have masters that are, like, over them? Anyway, wouldn't want them on your butt."

Samantia eyes S'fox for a moment and shrugs, smirking, "Have it your way, I'll just catch him when you leave and nail him when nobody's looking." Shrugging, she picks a redfruit out of the barrel and hands it out the rider. "Sorry, forgot that."

"Girls," Aeriste agrees, peering over S'fox's shoulder at his current nemesis. "You'll protect me, right?" he asks the bronzerider, only half-serious. "I'll sing you something if you do. I'm a delicate and highly-refined musical instrument, so if she hits me, I'll scream, and I can't ruin my voice before Turnover. I've got a solo." And she turns away, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief- though he stays put. "We've got Junior and Senior Apprentices and then Junior and Senior Journeymen and then Masters and then the Masterharpers."

Reaching over to accept the redfruit with a thanks to Samantia, S'fox takes a good bite of it, chewing thoughtfully. "Well, leastways it's not on my head then," he tells her with a half-lift of his shoulders. And to Aeriste, "Sounds... complicated. All the crafts do that? My baby brother, he's joined up with the Smiths, keeps sending me horseshoes and nails now to show off what he's making." The rider beams at that, looking quite proud of that fact.

Samantia snorts, "Who cares about nails?" She asks in contempt, and begins chopping the redfruits up with vigor. "Oh please. Like screaming's going to ruin your voice. Not all the way til Turnover." She shoves her hair out of her face with fruit-sticky fingers, making it stick back stiffly across her temple.

"You haven't seen the score Master Emmi gave me," Aeriste retorts to Samantia as he edges out from behind S'fox. "Or maybe you have? I can't take any chances. And my voice is still settling. Journeywoman Llany would eat my *face* if I got hoarse." And he looks back to the rider. "I think they all do. Horseshoes and nails, really? That would come in handy, right? I think Weyrs still have runners now and then..."

"Smiths, looks like," says S'fox, but he's frowning now at Samantia, brows knitting up. He shakes his head, dismissing it in favor of looking to Aeriste. "Huh? Oh, yeah. We do. Don't mess with 'em much myself, just put everything up on a shelf somewhere. To save, you know? Show off and embarrass him when he gets real good. So... you sing? That's... hard?" S'fox sounds curious, like that never occurred to him before.

Samantia shrugs, "Nah, haven't seen it. I got a small part, cuz I'm just an apprentice." She realizes she may have offended S'fox and hesitates, and then tries something different, "Sorry. You must be proud of him. My folks were pretty proud of me at my first concert." As to singing. "Nah, s'easy. Like talking, just.. from here." She thumps her abdomen.

Aeriste's smile is just very faint and very smug, and he says nothing.

For that apology, S'fox has his own wry grin, appeased. "Don't worry about it. S'not for everybody, I don't guess. Doubt I'd be that excited about it myself if he wasn't my kid brother." At least he's not a baby brother this time. But here comes S'fox's little old woman at last, and she hones in on the bronzerider with a ladle and a pot of some kind of soup. "Guess that's my cue," he remarks. "Be seeing you."

Samantia glances at the little old lady and her eyebrows raise up. "What, did she fall into the soup?" She asks Aeriste in soft undertones. "Been nice meeting you, bronzerider... what was your name again?" She asks of him.

"Yes. I owe you a song, after all." And Aeriste lifts a hand in an airy little wave. To Samantia, he shrugs. "Maybe she got lost," he murmurs back. "She's old, you know how they can get."

Faranth only knows what happened to that old woman in the meantime, but she's here now and S'fox is on his way out, being dragged away so she can mutter about how poorly he must be eating and will he please just try this one more bite. "Oh, it's S'fox," he tells Samantia and Aeriste as he gets dragged along, with one last wry grin for the pair. "Have a good... sing, or whatever."

LOG: At the Galleries

2008-06-26T06:48:21Z

WHO: Torell, Dekelvai, T'aren, V'ryce, Samantia
WHAT: Tia reigns terror on more poor folk.
WHEN:
WHERE: Galleries, Fort Weyr

Torell is still half-leaning on the banister in front of him, offering his hand to Dek as if to seal the compact of their mutual naming. "Deal." Though he only only looked at the eggs for a moment, he turns and mutters "Fifteen, I would say." It would seem that his natural affinity for cartography has gifted him with a keen sense of visual details. "Are you heading back to work on a ship or will you get some time to adjust?"

Dekelvai lifts his head to free up a hand and shakes, firmly. "Deal," he repeats, with a pleased nod, though he turns back to the heaped sandy mounds almost immediately afterward. The Bollian spends a long moment staring at them, rather intensely, eyes flicking back and forth, and then finally he bobs his head a little. "Right, fifteen. Unless there's two under one pile, you know, two-for-one sort of thing." At the question, he pulls a face. "Nah, I certainly wasn't gone long enough to forget how to sail, or fish. Probably'll be out first thing tomorrow morning," he adds with a half-groan, half-chuckle.

Samantia comes trotting up to the galleries with a sack of pilfered redfruit slung over her shoulder. One is in her hand, almost down to the core, and she worries at it, sucking out the last of the juice before simply discarding it where it falls without a care to who might have to pick it up. She fishes for another one and takes a bite from it, the sweet crisp crunch of her strong teeth biting through the skin into the flesh below cutting sharply through the warm air.

Dark rings have deposited themselves under T'aren's hazel eyes, as the man arrives rather disheveled into the galleries. In truth, it looks like he hasn't slept in days, but for all of that his eyes are bright. Maybe all his turns of staying up to odd hours inventing things have given him practice at being a cheerful zombie. A low whistle escapes the bronzerider's lips as his glance slides across the sand and then about the galleries. Spying a pair of familiar faces, though granted one more than the other, he heads towards them, "Afternoon, Dekelvai," He shifts his gaze to Torell and hesitates a moment since they were introduced but only briefly, "Orel was it?" He questions.

Torell glances up to the sound of part of his name and corrects the cheerful zombie. "Torell, sir." He smiles a friendly greeting and sits back from leaning against the banister. "You look...well rested." he offers a bit of a joke to comment upon the riders condition. The canvas satchel at his hip shoves itself forward, the contents tipped against the bench.

Though he notes T'aren's arrival, Dekelvai's eyes are trained on the girl who's sauntered up the steps with a large bag of... hmm. He lifts his head to get a better view, but wrinkles his nose when she nonchalantly tosses the remains of her redfruit to the ground. Though the galleries are, for the most part, hushed, he raises his own voice to demand, with a bit of vexation to his tone: "You're not going to just leave that there, are you?" After this duty done, he turns to the most exhausted-looking T'aren he'd seen since he met the fellow (once) and grins, "And an afternoon to you, sir. Really," he nods with a low chuckle to Torell's comment.

T'aren's mild smile turns to a nearly face-splitting one, teeth bared as he -grins- down at Torell after his joking comment, "I've been trying to help Juliri with Tali and still make all my drills. It means a lot of crying and not a lot of sleep. Fortunately, I manage to keep me weeping down to a minimum in front of my wingmates." Ba-dum-chsh! The bronzerider surely kids that he, rather than the baby, is the one doing the crying? Then again, Tru is an odd fellow as shown by the awkward pause that seeps into the conversation quite naturally when he's around, then commented, "Eggs look good. Well, the ones you can see anyway." The rider misses the hapless toss of the core, but turns at Dekelvai's comment, a single brow gliding upwards as he levels a measuring look upon Samantia before searching the floor for whatever she might just leave where.

Samantia ambles towards Torell, Dekelvai, and T'aren, taking another crunky bite of redfruit. Her dark eyes take them in and she deposits herself into the midst of the group of males. She glances at Dekelvai and smirks, "Sure am." She lowers a challenging glower at him, "Whatcha gunna do about it?" She rummages for a fresh redfruit and offers it Dekelvai, letting it roll off her fingers above his lap. He can either catch it or let it fall on the ground, she doesn't seem to care either way. "You look like crap." She tells the bronzerider bluntly. Torell is ignored point blank.

Torell nods to T'aren and, at hearing Samantia's usual flippant tone, groans outwardly. "Oh by the Egg..." he exclaims and shakes his head. The rider might know something that has been gnawing at him a bit so he decides to ask. "How old is Tali? It must be hard to juggle both a family and your duties."

The redfruit is caught in quick fingers before it rolls away, but Dekelvai bares his teeth - whether in a grin, or grimace, isn't quite clear - and gazes evenly at the young girl. "Not much I can do, of course. Not your father." He shrugs, and turns way from her, taking a bite of his own out of the crisp fruit - can't let good food go to waste, he's a growing boy, isn't he? To T'aren, with a bemused smile for the man: "You have a son? Daughter?" He can't judge by the name.

Samantia fishes out another redfruit and offers it to T'aren, slightly more polite, at least. She doesn't just drop it, but the manner in which she holds it indolently out to him speaks of an equal ounce of uncaring and no awe for the rider. "Shells, did that gold down there just squat out sand, or what? I thought I was going to get to see some eggs." She leans forward restlessly. "They're probably ugly. That's why she has to cover them up." She gives a rude guffaw at herself and takes another bite of redfruit, chewing.

"Ten days old today!" T'aren beams down at Torell where he stands by the pair of lads sitting. Perhaps he doesn't have as much experience as the young man might like, but he answers anyway, "So far its been rough." Not that there's a whole lot of things a father can do at 10 days old... unless Tru is one of those suffocating parents that just -hovers- protectively -all the time-, which might be a good guess. To Dekelvai, "A daughter. My first!" He practically bursts with fatherly pride. The brightness of his expression does nothing for the dark rings under his eyes. Then to Torell, "I'm confident that as she gets older and once she's fostered to the weyrfolk at Telgar, things will be a bit easier." And now to the more difficult matter as his eyes find the redfruit core, then the girl that's bringing big words. His expressions sobers coolly, "Well, Dekelvai may do nothing, I will be glad to contact the Apprentice Master of the Harper Craft and report your deplorable behavior so they can take steps to correct your apparent lack of manners. Or you can pick it up." He delivers the ultimatum without a blink of apology appearing in his face.

A low whistle falls away as V'ryce enters the galleries -- likely out of respect for Ciath and his own hide -- the man climbing stairs with easy grace. Noting the little gathering of people, the tall bronzer ambles over in their direction, offering an easy smile. 'Mm, hello folks..T'aren, Torell." The unknowns of Dekelvai and Samantia are given a fractional bow and a low tenor, "V'ryce, bronze Loketh's. Charmed." Another flash of his white, even-toothed grin.

Torell half raises himself out of his seat to adjust the satchel beside him; the writing case inside not wanting to cooperate. "Ahh, so she's going to be fostered at Telgar? I'm sure that'll ease up your schedule a little." He smiles and turns to the newly arrived rider and smiles with a half-wave of greeting. "Hello again, V'ryce." Samantia is all but ignored only barely registering her presence if just to turn his gaze from her. Clearly he's not wanting to engage in deep, meaningful conversation with the young girl. Taking a moment to dig back into his satchel, he produces what appears to be a snarl of hemp twine and offers it to Deke. "Here, something to take with you."

"Then you have my congratulations, T'aren! I'm sure she's beautiful - and, from the experience of an older brother many times over, I can assure you it -does- get easier. Eventually. Not the same as being a father, of course... but a babe's a babe." The unhelpful Dekelvai beams back in response to the bronze rider's own paternal pride, and then, after the man's swift reprimand to the girl, gives a small, gratified nod. Not much of a threat coming from a guest to the Weyr, but hopefully from the bronzer... He's sidetracked briefly by Torell's offering, and, accepting it with raised eyebrows, clasps the cording to his chest in cupped hands. "Why... Tor. I'll cherish it forever!" A cheery laugh. And there's a respectful bow of his head to the new dragonrider, an offering of his tanned hand: "Dekelvai, fisher. South Boll - my duties to your queen."

Samantia's nose wrinkles at the bridge, a sneer forming. "Oh, sure. You just tell old Fusty on silly me, eh?" Not that he'd get far without her name. Just the same, she shrugs. "Nah, s'just a redfruit core. Not worth you bothering all the way to Harper." As if she does him a favor, she struts off to collect the core, tossing it in her sack. Smugly, she turns and gives T'aren the up-down. "Better?" Her chin jerks to indicate where the core is no longer. V'ryce's coming gets a long look askance. It is possible that after last night's debaucle she can't afford to offend any more riders, so she relents and sighs, coming to sit down again, and looking thoroughly bored because of it.

"V'ryce," T'aren greets with a polite nod and smile for the man. "Well, her mother is at Telgar. And when Malaith rises, Juli will be stuck on the sands until the eggs hatch and not readily able to travel," The bronzerider explains to Torell, "So it makes more sense to foster her to the weyrfolk there than the weyrfolk here since I'll be able to travel even if the Captain ever sires a clutch." His eyes shift to the item passed towards Dekelvai, curiosity bringing his gaze to linger there so that he misses Samantia's show of strutting over, but doesn't miss her tossing the core back into her sack, "An improvement, Harper...?" He responds in the same serious tone, inquiring her name politely. Then back to Dekelvai he smiles, "Aye, I'm sure it does. Doesn't make it any less exciting! What -is- that?" He finally asks, nodding to the item he was handed.

V'ryce is just in time to catch T'aren's little warning to Samantia, the bronzer smoothly ignoring the 'hitch' to slide his hand into Dekelvai's proffered one, shaking it with easy grace. "Mm, she certainly isn't *my* queen, but if Ciath and Loketh are amenable to switching lifemates.." Obviously the man is jesting, his grin wide, green eyes twinkling. Samantia's churlishness doesn't phase the bronzer -- that smile flashed to her, still, as Val takes his own seat and gaze down on the eggs and sands. "Mm, Ciath's back to her old habit of burying them, I see. Obviously she has Soldreth as cowed to her matronly will as she did Wyaeth." Smirk. "So, how is everyone doing?" is murmured back over his shoulder, the tall man adding, "Mm, contratulations to you too, T'aren. Is Juliri doing well?" A lift of one platinum brow to the other bronzer. "The Captain?"

Torell has plaited three small, glass beads into a necklace of braided hemp. The beads are no bigger than the average pea and a slightly lighter shade of green; more closely resembling the salty sea water of an ocean. "I was bored last night and my fingers needed to be busy. I couldn't think of what to do with the beads I traded for in Ista so I braided up a few." Seeing that T'aren has some interest in his fibrous musings, he withdraws a clumping handfull of similar necklaces and bracelets from his satchel, each with a few beads bound in to the many patterns of knots and twists. Green beads, blue beads and even some red adorn the necklaces and braclets in various shades.

What Dekelvai had just taken to be a jumble of loose threading turns out, on closer inspection, to be a quite fetching twining of cording, and when he stretches the necklace and spins it between his fingers, he whistles in admiration. "Tor," he looks up to the scribe and says with feeling, "Thanks. Really." He offers it up for inspection to T'aren, then ties the lacing around his neck. Back on topic, now, with a waggling of his index finger: "Speaking of the Captain, T'aren, you still owe me an explanation on dragonsailing, and maybe a demonstration or two once your daughter's a bit older."

Samantia sighs with suffering. "At Harper we are taught that words are power. To tell someone one's name is to invite them to have power over you. Therefor, you can call me Bob. As we are also taught that assuming a guise is one's surest form of defense." As simply as that, the apprentice uses all those lessons on composition and observation for evil. The fruit of Torell's boredom is given a scoff of contempt, but no comment. It's hard for her, but somehow she manages with no more than a piggy snort. "Want to have a seed spitting contest?" She asks Deke, nodding to his redfruit as the subject changes once more. V'ryce's smile is returned with her own tight version, a look her face isn't accustomed to.

LOG: Meeting Th'deus

2008-06-26T06:03:38Z

WHO: Th'deus, Deanira
WHAT: Dea runs into Thad on the beach at Boll
WHEN: Summer evening
WHERE: Beach, Southern Bowl

Deanira gapes at Th'deus for a few moments, her lips slightly agape. "You were in /prison/?" She asks, clearly either in awe for meeting such a scoundrel as he must be, or simply not believing him. "What cowards to turn on you when all you had was a chair to defend yourself.." She hesitates and asks, strangely shy, "/Did/ you hurt her?"

Th'deus thinks about this. "It's about history, lass." Th'deus finally admits. "I've been in Boll's prison twice now. Once for killing a man, until they put me on trial. The second time, after I broke Lord Marryn's arm." Neither of these events will likely endear him to this woman, but the man continues. "Both times, the guards and I did not get along well. I sent quite a few of them to the infirmary." Another slight pause, before Th'deus adds, "Prison bars are fairly steadfast, and a man hitting them at a good rate of speed can cause them to fall down outside the cell. So the woman, she'd collapsed, and was screaming outside the cell... It was reasonable for them to assume I'd hurt her. I'd not touched her, but she had loved the man I had killed." Finally he murmurs, "The guards did what was right by them, I believe."

Deanira gives Th'deus a strange look. "I see." Licking her lips, she looks down at her hands. "Well, then, I see." Though she really doesn't. She clears her throat, "I will just.. leave you to.. your business, then.." She hesitates, and then turns slowly to look up and down the strand.

"'Twas an accident. I didn't mean to kill the man." Th'deus frowns slightly. "And the only ones I kill now are pirates." Call that, vendetta. "Haven't been thrown in prison in a good couple turns. I'll not be hurting you, lass." An exhalation to this, while Th'deus turns his own attention back to the sea.

Deanira peers owlishly up at him. "That's good, cuz hurting a Weaver apprentice probably wouldn't gain the favor of the guards here." She attempts the joke carefully, shifting her burden awkwardly. "A.. are you hungry? I have food to share. I had meant to eat dinner out here, but.. the cooks packed too much. They're nice ladies, our bakers."

The smile is slight, almost hidden under Th'deus' moustache, but he'll shake his head. "Nay, lass. But eat, if you want. I've no appetite at the moment. Needing to deal with this woman." He shrugs again, without the glance through the silent bronze, toward the distant cave. "Mayhap we should be leaving you alone. She might be somewhere else."

Deanira shrugs, "If you'd prefer, that's alright." She agrees, thoughtfully. Having just decided that perhaps he isn't so scary, it catches her off gaurd that he is already leaving.

Th'deus doesn't seem in any hurry to leave, but the offer was out there on the proverbial table. "Why weaver?" Th'deus finally asks. "What drew you, to that Craft?" The question may have been plucked out of thin air. And finally the bronze dragon moves, his hawkish muzzle turning toward Deanira, his gaze in intent study of the woman.

Deanira hesitates and then offers up a slight smile, "Oh, I'm always designing something.. been sewing bits of scrap up to dress my dolls since I was little. Well, you know.. back when I played with dolls." She blushes and stands up a little straighter, her eyes scanning the horizon. "I grew up and all that. So my Daddy, he negotiated an apprenticeship for me."

"And that suits you?" Th'deus asks, his attention tilting back over to Deanira again, lightly. Full aware of his reputation and physical presence, the man is careful to remain at his distance, and fairly quiet. "This is something you could do for the rest of your life?"

Deanira gives Thad a funny look. "I guess so. I like it, at least. What else could there be? I mean, besides a pretty marriage and a bunch of babies." She snorts at that.

"Nothing wrong with that, lass." Th'deus intones. "If you're inclined to the fellow, and if you like children." He reaches then, with bare palm, to slide his skin against bronze hide. The dragon, evidently done in his inspection of Deanira, turns back to eye the ocean. "But if you're liking your work, that's a path to travel, as well."

Deanira continues to stare at him, and then shrugs, "Didn't say there was a fellow. Just saying, that's all that waits for me at Breakwater." She finger-combs her hair lightly. "You speak like I have a choice."

"You have a choice, if you want one. I don't see chains on you, lass." Th'deus half-smiles again. "When you're locked in a cage, you have a choice - you can cooperate, or you can send the guards to the infirmary. When you seek love, you've a choice - you can be with them, or not, hurt or build. When you step into your professional role, you've a choice. You can do it well or not. There is always a choice, and always consequences of that choice." Seems that whatever is behind the eyepatch itches, at that particular moment.

Deanira just shakes her head. "That's no choice at all." She tells him. "There is no option, you do what you are told to do. That's what women do." She shrugs and sighs, setting her basket down and spreading out her towel to sit down on it.

Th'deus has to smirk at that. "Nay. Not the women in my family. And not the women that I've taken for --" But he realizes her age and cuts himself off there. "Now then," Th'deus dissembles. "Good luck in what you do, Weaver. I think that this won't find for me my quarry." And he'll turn, n a single powerful movement, hauls himself onto the bronze who, suddenly animated, turns into the image of lethal grace, shifting and unfurling his wings for the imminent leap up.

Deanira glances at Th'deus, and filling in well the silence he leaves with his statement, blushing for it. "Thank you, Bronzerider. I hope you find your lady."

"She is /not/ my lady. Belongs," he remarks dryly, "To my nephew. If I never see her again, it'll be soon enough." Baritone gone sour on those words, "But my thanks. Fair skies." With that, the bronze is up and into the air.

LOG: Assaulting N'thei

2008-06-20T16:33:33Z

WHO: Samantia, N'thei
WHAT: Tia punches first, asks questions (much) later.
WHEN: 20:02 on day 21, month 10, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a autumn evening.
WHERE: Main Hall, Harper Hall

The long line of the blue-and-white rug, the long shadow of a tall man to lay across it, blurred and faded and replicated by multiple light-sources-- glowbaskets to light a room in early evening. The hall is otherwise empty, though it seems to have been recently vacated: steps sound from upstairs, and the man just turns from looking up the staircase with a leisurely pace that leads idly toward the courtyard doors. No knot to him, no indication of rank or status save that, over his arm, he carries a battered riding jacket. Either a rider or a good imposter.

Samantia isn't vacating anywhere, it seems. As usual, she's up to no good. Sneaking back down the stairwell after the last steps have faded, she creeps between glowlight, eyes sweeping for signs of habitation. N'thei's retreating back is greeted with delight and she creeps after him.

A step muffled by carpet. Another. Another. An echo? N'thei stops with his head cocked, with his shoulders momentarily tensed while he listens to the sound of footfall behind him. Another step to test the matter, then another, and all indications are that he's decided it's a fancy, that there's no one there. The long length of the corridor is measured like that, then; "Not wise, neh? Creeping up on people."

Samantia swears, and not a silly little word a good girl makes, it's something you'd hear from a filthy-mouthed sailor. "Who said I was wise? What are you doing in the Hall after hours? Come to steal Hall secrets?" A sneer, and the girl glances for something to weild as a weapon. Oh well, feet work. She stalks towards him. "Well, trespasser? State your business."

N'thei turns then, since there's no sense pretending she doesn't know that he knows that she's there. A show is made of looking down at the girl, measuring her up, finding her threat minimal, and a smile spreads in gradual response. "Brave little girl, aren't you. Needn't get yourself so spit-fired, there are no hall secrets shoved in my pockets." There's a shoo-fly quality to his address, hardly giving her gravity.

Samantia gives N'thei a flat, unfriendly stare, and then without warning, her fist stabs forward, aimed for the soft spot just under his rib cage. It's an awkward angle, requiring her to shoot her arm up vertically, but determination goes a long way between height differences. Yep, that's what he gets for talking down to her.

Surprise makes N'thei an easy target, and Samantia's fist hits home. An oof, a brief curl inward around the offended midsection, then he promptly coils his fingers around her fist and dislodges it from his gut. "Get ahold of yourself, girl," he grinds out, looping his arm across her shoulders with the fist still in his hand. It's an effective deterrent to further assault, and he really looks more startled than angry or hurt.

Samantia isn't one to be easilly detoured, and so she struggles like the little hellion that she is to duck away from the offending rider. "I just thought you oughta have a taste of who you're dealing with, ya creepy little theif." She proclaims.

"I will cart you over my shoulder like a sack of flour if I have to." N'thei says it like a warning, but there's humor rising in the back of his voice, humor that can't be entirely hidden. "And your dignity will be the one that suffers for it. Now march up those steps, girl, and find the apprentice master, and tell him you just assaulted N'thei in the hallway." He holds her still, waiting for some kind of consent before he unleashes any further fists-of-fury.

Samantia snorts, "You can try. I'll knock your teeth out." She threatens. Her head cocks at the name, and her quick mind turns over the teaching song of the Weyrs and their leaders. Then she chortles as if this is some great joke. "Right, N'thei." She steps away when he releases her, bowing mockingly and in disbelief. "N'thei of High Reaches would have floored me, you goober. You should at least do some research before you go around claiming to be some Weyrleader." She continues to laugh, leaning against a nearby table. "I suppose you can just call me Satiet then!"

N'thei cuts her loose, with the forethought to step out of her arm's reach; his palm outstretched, a staying gesture toward Samantia, he fetches into the pocket of the riding jacket that's been thrown across one arm the whole time. Yes, he does have the knot to back it up, now held on his palm in all its blue, black, and bronze-threaded glory. "Now go up there and tell the apprentice master that you just assaulted N'thei in the hallway." Anyone could come by a knot, it's true, but to acquire a tone like that, one that does not suffer fools or second guesses? That would be an impressive ruse.

Samantia just gives N'thei this look like he's crazy. "Oh, yes, right, sure." She agrees, completely sarcastic. The knot is eyed. "Told you you were a theif." She says smugly. "Anyone with half-clever fingers can twist a knot." Elusively, she steps away, taunting him now. "I'll just go tell the apprentice master that I assualted an imposter in our Hall, sneaking off with our secrets. Why /are/ you here, anyways? It's a little late for visits." Apparently she has accepted his identity, even if she is still giving him a hard time.

"Not your business." Knot back in the pocket from whence it came and jacket dragged over his shoulders, N'thei cocks a dismissive smile at Samantia. "Best hope I don't tell him before you do, neh?" Though that doesn't seem likely, as he turns on his heel to march out of the hall toward the courtyard, there with a waiting rustle of bronze wings to back up the plausibility of his rank-and-title.

Samantia smirks, "Everything's my business, trespasser." She drawls, waiting and watching his back while he leaves until she is sure he is gone before heading up the stairs. If she stops in with the apprentice master, it's an unlikely miracle.

LOG: But It's Only My First Day!

2008-06-20T16:22:13Z

WHO: Taini, Deanira, Thera, T'jano
WHAT: Dea comes to Fort for a Weaver project, and ends up getting sucked in by the Barlords.
WHEN: Evening
WHERE: Eastern Bowl, Fort Weyr

The evening is warm, and Taini is outside with her dragon, deciding to use a less-frequented portion of the bowl to completely oil her queen. The reason being that she's stretched out, focused on the setting sun. The rider wears shorts and a cut-off shirt, her hair up in a bun. She whistles happily while she works, stopping to muse aloud, "They fit perfectly, Bee. How did he know?" She wonders aloud as she dips her oiling rag into the small bucket nearby. She then returns to whistling, a tune that is connected with their family. A trader's tune.

Deanira is back again, like some well-bred nightmare rearing it's pretty, diabolical head. Wandering down the bowl with her notebook she glances one way and then the other before settling her eyes on the gold and her familliar rider. She ambles that way, laying on her best polite veneer.

"Hmm?" Taini says, turning at her gold's prompting. "Dea." She says, amazingly remembering the woman's name. "How are you doing?" She smiles, and turns just a little so as to continue her work while being polite and facing the girl enough to talk. "What brings you back to the Weyr?"

Deanira nods her head, "Taini, it was, right?" She even pronounces it correctly. She lifts one arm, showing off the notebook tucked beneath her arm. "Homework, of a sort. We're supposed to be observing the styles of the area."

Taini nods. "Yes. You got it right." She chuckles. "The styles? So you were accepted? Congratulations." She frowns. "Well, what have you seen, so far?"

Thera slips in from a narrow stairwell.

Taini is oiling her queen dragon, and Deanira stands nearby with a notebook. The two are talking.

Deanira wrinkles her nose, "I've seen a lot of folks in riding leathers and stained aprons." She says ascerbically. Her eyes twist to the queen dragon and her lip twitches downwards for just a moment.

Hadamarth rumbles rather loudly as he pulls himself up from his snooze and arrows his nose towards the tunnel, an indicator that his approaches. He figures it's kind on occasion even if his disagrees. Thera pops out of the entrance with a grin straight at your brown. "Found them, a third set of straps. Are you happy now?" It's only after this exchange does she notice Taini, Bee and the stranger. "Hi there." This is really indicated towards Taini but can be all encompassing should the need warrant.

Taini laughs at this, today. "This is what you'd call weyr utilitarian, I think." She says, turning around to reach just a little higher to hit that one spot that she can't reach without standing that way, and then she turns around. "Hello, Thera. More straps? I think you go through them faster than Smyth who used to like to chew them." She chuckles. "This is Dea. She's just been accepted to Weaver." Then the reciprocal introduction. "Dea, this is Thera, rider to brown Hadamarth." Said dragon is gestured toward. "So polite, Hadamarth." She says, with a small smile.

Thera flashes a grin at Taini and a smile at Deanira, "Hello. Well met. Do you make dresses?" She's been wearing Weyrling gear so long that she thinks she has forgotten what a dress even feels like on her. To Taini she just shakes her head, "he won't let me fly standing anymore unless I've got three sets of straps. I think Ezzith has been encouraging him cause I'nigo is certainly at his wit's end." Thera is a great flyer, just can't manage to stay on her dragon when he lands and ends up dangling face down the side of the Brown more often then not.

"I'nigo is a worrier." Taini knows this well. She snorts softly. "Well, whatever works, I guess." She says, grinning. Birgith rumbles a soft greeting to the brown, and shifts to expose the unoiled side of her hide to the sky so that her rider can oil it. "Listen. About the other night," she begins. "I was mad. I wasn't thinking straight, nor was I being..." She considers her words, and shrugs. "I shouldn't've said all that stuff. I understand what's going on, I just..." She pauses again, moving to get to some spots, and continues. "I was mad. Forget I said any of it." Dea gets a grin. "I sometimes say stuff I shouldn't. So, I end up apologizing a lot."

Thera raises one eyebrow at Taini and then nods, "It's okay. I can understand Taini. Really I can." That last sentence may have come out a lot droller and with much more asperity then one would have thought possible, but Thera and romantic stress - soul mates in spades! With now practiced ease, she aims and tosses the extra set of straps up over Hadamarth and then grabs ahold of the other set and starts to scale her dragon.

Deanira finishes scribbling about 'weyr utilitarian' and zones back in on Taini and Thera, an eyebrow raised. "Oh, hello." She greets Thera, as if just noticing the brownrider's arrival, even if she has been here for more minutes than just suddenly.

Taini watches her scribble, realizing her extra comments were probably not heard, or politely ignored, and she chuckles at Thera. "Yeah, that's true..." She shrugs, and turns back to Deanira. "Where else do you have to look? Just here? Or different places? It sounds like an interesting assignment."

"Assignment, what assignment" asks Thera from half way up her dragon. "Hadamarth would you hold out your... thank you," and his tail is extended just a little bit so that she can lightly wedge her toe into the muscle and pull herself up the rest of the way. For all the firestone she's been packing lately, Thera still has lousy upper body strength. "Looking for what?"

Deanira sighs, "Here today. Somewhere else tomorrow, I imagine. It's some kick the design Master is on." She shakes her head ruefully. "At least it's good sketching practice." To Thera, she replies patiently, "My assignment for the day was to come to the Weyr and look at the local fashions. Or lacktherof." She adds under her breath.

Taini nods. "That makes sense. That way you get to travel some, and you get to see how different places dress. Have they talked about..." She laughs, and Birgith chuffs her amusement at something, "Sorry. It's just interesting. I noticed that a lot of it was based on what folks did, and how hot it got. But that's probably something you learn on your first day." A soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "Thera!" She says, remembering something. "Speaking of new clothes, my Da came by and brought me some new leathers, and Thadd was there, and..." It was really cool. "Surprised him." She grins.

Thera smiles at the woman, "I'm a weyrling. They make me wear this stuff." And really she held out as long as she could. Her one and only dress is now an oil rag, looking suspciously like what Taini might be using. Looking a little forlorn, "I'd love to wear a dress. But you should check out Teej. Faranth he goes through clothes." Glancing at Taini she rolls her eyes just a little bit, "T'jano actually went to Telgar in his good clothes with the Master Dragonhealer. They were uttlerly ruined when he got back, and I think they were new too." Catching your brain up a step, "Your Da?" and looks a little relieved that she didn't meet him. Thera and Barlord parents do not get along. A thread of worry will lace her words, "Did Teej see him too?" Cause that would just be unfair if he didn't and Thera is not breaking the news.

catching your brain = catching /her/ brain (the player's brain is obviously malfunctioning this evening).

Deanira lifts her eyebrows at Taini, "Of course. Would be silly to wear tank tops and shorts in the snow, and likewise, no sense wearing fleece in the tropics." She taps her charcoal against her upper lip, and then turns her face away and sneezes from the dust floating off of it. Recovering, she eyes Thera. "Teej. As in T'jano?" She wonders aloud, and then gives an impolite HRPH! "He lectured me on my cuticles, out at Ista Hold, just the other night."

Taini frowns. "What's he doing at Ista Hold?" She shrugs. Not. Her. Problem. Thera's comments get a laugh. "He wore his best..." Oh, dear. She'll shake her head then. "Well, no, he didn't, but... I'm not sure it's bad news, because he'll probably come back soon. He's having leathers made for Teej too." She grins. "Yeah, T'jano. My youngest brother, who is older than me." After a mental nudge, Taini turns back toward Bee, and grins, goodnaturedly tapping on her hide. "Hello in there? Hello? She starts to oil her gravid belly, and rubs where the eggs are. "Okay. Well, that's about as much as I know about design." Traders. Apprentices in everything, masters in nothing but turning the mark.

Thera will settle on top of Hadamarth, swinging her legs and glance down. "T'jano, yes. My weyrmate. Are you one of the new weyrpets? He has a habit of collecting them, which is frightfully silly since we have the smallest weyr in Fort. By the time Ferocious is full grown in a month I don't think we'll all fit." She thumps the brown's hide affectionately when Hadamarth rumbles at the nickname before nodding at Taini, "Good, that's nice. I hope they're decorative."

Birgith is stretched out on the bowl's floor, getting a good oiling while watching the sunset. Taini is oiling her, and talking to Deanira who has a notebook, and Thera who sits atop her brown dragon.

Deanira shrugs, "Dunno what he was doing there, he was just there." Hauty, almost insulted that he'd have dared to address her, especially if he treats his clothing so badly. Thera is given the Eye. "Weyrpet? Hardly. I'm a Weaver apprentice. I met him by chance on one of my trips for the Hall. It seems he is well-known."

Taini laughs heartily, nearly doubling over, only not doing so by virtue of the fact that she's stretched out against a huge belly full of baby dragon eggs. "Weyrpet. I might actually be responsible for a small portion of that notion, Thera." You can tell she talked to her father today "He asked what I thought he should get you, and I said something pretty that reminded him of you..." She shakes her head, still chuckling. "Yeah, we're all pretty well known, but Teej is..." She considers her words. "Remarkable. You remember him." She shrugs. "Hadamarth will be full-grown in another month? That's good. He's so huge."

Thera nods her agreement, "He is and he isn't actually. I prefer the isn't though since he impressed Mrrth, it's not so bad and we don't have to worry about it all that much." Taini gets a pointed look on that score before she blinks, "He's doing what?" and she looks a little stunned at the notion, "he doesn't need to get me anything." He's enough. She will give Deanira a rather considered once over and then offers in defence of her weyrmate rather soberly and softly, "If you get to know him you'll understand why."

Deanira sniffs, tipping her chin up loftily. "And why would I need to? He didn't like my cuticles." Travesty, that. She tucks her pen into her page and shuts her notebook sagely. "Well, anyways. I don't normally consort with riders anyways. It isn't the way things are done."

Taini shrugs. "I think it's a natural thing. He thinks about you, wants you to know...." She smiles a little wryly, not expecting to be in this role. Maybe she /is/ turning into her mother. "Anyway. I think it was supposed to be a surprise. Which sets her to thinking about surprises and 'mates, and such. Dea's words make her laugh again. "I've heard that before." She says, grinning at the Weaver. "No offense, Apprentice, but..." She shrugs. "You never know what might happen." Personal experience here. "Anyway. Have you gotten to check out other places? You mentioned Ista Hold." Unsure what else to talk about, she returns to the assignment.

Thera snorts at the girl, "Excuse me? Half your Crafthall's revenue comes from riders." She'll draw herself up, even if it's sitting sideways on a brown dragon and blink rather severely at the girl. Her tone will take on one that used to know authority and weld it well, "And as an apprentice I would expect that you would know that, especially when you are standing in front of one of the weyrwoman of Fort Weyr." Her head will nod to Taini. A light smile will form on her face and her eyebrows will raise, "though of course you only really have to worry if the Hold that your crafthall looks to got wind of it." The smile turns into a rather imperious smirk that settle across her face, "and I doubt that will happen at all. But if you don't require our pathetic little services, that's no skin off my nose."

Deanira arches an eyebrow at Thera, "Don't get your undergarments in a ruffle, /Weyrling/. It's only my first day." This is said to Taini with a shrug. "Just the places we stopped on the way, and Ista Hold last night, and Boll, of course." Thera is given a sidelong glance, as best as one can when someone is atop a very large brown dragon. "And the source of our revenue has very little to how often an apprentice ought to be speaking with dragonriders. Not because of commissions, simply because of my station. But you'd realize that, if you weren't so busy bridling because I mentioned your weyrmate."

Taini blinks at Thera's outburst, and turns toward her dragon, oiling her for a few silent moments before she speaks. "It's okay, Thera. I'm not offended. And..." She shrugs. "It's probably nothing to bother those at the Hold about. I don't need to stir /more/ trouble up." A small sad smile accompanies her words. "But, even if you don't want to have anything to do with riders personally, I would perhaps use a little more respect in your tone to us. Just makes things easier."

Peels of laughter now eminate from atop Hadamarth and Thera glances down at the girl, "Oh my dear. I don't bridle about my weyrmate. I have no claim to him, but I think I'll tell Teej that maybe I do want you as a weyrpet, bad cuticles or not. You're rather amusing." Grinning, she winks at the girl for a moment longer before glancing at Taini with a small sigh and a shake of her head.

Deanira for a moment tries to decide if she's being insulted by Thera or not. Then she allows herself to relax and give the brownrider a small, awkward smile. "I'm not sure I like the title of weyrpet. And my cuticles wouldn't be so bad if I didn't keep embroidering over them." At this, she glances at her nails in disparagement. Taini is given a shrug, "I'm from a small Hold. We don't get many riders. I wasn't aware I was supposed to speak any differently to you than anyone else."

Taini finishes oiling the huge belly, moves on to Birgith's forelegs, chuckling for a moment at a private joke. Then, she turns to Dea, and tilts her head. "Well, I don't mind, but a lot of weyrfolk think that riders are entitled to a certain amount of respect. " Thera's laughter gets a quirk of the eyebrow, and a mild smile. "Is he rubbing off on you, Thera?" She wonders aloud. It's good to hear her laughing.

"You don't have to speak any differently no. Politeness doesn't hurt though." Thera offers that with genuine affection, "I was raised in a hold myself until a turn and a bit ago, and we didn't 'consort' with riders much either. But Ferocious as feelings too." And in fact, Hadamarth will RUMBLE loudly and gently at the girl. Thera smiles again, "but if you want a commission, I'll give you one. If you're allowed to take them." Another glance at Taini and she shrugs, "Teej thinks Mrrth is proddy again or soon. I'm not going to go through what I did last time."

Deanira wrinkles her nose, looking at Taini, slipping to a safer subject. "When will your queen clutch, do you know? She looks like she is very large." Eyebrows knit. "I've never seen a queen with eggs." She turns her blue eyes on Thera. "Ferocious?" She ventures, and chuckles. "He doesn't look ferocious to me." She offers pleasantly. "Just large. Very large... " She is standing near Taini who is oiling Birgith. Thera is there as well, atop hadamarth.

Out of the Main Living Cavern strolls a lanky lean fellow, the crunch sound that accompanies him being from another bite of the rigid flesh of a redfruit being torn through by T'jano's rather disgustingly straight and white perfect teeth. Upon his exit from the Main Living Cavern, he looks up as if by instinct to a nearby ledge. There, sure enough, crouches a harness-less green dragon, tail hanging from the ledge to give it the freedom to twitch. Her narrow muzzle, angles and shadows, tilts toward her T'jano and the aqua eyes brighten. Noted next is Hadamarth, Birgith and their riders. And then, "'Lo, it's Fine! How /are/ you and your cuticles? I've lost sleep," T'jano assures Deanira, "Worrying about them. Really." His fingers are yet stained slightly red, and T'jano takes another bite of redfruit, around which, he winks up at Thera, "Hello, lover." Warm tones to her, before T'jano chew chew chew swallows and calls over, "Taini, someone said there was a tall loud skinny old Barlord around. And I have yet to see my older son. Seen either?"

Thera is sitting sideways on Hadamarth attaching a third set of straps. Smiling rather widely down at T'jano and calls down rather gushily, "hello my love." And Taini can ick all she wants to. A brief flash of confusion crosses her face and one eyebrow raises, "Who is 'Lo it's fine?" and she'll look between Taini and Deanira in question. "He's not, which is why I call him so." The resounding rumble will indicate that it's not all that appreciated but Hadamarth is anything if not tolerant.

Deanira lets out a soft sigh of tolerance. "I fear if you want my cuticles to be nice, you'll have to do it yourself." She tells T'jano. The brown is chuckled at, "I see. Well, I suppose that's... well, it makes a little bit of sense, at least." Though her face displays that she doesn't think it does at all. Running her fingers through her thick blond hair, she glances between the two of them and blushes faintly, averting her eyes from her perceived interruption of some intimate moment.

T'jano indicates Deanira, "She's Fine, don't you agree?" A quirked brow back up at Thera, before T'jano asks, "And what are you doing? You're going to overload that dragon with so much leather he's going to fall out of the sky. Hadamarth!" T'jano addresses the brown next, "Why do you endure such brutality? Such cruelty? Ah, lad, you need to learn where to draw the line. One set of solid straps -- that should be enough. And you," he shakes his finger at the huge brown, "Take a long look at that green up there and just... Consider her. The angles, the shadows, the elegance of her make-up and build. The grace while airborne. And should she go into the sky anytime soon, do consider chasing, yes?" And the lean man's attention turns back to Deanira as he reaches to slide his dueling knife out of it's sheath, "Here," T'jano offers, sending an open hand her way, palm up, "Let's have a look at them." The other hand, of course, has that long knife in it.

"Teej!" and Thera will grab the second set of straps and slide down, though Hadamarth helps by curling his tail around to get her and guide her feet to the ground. Shaking her head, "He wants them and won't let me ride standing up without them. Something about landings." She will adroitly shift the topic away from her sucky skills in that area. Hadamarth will Rumble back at T'jano's finger wagging before settling down. "Commission?" Thera nudges the girl kindly away from the public display of affection though she will roll her eyes at the knife, "she's a weaver Teej, needs her fingers I would think."

Deanira, for some uncertain reason, decides to humor T'jano and trust him. "Please don't cut off my fingers." She begs. "I need them to learn my craft." She looks at Thera instead of that knife. "I doubt you'd want to commission anything from me, and I don't think you could anyways. I really did just start yesterday with my classes. I know a little, but I'm not proficient at more than patching. Why would you need to ride standing up?"

"Never /ever/ have to worry about them again. And besides," T'jano paused when Thera hit ground, and he'll look back at her, continuing the conversation about Deanira, "She has her teeth. That's all a weaver /really/ needs. They look good, Fine's teeth. And you," T'jano flips the knife up and catches it by the handle, so it's the blunt side that he is shaking at Hadamarth. "You're not looking, lad. I'm about to become Very Disappointed In You. Look at the green. See? She's lovely." T'jano looks and is, indeed, once more mezmerized for a moment before he calls himself back to the present with a tilt of green gaze to Deanira and the knife is again flipped, caught so that it is brandished at Deanira's fingers as if they might lay upon a plate and need to be diced, "There now. Won't hurt a bit."

Hadamarth will turn his head and look up at the green since T'jano wants it so bad. Eyes whirl softly before he turns back again. The draconic equivalent of she is lovely and you should be proud is rumbled back at the greenrider. Thera will actually giggle at something and then step forward and watch what T'jano is doing. "I don't need to ride standing up, but I like to do it. Hadamarth doesn't like me to do it so much and we compromise. Straps for feet." She'll grin at the girl and shake her head just briefly before looking at T'jano, "I'm sure teeth are important but she just said she's just learning. Maybe she'll have to cure a bit at Weaver Hall hmm?"

Deanira squeakes, pulling her hand away from T'jano and tucking it behind her back with the other one. She looks up at him, her lips slightly parted, "I /need/ those. They have uses." Pout. The errant greenrider is sniffed at disdainfully. "It's Deanira, you know. My name isn't Fine." "Ah, I see. Well, if it makes you happy, but..aren't you afraid you'll get hurt?"

"But /think/ of the dye hues, Thera," T'jano grins over at her, then winks at Deanira and steps back, again flipping the knife to catch it by the handle once more. Dexterity imbues his movements and the greenrider sheaths the knife into the leather strapped to his belt, before he dips into a bow in front of the Apprentice. "Fancy meeting you here, Fine. I suspect that I'll have to be leaving your cuticles alone, or she's just not going to let me hear the end of it." Thera is indicated with a thumb over his shoulder, before T'jano straightens and rolls his head slightly to let one of the bones snap audibly. "Deanira? What an odd name. I," he nods to the Weaver, "Would stick with 'Fine'. Easier to pronounce." But he will address his attention to Thera at the Apprentice's question. It's a valid one, but most questions about safety would never ever occur to T'jano.

"Hence the three sets of straps!" is offered back rather mildly though Thera will make a face at 'Mr. goes between without straps' and raises an eyebrow. "It makes me feel good and its fun. I just have issues landing." A frown flashes in her eyes, hasn't she said this before? Nodding back to the weaver and her tucked away hands, "Smart girl and Deanira is a lovely name and I like it just Fine. You might want to ask T'jano about your assignment though. He is the fancy dresser of the Weyr."

Deanira gives T'jano an odd look and throws her hands up in the air in surrender, "You may call me Fine if you can't say my name. It's not that hard! Dee-uh-near-uh." A stiff shrug. For Thera, she suggests, "Have you simply considered returning to a seated position before attempting to land? Or is standing up as you land a critical part?" Her eyebrows draw together over the bridge of her nose. Her notebook had been forgotten until now, but she brightens when Thera reminds her of T'jano's terrible clothing habits. "Ah, that is right. The clothing destroyer."

"Too long. Impress a dragon," T'jano advises Deanira, "So you can shorten it. To 'Dea' or 'D' or 'Ra' or 'Nira' or 'Ni' or -- Lots of things. Definately too long. 'Fine' would work, too. I've not heard of a dragonrider named 'Fine'. They usually have silly names with hyphens, you know: Th'deus. B'real. T'jano. Bad bad. Alright. So, questions?" Thera gets the smile and Deanira, the interested look. "Clothing destroyer? Not I. You're speaking of my brother. Did you want to speak to him? He's in rare form these days. Quite an experience to endure."

Thera just shakes her head, "yes I have and I do, but thank you for the advice." She will even smile and then nods at T'jano, "Fine is working on a project of some sort about fashion at the Weyr. Taini doesn't really qualify and I certainly don't. You do." She shakes her head at the weaver, "No don't speak to the Weyrleader unless the Weyrwoman dresses him first. That will earn us a bad mark in her report." Th'deus does not dress well by himself.

Deanira arches an eyebrow, "I doubt the likes of me will ever Impress a dragon." She says warily. "You can call me Dea without me Impressing, however. There is no rule that says you can't call me by a shorter version of my name. Truthfully, you can call me whatever you wish. Within reason." This last is tacked on in case he has other notions. "No, no, if he is at all like you, I fear what 'rare form' could entail. I think I shall be content to only make the aquaintance of you, sir. You are quite enough." She presses her lips together. "Well, truly, it's not questions so much as observation." She looks T'jano's current outfit up and down appraisingly.

"Th'deus is a fury of late. Bad, bad mood." T'jano shakes his head slightly a modicum of what might be sincere sorrow in that. He'll grin at Thera and agree with her, "But if Nomi dresses him, he does look pretty sharp. By himself, yes... I agree. Very shabby. What sort of project is this? Observing?" T'jano strikes a pose, then another. "This here, is my 'still a weyrling' clothes. I think though that I'm about done with them, though I don't think they'll ever graduate me. Maybe when my hair's grey and Mrrth's quit rising, they might consider giving me a rider's knot."

Thera bites her lip against a giggle at T'jano's posing. "That is not weyrling gear. This is weyrling gear," and she'll hold out her arms in the waddle like a duck outfit. "This is why I need a weaver!" Twitching her nose she just nods for a moment, "He is in an awful mood lately. You can avoid him, I have mentor appointments, but he's not too too bad." She'll smile again at the weaver, "Why wouldn't you want to impress a dragon. Then you could design nicer weyrling outfits?"

"OK. This is /bad/ Weyrling gear. Those of us who did the wrong thing and have never lived it down, Weyrling Gear. It is a fashion onto itself. The basically-no-one-is-going-to-call-us-on-it, fashion." T'jano relaxes again, looking up at Hadamarth, waggling his brows at the brown dragon, and directing another pointed look at Mrrth. "Wow," T'jano mutters as an aside to Thera's dragon. "What a hunka dragon up there, eh, lad?" Back to Deanira, T'jano offers, "Birgith is going to have a clutch. Hang around and once she's clutched and see if any of the dragons sniff you out." (OOC: NPC clutch)

Deanira frowns, "Why is he so angry?" She inquires curiously. She rolls her eyes at T'jano's posing. "I had more in mind perhaps viewing what garments you posessed?" Thera is taken in critically. "I could perhaps suggest a design? Someone else would have to make it, of course, but I do have a good eye for design." Her lips twitch, "I didn't say I didn't necessarily want to. Just that I don't see it happening. I am just .. me. I don't see any dragon being interested in me. Shards, most boys aren't even interested in me, and they're much easier to attract than Search dragons."

Thera blinks at the girl rather blandly and shrugs her shoulders to her ears, "I don't know actually." See huge lie here and it's not on her face. Completely blank, how is that for practice and no one around to see it except for the brown hissing in the background. Flicking her shoulders back down she moves on to questions she can answer. "Boys were easier to attract than search dragons? Well you do have blond hair." This must be the answer. Hadamarth dutifully looks back up at Mrrth and rumbles nicely back at T'jano.

T'jano nods again to Hadamarth, but he does sidle over to Thera and leans down to her somewhat. "You need to have a talk with your boy there, girlio. Mrrth." And to Deanira, T'jano reassembles his expression of angelic innocence. "Th'deus? He's a bronzerider. They have issues. All of them. I think goldriders do too. And if they don't Impress with issues, they make them up. It's an unwritten rule, somewhere. But a design is excellent and I can tell you what not to do to attract SearchDragons. They are not, in fact, favorably impressed if you roll in dead wherry." This piece of advice is given sans charge. "We need sexier Weyrling outfits. Can you design that?"

Deanira looks at Thera for long moments. "What does being blond have to do with boys?" She asks stupidly, touching her fingers to the crown of her head absently and trailing them through her locks. T'jano is shot a look of disgust, "As if I would ever roll in dead wherry." She says, horrified. She swallows, setting this aside almost physically. "Of course I could design them. Getting them to let you wear them, however, is another matter entirely."

Thera will sigh at T'jano her own expression more inclined towards frustrated then angelic, "He likes her. He says she is nice. What else am I suppose to do and trust me Teej he knows what I want!" She'll just shrug at Deanira, "I am not the one to ask, but boys like blond hair, or so I've been told." She shoots T'jano her own version of Deanira's look, "You didn't really?"

"Anything, Thera. I'd have done anything." T'jano glances up at Mrrth again, with a quirky expression and a touch of something far more somber shadowing his features for a moment. "Sometimes I wonder if I traded Anzan for her, but Vyune wouldn't even let me near, besides to tell me she didn't want to see me, wanted me to leave. Her lizards chased Yo off." Then he's back, that -- that little interlude of sadness -- twitched out with a shake of his hair as T'jano looks back at Deanira. "Me, I like black hair. Red's kind of cute, too. I think it depends on the fellow, really. Not all boys like blond."

Deanira just stays out of the affairs of dragons.. literally, and figuratively. "Is /that/ why you tried to cut my fingers off? Because you don't like blonds?" She asks suspiciously, but she's clearly teasing. Arms fold across her chest and she shifts her weight to one foot, hip cocking to the side. She shrugs lightly to Thera and shakes her head. "Is he always so odd?"

Thera just nods at that, "Since the very first day I met him." She'll glance over at T'jano with that decidedly gooey face that drives Taini nuts and just grins. "Annoying isn't it. Wants to make you hit him." Taking a step closer to the greenrider she runs her hand along his arm in an attempt to comfort, "I know Teej." Clearing her throat she smiles back at the Weaver, "Who is your Master?"

"The dragon." T'jano deliberately answers Thera's question to Deanira, then slides his arm around her waist and tugs her into his side lightly. "Fine, Fine, I did not try to cut your fingers off. I /offered/ to cut your fingers off. There is a distinct difference that I could showcase, if you like. I am always happy to oblige. That's us. Obliging Fort Riders, yes."

Deanira averts her eyes politely as T'jano draws Thera near. "Er, which one? The MasterWeaver, or the Apprentice Master, or my mentor..?" There's a lot of possibilies here. She chews her lower lip, and gives T'jano another of those funny looks that are growing so common on her face in his presence. "Wait, the dragon is my master?" Now she's really confused. "Oh yes, so obliging. If it's all the same, I don't need a demonstration of how to cut my fingers off. I think I can imagine."

Thera says, "The dragon," Thera nods back at T'jano as she reaffirms and then sighs softly. She wouldn't have it any other way. Sliding her own arm around him as well, she smiles at Deanira apologetically. "Whichever? I need a weaver. Could you recommend one?""

"Mine. She's my master, I wonder sometimes. Sometimes it's the other way around. Master of our fates, the two of us. Destiny." And he'll grin a slightly lopsided grin that is tilted up toward the watching, still-amused green. "And so. I shall not cut your cuticles for you, Fine, but don't you be going and complaining about the hospitality of Fort Weyr or its riders, you hear me?" To Thera, "What are you planning on weaving with the Weaver?"

Noteth returns from the note editor and deposits Taini.

Deanira shakes her head, "Uh, no, I will certainly not say that." She agrees, and goes back to hugging her notebook to her chest. Thera is given an appologetic look, "I really don't know anybody there yet. Perhaps you should contact the MasterWeaver, though. She'd know who best to commission.."

Taini peeks her head from the other side of the huge gold dragon being oiled, and contributes to the conversation. "I sent a note to Journeyman Wull. He's the brother of one of Ista's former Weyrwomen. Apparently, he's very good." She says, glancing around, noting her brother, and grinning at him. "Hey, there, Teej." She's been listening, yes, but not contributing, as she was having a conversation with Birgith. Yeah, that's it.

Thera will smile and glance up at Mrrth on the ledge and Hadamarth will mirror her movements. A tight squeeze is the only response to that before she'll look back at Deanira, "Oh, no that's fine. I'll go visit Boll myself maybe. I want to get a dress. My last one is currently being used to oil dragons."

"You could start a new fashion, Thera." A bright smile to Taini, "Taini! You didn't tell me if you saw my son or father about, did you?" Reminder of that question, before T'jano's pale gaze settles back on Deanira, "We have to watch our reputation, here at Fort Weyr, Weaver. I'm sure you understand how that goes." And he smiles brightly at her. "What else did you want to observe? Thera in an oily dress might be interesting."

Deanira is inching away now, yep. She clears her throat, "Well, I should actually be getting back to the meeting place, I'd hate for them to leave without me." Especially if it means being stuck here with T'jano and his weirdness. "I hope you have good luck with the dress, brownrider." She says, dipping a polite bob.

Taini sighs. "Yes, I mentioned that I saw your son, you goofy man." Taini says, shaking her head. "I only saw our father today, and I figure he's going to come back to see you. One recalcitrant boy at a time is plenty." She says, teasingly, refusing to mention the new leathers on the way. "/He/ brought me a Turnday present." Apparently her conversation with Bee left her in a cheerful mood. She waves to Deanira. "Hope you can see more interesting things, Weaver." She calls, happily. She looks over to Thera. "Maybe I could have him make you one? I'm going to have him make a dress for the gather...." She sounds a little nervous again. "Janidi offered to give me a ride if Birgith is willing to let me go."

Thera smiles at Deanira, "Well met Weaver do come again. You would make a nice weyrpet." She'll smile at T'jano and Taini, "Hang on, be right back. Someone needs an itch scratched," and she'll release T'jano and then duck behind her dragon for a moment.

"Master, see? Dragon. 'If she lets you go.'" Deanira gets a quick salute and another grin, though it's Thera that T'jano will step behind and draw his arms around her waist, so that his head can hang down and his cheek touch hers. "What sort of dress? Silky? Shiney? For the Gather Marryn's going to have? To dance in, Thera?" And Deanira gets another look up at that, "Gather is next sevenday or so, right? Boll's?" Oh. She's leaving. T'jano shrugs lightly. "Luck on your project, Fine!"

Deanira flees at the mention of weyrpets. Maybe when she grows some boobs. "It was nice meeting you, Thera. Nice seeing you again, T'jano, Taini." Duties releaved, she walks as quickly as she can across the bowl while still trying to maintain the dignity befit a small hold girl with a big Hold attitude.

LOG: A Trip To Ista Hold

2008-06-19T20:35:22Z

WHO: T'jano, Ambermoore, Owen, Deanira
WHAT: Dea is charged with an errand to Ista Hold, and winds up meeting several new people.
WHERE: Courtyard, Ista Hold

A dusty wagon rolls into the courtyard, and an equally dusty man hops off. Owen passes something to the driver, offering a quiet "Thank you." before hoisting a pack to his shoulder, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning to survey Ista Hold. The wagon rattles noisily off again.

Deanira is here! For some reason! Okay, well, above and beyond that, she's completely comfused as she looks around and then down at the slate in her hand. "Oh.. dear." She murmurs, sniffing loudly.

A wash of frigid air washes into the atmosphere, barely noticable except in the immediate surrounding as green Mrrth splashes into the heat of the Istan night. The pale underside of her wings is briefly visible as she circles in, backwings and then crouches, a fluid movement coordinated with that unbuckling-and-sliding of the lean and tall man who slides off her shoulder. Then the green is up again, wings audible as she ascends to the fireheights. T'jano, left in the courtyard, resolutely faces the stables -- until there's a distraction. The wagon's leaving catches his eye, and then Deanira's voice. "Yes dear?" T'jano murmurs in return.

Siddharth finds a place with not too many people to drop her rider off before taking herself to the fire heights. She doesn't want to scare the beasties too badly! Ambermoore unbuckles and slides easily off her dragon's back, waving the green to a more comfortable distance. She pulls her flight helmet off, but leaves her hair resolutely up. She's not planning on staying here all day. She then spots the other greenrider pair and hears Deanira's comment. "Something the matter?" She asks cheerfully.

Owen is too far from the trio to hear any of the exchanges, but he doesn't miss the landing of either dragon. He watches the dragons fly off before squaring his shoulders and beginning to make his slow, steady way towards the only sign of life in the empty courtyard.

Deanira glances up at T'jano first and then Ambermoore. She presses her lips together, and then, pridefully, lifts her chin. "I'm fine." She announces. "Simply looking for something." She covers the slate and folds her hands around it. Owen is glanced at, her chin lifting higher yet at his dusty appearance.

"Is something looking for you?" T'jano asks of Deanira. "Two for one, usually works faster. If it's hiding, much slower. T'jano tracks Deanira's gaze over toward Owen and he'll raise a hand in greeting, but it's to Ambermoore's mount first, that the Fortian greenrider's eyes lift, that second pair of eyes that have joined Mrrth's on the fireheights, before he'll send a grin and salute toward Ambermoore herself. "/Green/rider." The emphasis is complimentary.

"Indeed, though you can call me Amber," Ambermoore offers the less cumbersome form of her name. She looks him over speculatively. "T'jano if I remember correctly?" She usually does but he's one she's only seen in passing. Ista isn't exactly the largest of weyrs.

Owen returns T'jano's greeting with a friendly nod of his own, his hands still shoved into his pockets. His dusty grungy appearance draws no sign of uncertainty or embarrassment from the man, who nears the group with every sign of being sure of his pleasant reception. "Riders," he greets, catching the end of Deanira and T'jano's conversation. "Lost something?"

Deanira gives T'jano a strange look and rolls her eyes, "Last I checked, /things/ could not look." She replies snottishly and smooths a hand down her front to erase imaginary wrinkles in her front. "I've lost nothing." She says defensively to Owen. "I'm simply deciding which way to go."

"T'jano is remembered correctly, yes. Mrrth." A hand jabs upward to indicate the green, while T'jano's teeth flash in the dim light. "Well met, Amber. And this is..." He studies Deanira with a half-smile, "Fine. She said she was Fine, so we can call her that, unless she volunteers some other piece of information. You, sir, would be...?" As Owen arrives, T'jano also grins at him and lets the question hang.

"Are there so many choices, then?" Owen asks Deanira, quite seriously, though his eyes twinkle with something suspiciously like merriment. "Owen." He supplies to T'jano, not quite sure what to make of the man. Riders are so strange.

Deanira glowers at T'jano for a brief moment, but smiles slightly in spite of herself. "You may call me Deanira, if it suits you." She says loftily, offering her hand to him, palm down, to kiss like some proper Lady Holder, and not just a weaver apprentice as her knot would mark her. Owen is given the once over, and a disapproving curl curves her mouth. "Must you stand so close to me and be so... dusty?" She asks in thinly veiled disgust.

"Owen. Good solid name. I like it. You may keep it." T'jano straight-faces Owen, but then winks to the older man as he instead turns to Deanira and studies her outstretched hand. Reaching for it, T'jano takes Deanira's hand in her own, carefully, and begins to examine her fingernails, "Bit if a clip there, and the cuticle here, I'd say, needs a trim. Ingrown toenail problems?" Earnest pale green eyes tilt up at the young woman, over her hand.

Owen says, gravely, "excuse me," and takes a step backwards, though the twitch of his mouth tells of his amusement. T'jano gets a droll, "thank you," his hand coming up to rub at his chin. "Would either of you know where I could find the Steward? Or Lord Sterling himself?" He glances towards the grand Hold doors.

Deanira presses her lips together in displeasure as the man takes her hand rather than kissing it as she had expected. "I am a Weaver, sir. Sometimes, we must sacrifice luxuries like properly trimmed cuticles to the cause." Owen is eyed, "Perhaps you should consider a bath before presenting yourself to the Lord. Otherwise, he may take you for a ruffian and have you sent back where you came from."

"You could find them somewhere at Ista Hold," T'jano nods with great earnest expressin, "I would go in there and ask for 'the office', because I presume that both of them likely /do/ have offices and therefore one or several of the offices to which you might be directed, could be occupied by the personage whom you seek. But," T'jano adds, "I have been wrong before. Now you," T'jano looks over at Deanira, "There is /no/ excuse... To sacrifice cuticles. Do you... Are you ..." he shakes his head, voice dropping in sorrow, "Perhaps you are too young to understand this. Yes."

"A ruffian?" Owen glances down at his dust covered clothes in surprise. His pants were probably always that tan color, but it's hard to tell just what his shirt looks like under the layer of grime. It's blue-ish. "You don't think I'd need some colorful bruises, maybe a black eye? And some holes in my clothes. I might just could manage it before I go ask for this 'office'." His own expression remains almost as earnest as T'jano's, but he hasn't quite managed to get the twinkles out of his eyes.

Deanira stares at both men, aghast, and flings up her hands, stepping away, "/Scoundrels/." She announces, huffing, and flips her hair over her shoulder primly. "You'd mislead a young girl and distract her from her duties with nonsense of cuticles and bruises."

"Owen. I like you, Owen. T'jano, Fort Weyr. Let me know if you need anything." He'll step forward to offer the other man a quick hand-clasp. "'Fraid my brother realized I'm not where I'm supposed to be. Fine," he nods again to Deanira, "My best. Good luck to your cuticles." And the green circles down, and the lean tall rider will step away, a salute to both humans, to pull himself back into the straps.

Owen takes all of this in with unruffled aplomb. His return clasp is firm, a smile flickering onto his lips as the greenrider departs. "Deanira, wasn't it? You'll have to excuse me. Good luck picking which way to go." He resettles his pack, and strides for the Hold doors.

LOG: Llany's Drum Lesson

2008-06-19T20:30:33Z

WHO: Llany, Samantia
WHAT: Tia is running the Drum Heights when she comes upon Llany, and a battle of wills happens.
WHEN: 20:35 on day 16, month 10, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a autumn evening.
WHERE: Drum Heights, Harper Hall

Llany is sitting with the few drumheights keepers enjoying some conversation. An unusual sight actually since the noted vocalist in not normally known for frequenting the drum heights.

Samantia's drum paintbrush didn't go over so well with the Master who caught her trying to replace it with the other drums in the practice room. Now she's doing laps up the stairs of the drum tower. The sound of her feet landing on the steps echoes up, heard long before the top of her head appears followed by the rest of her. She lands at the top of the stairs and promptly sits down on the landing, glaring balefully down the way she came.

Llany looks at the new arrival, "And here we have our next victim. Pull up a chair have a seat." she invites to Samantia.

Samantia is hardly a victim. If anything, Llany is if she's inviting Samantia in. She snorts, hauling herself tiredly to her feet and dragging herself over to a chair. "It's too late for this crap." She complains.

Llany chuckles, "Too bad." she says handing over a pair of drumsticks. "Let's see how well you know your drum codes shall we? At least you're not running up and down narrow stairs."

Samantia gives Llany a hard look. "Yeah, how about no." She says flatly. "I don't do drums." She folds her arms across her chest, folding her hands safely away in the crooks of her elbows.

Llany blinks... "Excuse me Apprentice? I'm not here to hang out. I owed the drum journeyman a favor so I'm taking his post for the next couple of days. So you can either take the stick and learn something that every harper _needs_ to know. Or keep running up and down the stairs until you learn something else."

Samantia doesn't learn, it's something the rest of these silly journeymen and masters will just have to figure out. "I don't do drums." She repeats calmly. "Unless they spew paint.. but that's why I'm running those silly stairs." She extends one hand and makes a twitching motion of her fingers, indicating the journeyman should pass the drumsticks. Oh yes, she's going to regret this.

Llany hands over the sticks. "Every harper needs to learn the drum messages, it's one of the most common forms of communication between points of distance. And it's vital to get the receiving message correct and be able to retransmit it exactly as received." She taps out a simple code on a piece of wood. "Please repeat."

Samantia lifts her eyes to Llany as she cocks her head, listening to the drum code. Then she taps out something that is definitely not what Llany tapped. It sounds suspiciously like "No."

Llany settles her sticks aside before sending the other drum apprentices to polish the big drums. When their alone she looks intently at Samantia. "Why are you here?" she asks. "And I don't mean in this location, why are you at the hall?"

Samantia watches the others go with a smug glint in her eyes. Llany is given no more than a passing glance as she idly taps out a beat on the wood that has nothing to do with drum beats. It's just a steady, even rhythm. "It pleases my parents that I am here. And I can sing. I am sorry I don't share your enthusiasm for drums."

Llany chuckles, "I wouldn't say I'm enthusiastic about them. I served my time up her as all apprentices must." she pauses for a moment. "What is a harper to you? What do you think we do?"

Samantia's eyebrows knit at the center. "I don't have to answer you, you're not a Master. I don't care what a Harper does. I just do what I do. And what I do is avoid noisy journeymen who take temping on the drum heights way to seriously. I got stairs to run."

Llany blinks, "No I'm not a Master, but you many have noticed that most of the instructors here are not masters. I take my lessons from Masters, and a few of the more talented apprentices do. Of which you are _not_ one. But chew on this, it might dull your tongue a little. If you keep that attitude you'll never make journeywoman yourself, and if someone can't make journey rank the hall cuts them loose. And it seems you do have some more stairs to run... About twice as many as you were assigned originally I'd say. And if you thing journeyranks can't do that then you've got another think coming. I suggest you talk to the headwoman if you're in doubt."

Samantia looks down her nose at Llany, unfazed. "What makes you think I care?" She snorts. "I'm just here for the food." She glances at the stairs and smirks. "It's just stairs. If that's the worst you got.." She shrugs, unconcerned. "Bye, Journeyman Drumstick." Pushing back her chair, she chucks the drumsticks down on the wood casually and starts down the stairs again. Another person's night made a little less cheerful. It's a good night for Tia.

LOG: Tripping Torell

2008-06-19T20:26:57Z

WHO: Torell, Samantia
WHAT: Torell comes to Harper, and has a nice fall.
WHEN: 17:53 on day 16, month 10, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a autumn afternoon.
WHERE: Courtyard, Harper Hall

Just about dinner time, but you won't catch Samantia there. Somehow, she's snuck out and is now lounging near the instrument workroom, a drum overturned in her lap and a leather needle in her hand. Next to her is a small pot of paint and a roll of hide. It looks innocent enough, but with Tia, even the most innocent of tasks are most likely malicious.

The grumblings of a guy in his late teens is something usually heard only in passing. They don't tend to be too vocal about their problems unless they're alone and can vent to the four winds. With a load of hides that would cripple a pack beast, Torell steps from a transport wagon on shakey legs. Satchel on one hip and another on his left, he attempts to walk with more coordination than that of a newly hatched dragon. "Sharding, split-quilled excuse for a driver! Every hole. Every ditch. I swear I'm not going to sit straight for a week." Unfortunately for him, the hides are stacked almost nose-high so his feet are having to see for him.

Samantia sees an opening. Oh dear, does she see an opening. When the transport rolls through, she looks up from her task and her eyebrows lift, the glee on her face absurd. Gently, silently, she sets the drum aside, resting the needle inside of the hollow underside, and scoots out away from the wall just a bit until she can stick her leg out at shin height in Torell's projected path. And then, she waits for him to stumble over it, ready to crab-crawl backwards if he either diverts his course or falls over her.

Torell spies where he's going but can not, for the life of him, see that there's a barrier across his path. Within a few steps, he's found the leg and the hides go sprawling as he tumbles forward. Curiously, he reaches for a bag hanging from on his left hip as if to protect it in mid-fall; the hides ignored.

Satisfied, Samantia scoots back, smirking, and takes up her task again. It appears that she is poking the needle through the hide stretched across the frame of the drum, creating microscopic holes. Torell is casually ignored, watched only through her eyelashes discreetly.

Torell blinks as he finally figures out that it was probably no accident that he tripped. With a quick check to the sack hanging on his left hip, he wheels on the young girl with one hand raised to strike. With a quick back-hand slap, he aims for her cheek. He's not the strongest of young men, but it would definately be enough to get her attention.

Samantia looks only mildly surprised when she's slapped. Aparently, she's used to these things. She lets out a soft sigh and pushes the needle through a bit of fabric in the cuff of her pants, reaching for the paint pot. "Did you know, it's considered a mark of ill breeding to strike a woman? People might start thinking you were the son of a swine and a porcine herder if you keep that up."

Torell takes a step forward to the girl, non-plussed by her insult. "And when you start acting like a woman I'll treat you like one. Until then you're nothing more than.."he looks her up and down once before spitting out a bit more of his venom. "..a petulant child." Taking a step back to look at the scattered hides on the ground and then back to Sam. "Don't ever touch me again, child."

Samantia snorts, "And what are you, an old uncle?" She teases, pulling a paintbrush out of the rolled up hide and beginning to paint the inside of the drum with a thick coating of harper blue. "Gosh, I think I even see some gray coming in in your hair. You should pluck those before anyone mistakes you for someone older and wiser. Perhaps that old gunnysack you've been snogging every night will leave you for a younger man."

Torell fehs and collects the hides to deliver inside the hall, ignoring the girls words. Once he has them stacked under an arm, he glances around for where they are destined.

Samantia installs the hide on the underside of the drum and fixes it tightly, wedging it between the frame and secured drumface. Turning it over, she gives it an experimental tap. It promptly splatters blue paint into the air, which she cleans away with a rag hanging out of her pocket. "Where you headed for?" She asks calmly.

Torell ignores the girl and walks towards the Main Hall with purpose; apparently having been here before.

LOG: Meeting Giremi

2008-06-19T20:09:57Z

WHO: Giremi, Samantia
WHAT: Tia meets Remi, and maybe threatens him a little.
WHEN: 16:11 on day 16, month 10, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a autumn afternoon.
WHERE: Archway, Harper Hall

Late afternoon at the Hall: chore sections are just breaking up in the hour before the evening meal, lots of hollering and hooting and calling back and forth from apprentices. Those who were sweeping the courtyard heading to the shed to store their brooms. Giremi's coming up from the grounds around the Hall, muttering under his breath about Healers and things and looking ... moody.

Samantia did more terrorizing than choring today, wielding her broom as a staff, smacking shins, poking people in the back, and disappearing back to sweeping innocently whenever anyone of importance shows up. As such, she's getting a lot of glares, and those glares are being met with a lot of threatened fists. It's an awkward sort of silence that instills itself around her as she hauls back to the broom shed with the others. And she couldn't look prouder for it.

Missing the atmosphere entirely, Giremi moves towards the door of the ArchRoom still muttering under his breath. He comes to a halt suddenly as a broom handle nearly catches him under the nose. "What the --" he leans far back and then his eyes settle on Samantia with a slight frown. "I'll thank you kindly to be a bit more careful with that broom," he says a trifle irascibly.

Samantia glances at Giremi, lifting her chin for a moment as if she might consider whacking him for true with the broom handle on that most noble nose. And then she plants the bristled end on the ground and leans against it casually, smirking. "I'll do just that, Journeyman." She croons, sweet enough to rot the teeth. "Do pardon me, of course. I was so excited to get my broom put away." And probably shove some of the smaller apprentices into the broom shed with it while she's at it.

There's a look of askance for that as Giremi sweeps Samantia with a measuring look from head to toe. "You're pardoned, though I've not really met anyone else who got excited about putting brooms back in the correct order," the Journeyman replies, misunderstanding perhaps, a little, the nature of her remark. He brushes at the sleeve of his tunic and rearranges the cuff so it's straight again.

Samantia has the look of surpreme triumph when one has just gotten away with a snarky comment to the face of someone of higher rank. She grins, catching her lower lip between two sharp canine teeth on one side. "You be careful now, Journeyman. Wouldn't do to have any accidents." Taking him in up and down herself down, though far more subtly, she eyes where he is going, and then him again.

"I beg your pardon?" Giremi fixes Samantia with another long look, this time unreadable his face a neutral mask, words forcibly pleasant.

Samantia smiles sweetly, "The broom, sir." She wags the broom handle back and forth to demonstrate, "You should be more careful, there are so many apprentices and so many brooms floating around, you should keep an eye out."

"As an apprentice, it's your job to mind your equipment and your chores," Giremi points out fastidiously. "So long as I'm not about to walk right into you, and exercising the usual amount of care, I'd suggest that you look to your responsibilities." He quirks both brows at her, as if trying to figure out just what her angle is.

Samantia shrugs, "A tad bit hard when there's a giant of a man prowling up behind me. I can't see through the back of my head. Would be a trick if I could." One eyebrow arches, her tone dangerously defiant now. "I should return this." She concludes, one foot questing backwards slowly before she turns and walks the broom towards the shed.

"That would be, 'Journeyman' to you," Giremi warns punctiliously, "otherwise I'll be reporting you to the Apprentice Master," he continues, apparently thinking this to be the highest of threats. He turns towards the door, himself, opposite direction-ish as she walks through towards the toolshed. "Indeed, putting away your tools in the right spot is always a good idea."

Samantia smacks someone across the back of the head as soon as Giremi turns and stomps on someone else's foot, opening a path for herself in the broom closet so that she can put her broom away soonest. Of course, this causes a few hollers, but it's a small matter. The one she had stomped on stumbles, jostling someone else, and Samantia slips out of the fray as a shoving match breaks out in that area. Wasn't her, see. Ooh, Apprentice Master. Scary.

Giremi turns and peers out towards the shed just outside the archway with a questioning look. "All right you lot! Break it up," he hollers over. "Go on in to wash up for dinner." And he grumbles mildly under his breath. In A Mood today it seems.

Samantia watches the chaos for a moment, and then, humming a tune in her pretty soprano, throws her arms up, crossing her fingers behind her head, and ambles just a ways away. "Aren't you coming to dinner, Journeyman?" She asks, still oh so sweet.

Giremi shakes his head. "I've no appetite," he notes to Samantia and pulls the door to the ArchRoom open. "I'm going up to study a few things for a while." The pretty voice holds him in place a while longer, then the Journeyman makes to duck through that door.

Samantia lifts a hand and twiddles her fingers, "Happy studying, sir." She says, eyeing the door speculatively. She dismisses whatever idea she was plotting though, and turns, humming once more and following the finally dispersing group of apprentices off to eat.

Giremi inclines his head slightly. "Thank you," he says simply and heads up the stairs to the ArchRoom, footsteps fading out of audible range. The sun drops lower and the last of the others scampers indoors as the gong sounds.

LOG: Uneven Stones

2008-06-18T23:12:36Z

WHO: Emmi, Samantia
WHAT: Emmi catches Tia tripping a boy and gives her a rather obscure warning.. which falls on deaf ears.
WHEN: 13:06 on day 16, month 10, Turn 16, of the Interval. It is a autumn afternoon.
WHERE: Courtyard, Harper Hall, Fort Hold

Autumn has set in at the Hall, and the departure of summer has brought a change of tone across the whole place, imperceptible in some ways, but present nonetheless; as apprentices, and even journeymen, flow through the courtyard, there is a resigned air about them as the last of the warmth of indian summer finally dissipates. Emmi stands within the yawning archway leading to an obscure hallway, arms folded lightly across her petite frame as she takes in the afternoon's comings and goings, slightly maternal expression on the young woman's face-- as always.

Samantia is up to no good, as usual. This time, she has targetted a young boy struggling with a large stack of notes. Almost casually, she sticks out her foot into his path. When he goes down, his hides go sprawling out over the ground of the courtyard, and the wind chooses that moment to come up and spread them further. Satisfied and smirking, she continues on her way, eyes scanning for the next target.

'Up to no good' is not something that Emmi easily misses, having spent enough Turns with the apprentices as her charges. At the sight of the poor boy flying across the courtyard's flagstones, her eyes flash quickly across the place to see who might have caused the intentional fall. But if Samantia is suspected, she isn't confronted right away-- instead, Emmi rushes to the boy's aid, reaching down to help him to his feet once again. "Are you okay?" she asks, concern laced across her face, to which comes a sputtered, sheepish reply: "Ye-yes, ma'am." Beat. "Must've lost my footing."

Samantia doesn't help, or even look back until after Emmi has finished helping the boy out. Finding no other easy targets and with the Craftmaster right there, she sighs and crosses her arms over her chest, instead settling for leaning into the shadow of one of the cool stone walls and observing.

Emmi smiles at the young apprentice in that odd, half-smile way of hers. "I'm sure. It happens to everyone," she says, then bends to begin collecting the papers that have strewn across the ground. The boy nods eagerly, glad to have his moment of embarrassment over with, as well as Emmi's gentle reassurance to help mend his pride, and he scurries to help the Master in collecting his things from where they've fallen. It takes several moments to make sure everything is recovered, but finally it is all back in the boy's arms, who manages a "Thank you, Masterharper," and begins on his way once more.

Samantia watches this all silently, one eyebrow cocked up and fingers drumming on her ribcage. Now that Emmi is done with the boy, she sinks just that much deeper into the shadow, waiting to see where the woman will go.

The pranking apprentice may be lurking in the shadows, but not so far into them that she eludes Emmi's notice completely; once the boy is safely on his way, the dark-haired woman retreats once more, choosing a place by the courtyard wall not far from the one Samantia has chosen. "So many people tripping recently," Emmi muses... to Samantia, who stands nearest to her, to the air, to herself, to nobody in particular. "Perhaps there is something wrong with the flagstones. Maybe they need to be swept better."

Samantia sniffs, and offers in her best immitation of a polite voice - which is to say, very fake, "Perhaps they are uneven. The dragons land on them a lot. Perhaps they have been pried up in places."

Emmi raises an eyebrow, but after a moment nods her head in agreement. "Perhaps. Although, so many people have walked on them for generations and generations. Is it possible that flagstones can break? Maybe they don't work properly anymore, and must be replaced." Her expression to the apprentice is not one of anger, or reprimand, but subtly conveys something /knowing/ about Samantia's lack of innocence.

Samantia shrugs her shoulders, bored with the conversation already and not even trying to hide it. "I'm not a mason. Perhaps you should ask one of them. Would be a shame if someone got hurt." Or an utter delight. If she's bothered with Emmi's silent and subtle accusation, she doesn't show it. Instead, she pushes off the wall. "I got a class or something, I'm sure."

"A mason. That's a good idea." A beat, and then one last musing: "You know, it's a good thing the stones are simply stones, and not apprentices. Should apprentices be causing such terrible falls, there'd surely be some sort of punishment in order. Chores, or early curfew, perhaps. Of course, that's not much of a punishment for a stone. They don't sleep, and they don't have opposable thumbs for doing chores." The end of Emmi's waxing anthropomorphic, she nods at the apprentice. "I'm sure. Wouldn't want to be late for class." And the tiny woman has her own things to do, places to be, as she crosses the courtyard towards the voice hall, careful of her step across the flagstones.

Samantia stares after Emmi, "Wow, she's nuts!" The girl whispers to herself, incredulous, and quickly turns on her heel and hastens in the opposite direction. But not before elbowing a girl in the ribcage as she passes, making her drop a hand drum with a startled yelp.

LOG: A Moldy Boy

2008-06-18T04:37:29Z

WHO: Moldimehrallenkai, Tyna, Evida
WHAT: Evida meets Tyna and the unfortunately named Moldi.
WHEN: The time is 19:15. It is evening of the fifty-second day of spring. It is the eighth Turn of the Tenth Interval. It is a spring evening.
WHERE: Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr (Harper's Tale)

Tyna steps into the caverns still toweling her hair dry. She heads toward the hearth table and loads up a plate with anything that she can find which isn't much at this time of day. Meatrolls, a few sweets and some klah are gathered before she turns to find a table, settling into one that is close and empty.

It's a little late for dinner, it's true, but Evida has always been a slow eater. So while people have come and go, she has endured with her plate of food, picking over it meticulously, finishing each carefully seperated item before moving on to the next. Which means her plate is still one third full presently.

Moldimehrallenkai is sweeping, trying not to trip over the apron nearly dragging on the floor. Moving about so he doesn't kick dust up into the food area, he pauses for a moment to wipe his forehead with the back of one arm, leaning on his broom and looking at the food table to see if it's in need of replenishing. It's his first day and already he's working hard.

Tyna notices that there's someone close by slowly eating from her own plate. She doesn't recognise her or the boy sweeping so she assumes that they might be new to the Weyr. "Hello." she says just loud enough for both to hear. She smiles as she greets them, hoping for a friendliness in return.

Evida glances first at the child sweeping with interest, her fork posed just so in front of her mouth. She replaces it on her plate and cleans her fingers on her napkin before smiling warmly at Tyna, "Hi." She offers shyly, dipping her head to hide behind her dark ringlets. Not particularly new, just not the sort to socialize, and thus, an elusive find unless one is looking for her specifically.

Moldimehrallenkai blinks and nearly falls over as he hurries to try to look busy again. Saluting the ladies he smiles and says "Greetings!" rolling his R, indicating he's from one of those crazy Northern hold areas. "How are you ladies this evening?" he asks, busying himself with sweeping the floor under the tables.

Tyna smiles at the girl who is so shy, and a couple Turns older than Tyna herself. "Have I seen you before?" she asks, not sure if she remembers her from the Dorms or not. A giggle is smothered with a hand as the boy greets her, definitely not used to being addressed as 'Lady'. "I'm doing very well, thank you, young sir." is her reply but without any of the patronizing tone that some of her older friends might have offered had they been greeted thusly.

Moldimehrallenkai says "Likely not. I just got here today. Had t'look for a job to earn my keep someplace, and this was as good as any, so might as well do a good job." he pauses again to wipe his forehead. "Can I get you ladies anything?"

Evida smiles, and her plain face lights up beneath the curtain of dark hair. "Maybe?" She offers. "I don't know. I usually keep to myself." Licking her lips, she reaches for her cup of juice nearby, drinking from it to cover the flush coming to her cheeks. Eyes dart towards the boy and she dips her head, "Evida will do better than Lady. I promise, I'm nobody special."

Tyna grins at the boy and nods her understanding. "I know what you mean. I got here not long ago ... well, 'bout a turn ago, I guess." she says, setting aside her meatroll for a moment. "Why don't you take a break? The floor looks pretty clean and any dirt there won't be goin' anywhere." She's taken her own turn pushing a broom and found that out the hard way, during the rainy season. Her smile returns to Evida, nodding a greeting. "I'm Tyna. I remember now, you're in the Dorms too."

Moldimehrallenkai looks at the broom that stands almost taller than he does and says "Aye, I think I could use a breather." he says, leaning it against the wall and taking off his apron. "It's just about time t'quit anyway." he nods. "I'm er...well, they just call me Moldi." he smiles. He hasn' t told anyone his full horrific name just yet. "So how d'you like it round here?" he asks as he plunks himself down into a seat next to them, folding his hands on the table and grinning, eyes sparkling in glee for the opportunity to actually make friends.

Evida dips her head in acknowledgement of Tyna, smiling softly for the younger girl. The child is paused at, hesitantly she repeates, "Moldi? Like.. what grows in damp, dark corners? You poor dear." She tsks over such a terrible nickname, "Surely there is something more.. honorable I could call you?" Easily distracted, she replies, "It is cold, but you learn to enjoy the beauty of a mountain winter."

Tyna smiles as the boy settles into a chair and takes a sip of her klah. "I like it find. My grandfather watches out for me but doesn't crowd me." she says. "How about you .... ummm, Moldy?" She frowns slightly at the name as it doesn't make much sense to her.

Moldimehrallenkai smiles, a blush tinting his usually pale cheeks. "Aye, tis not the most noble of names, but unfortunately my parents couldn't exactly decide what to name me, so I ended up with a rather unfortuante name. Moldi will do just fine. I'm well used to the cold weather, myself. Nice to be inside where it's warm for a change, though!"

Evida continues to cluck her disapproval as she further seperates the remaining items on her plate, putting distance between them in a distracted fashion, "Surely you won't make me call you 'Moldy'." Her eyes plead with Moldimehrallenkai. "Come now, it can't be /that/ unfortunate." She makes a beconing motion with the hand that isn't occupied with her fork. Tyna is smiled at, "That is good, that you have your grandfather. Where are you from originally, Tyna?"

Tyna studies the boy for a few moments, trying to puzzle out how such a name could be used for such a nice person. "Yes, please. What is your full name? I just can't call anyone 'Moldy'..." she pleads with the boy. At the question from Evida she grins and says, "Keroon, but I was born at Telgar Weyr. Mother is stationed at a small Hold in Keroon now."

Moldimehrallenkai scratches the back of his neck and grimaces a moment. "Well, err...it's all right, really. That's what everyone always calls me. It has nothing to do with smelly socks or dark damp places, it's just part of my name! Ah Telgar...lovely place! I've been there a few times. "

Evida nods her head readily, "Keroon is quite lovely." She says. "IT is definitely different than High Reaches. A different climate, after all." Moldimehr is given a disapproving look. "I will NOT call you Moldy." She says stubbornly. "I will make up a name for you if you won't tell me your real name. How about Bob?"

Tyna laughs at Evida's threat, trying to smother it but being unsuccessful. "Really, you can't expect us to call you Moldy just because someone labelled you that when you were little." she says with a hint of a laugh in her voice. "You're much too nice to be tagged something so .... dirty." Her eyes hold an apology but unfortunately her tone expresses her distaste at having to call the boy such a name.

Moldimehrallenkai grins. "Well, I s'pose you could call me Mo if that would be better for you!" he chuckles and says "I never thought of it as something dirty! But yer welcome to call me whatever you wish. I'll get more juice from the kitchens. I'll be back in a moment!"

Tyna shakes her head at the boy. "Can't call you Mo...no one would know if I was talking to you or Mohitani." she says ruefully. "Besides, she's got a temper on her and she might not like it if someone else took her nickname." A shudder passes through the girl at the memory of the last time Mo got mad in the caverns. She sighs softly as she chews the last of a meatroll and pushes her nearly empty plate aside. "Well, I've got an early day tomorrow so I better head to bed. See you another time. And think of a new nickname, Moldy." She waves as she heads out toward the Dorms.

Evida senses a kindredship with Tyna and nods emphatically to what the younger girl says. When 'Mo' bows, she smiles prettily. "Mo is /much/ better than Moldy." She glances after Tyna and shrugs, "Not like Mohitani is the only person on Pern who's name begins with a M-O.." She shrugs, however, and sighs, planting her chin in her hand and looks after the boy.

Moldimehrallenkai brings back a pitcher of fresh juice and says "Well, whatever you want to call me is fine with me. So how long have you been here? Where are you from?" he sits back down, pouring himself a glass of juice.

Evida smiles at him, "Thanks." She says, nodding to the pitcher. "I'd /like/ to know your real name, but you seem to not want to tell me that so I will call you Bob. I'm from here, actually.. My mother works in the nursery. My father.." she shrugs. "He's a rider, but my mom doesn't make too much fuss about him so I couldn't tell you who with so many of them running around."

Moldimehrallenkai nods. "Maybe someday. It seems easier just to give people something easier to pronounce than a six syllable name. In fact, I'm not even sure /I/ could spell it. That's unfortunate about your father. What do you do around here?"

Evida chuckles, "I didn't ask you to spell it, only say it." She points out, as stubborn as a dog with a bone. "Oh, it's not that bad. He probably has other things to do, you know? I don't mind. I help my mother with the little ones, usually."

Moldimehrallenkai starts to clean up some of the stuff leftover in the caverns and nods. "So you plan to be a nanny as well? That's a good job, I suppose. I guess there's a lot of that sort of thing going on in the weyrs...children not knowing their parents and such."

Evida shrugs, "It's not precisely what I'd like to do forever, but I don't know what I would like to do so it makes an acceptable job in the mean time. And you? Do you always clean up the caverns?" She grins.

Moldimehrallenkai nods. "Aye, I just started today. I need to earn my keep somehow! Can I get you anything else before I head to find a cot in the dorms?"

Evida laughs, "I can do for myself, sweetheart. Thank you though. You sleep well, alright?" She lifts her hand and twiddles her fingers at him. "It was nice meeting you, Bob."

Moldimehrallenkai grins and waves. "Have a good night! I'll probably see you around!"

LOG: Flying Rocks and Perching Girl

2008-06-17T05:55:18Z

WHO: Xhaiden, Samantia
WHAT: A short scene where Tia hits Xhaiden with a rock, they have words.
WHEN: Morning, Day 11, Month 10, Turn 16 of the Intervul.
WHERE: Fort Weyr Bowl

<lj-cut text="If You're Lord Threerivers, I'm the Weyrleader!">
Samantia is secreted in a little nook of rock. She has a stack of rocks, and she's throwing them as hard as she can at people as they pass by in the narrow range of view of her crack. None of the rocks are big, and she is aiming at shins, hips, occasionally a chest or stomach, but never high. And she's smart enough not to hit anyone who looks important, or wears riding leathers. Unfortunately, this means Xhaiden qualifies as neither, and a rock half the size of her fist comes hurtling out, arching high and aimed at his legs.

Xhaiden's strides are puposeful and direct as he makes his way into the bowl but his attention is fixed on scanning the area for the rider in question. Who would imagine they would be 'attacked' in such a moment? The lad lets out a bark of pain as his shin gets the rock into it just as he's moving his foot forward. More shock than actual pain really, but it's enough to bring him around, his features turning stormy as he scans the area for the villan.

Samantia covers her mouth with both hands as her projectile finds its target, trying not to giggle too loudly and give away her position. She leans back against the wall, trying to blend into the shadow.

Xhaiden kicks his toe against the ground and sends a spray of tiny rocks and dust towards Samantia's hiding place and stalks over in that direction, scanning the area as his expression goes from stormy to stony. He puts one hand on his hip and peers here and there and then says in a loud voice, "This weyr is full of flea-bitten drudges." he sniffs, "Shards, I can smell you from here you dirty watchwheyr. You better stay hiding in your nasty cave."

Samantia can't help it, she gives into giggles, squealing loudly in delight. "A /drudge!/" She crows, popping out of her hiding spot with a smirk. See, just a girl. "And who are /you/, whack-o?"

Xhaiden's head rears back as Samantia comes up out of her rock-dwelling and he fans his hand under his nose indelicately. "Oh..../rrrriiiight/. You just smell like one." He mockingly bows to her, "I am Lord Threerivers, here delivering reports of our cothold." Lies or not, he does look and sound pompous enough. "I see weyrs have the same sorts of creatures from one to the next."

Samantia just laughs in Xhaiden's face, "if you're Lord Threeriver, I'm the Weyrleader." Taking two steps forward, she gives him a shove, "i'm just visiting, numbnuts. I'm from Fort Hold. I'm supposed to be going down to the Harper Hall, but I ducked out to come up here." She smirks, just that close to his face. "You're as ignorant as you look, Lord Threerivers." She bows mockingly and struts past him, saying over her shoulder, "Pansy."

Xhaiden is more solid than he looks and the shove does rock him back on his heels but he's quick enough to duck away from any additional man...er...woman handling. "filthy mongrel." He breaths out, letting his gaze sweep over the girl with disgust. Under his breath he mutters. " like that creature they impressed at Telgar....rotten."
Samantia is rather clean, thank you. "What was that, pansy?" She teases, "You wanted to lick my boots?" She lifts one booted foot, wagging it at him, "Well, go ahead." She offers coldly. An eyebrow arches, "Oh, what would you know of who Impressed at Telgar?"

Xhaiden lightly dusts off his tunic where Samantia's hands touched him, as though she might have left some awful stuff there to taint him. There's no notice of her question to him and he continues to murmur under his breath as his eyes stay upon the spot of his tunic. "may have to just burn this thing." He's about to walk off, completely ignoring the taunts and he actually looks surprised to find Sammantia looking at him in question. He gives her a long, cold look and a shrug and he starts walking off.

Samantia snorts, "I'll rememeber you, Lord Threeriver!" She calls after him, "You can expect that much." She smirks and dips back into her hiding spot to resume chucking rocks at unfortunate passers-by.

Xhaiden murmurs to himself, "don't see why I'm always attacked wherever I sharding go." He crosses his arms over his chest and strides off.
</lj-cut>

WHO: Nerine, Torell, Samantia
WHAT: A short scene where Tia pulls Nerine off a ledge and insults Torell before walking off, leaving two more enemies in her wake.
WHEN: Evening, Day 11, Month 10, Turn 16 of the intervul.
WHERE: Fort Weyr Bowl

<lj-cut text="Why, She Your Girlfriend?">
The chill of the air if not the blazing colors of the nearby foliage told of autumn's presence in Fort Weyr, Rukbat on its daily course was sinking into the western edge of the bowl submerging the world in the dim rusty light of dusk. Wrapped tightly in an old sweater and a too large flight jacket her father had given her, the scribe of Fort was sitting perched on one of the lower vacant ledges watching the setting sphere. One leg hangs over the edge of the perch while the other is drawn up to her chin giving her the appearance of deep contemplation.

Samantia comes strutting down the Bowl like she owns the place. Forget that she doesn't live here, that she isn't even supposed to be here. The Would-Be-Harper glances around, dark eyes keen as she scans the area. The first thing she takes in is Nerine on her perch and a slow smirk overtakes her face. As fast as that, her mind is working, calculating how high up the ledge is and how high her arm can reach. And that's all she needs. Skirting the edge of the bowl, she comes up under the ledge, hands reaching for that ankle, intent on yanking it, if the girl doesn't notice her first.

From the direction of the lake's edge, the once sandal-shorn feet of the young man named Torell carry him towards the ledges of the bowl near the living cavern's entrance. As he approaches, his voice can be heard rythmically enchanting some half-lost poem like the old instructional verses taught to every young child by the Harpers. "For upon the mane of brown, the lofty golden crown and to the Weyr a dragonlady born..."

A heavy sigh escapes the copper haired girl before she catches the Rhythmic reciting of her newest acquaintance, and whether she admits it or not friend. Her eyes brighten and she waves to him. Deciding that today at least she would enjoy his company. "Torell!"

Samantia grabs Nerine's ankle when she goes unnoticed, her eyes straying to Torell to see if he will foil her nasty plan. When he seems to be ignorant of her position, she follows through, grabbing that foot with her arms outstretched, and giving it the hardest yank she can manage.

Nerine had been about to chide him for his own activities during the flight, but instead felt a sharp and forceful yank on her ankle. The force of the motion sent her careening over the ledge and face first into the ground below. A sharp stone had hit her right hand putting a nice slice into it while her chin and nose suffered a scraping. When she managed to pull herself up from the undignified position furious blue eyes sharp as ice blazed at the offending prankster. "What In Farnath's name possessed you, or made you think you had the right to do such a thing." She hissed in fury. A quick hand to her face told her that the scrapes were oozing while the gash in her hand might need stitches.

Torell blinks, not realizing that the younger girl actually meant to pull Nerine off of her perch. "Back off..." he warns the ebon-haired girl upon approach. "Are you alright?" It's a reflex question to ask when someone falls - even when it's clear that they have actually hurt themselves, but it's better than saying nothing. The drying cloth on his shoulder is quickly whipped off and into his hand as he takes a few steps to position himself between Nerine and Samantia. His eyes narrow down to the younger of the two girls for a half a breath and then he turns to crouch down to see what damage has been done.

Samantia just smirks, "Who says I needed permission?" She challenges, looking utterly and disgustingly proud of herself. Mission accomplished, she shrugs and starts to wander off, looking Torell up and down as she passes. "Back off?" She mimics in the same pitch as his voice, "Why? She your girlfriend?" With a haughty laugh, she walks off. "Oh well, I suppose a man as ugly as you can't do any better, right?" She waves over her shoulder, "Have a good one."
</lj-cut>

DeaTiaEv: Who I Am

2008-06-13T22:28:56Z

This is a collective journal for three seperate characters. Deanira, of DragonsFire, Samantia, of PernMUSH, and Evida, of Harper's Tale. I realized that four journals for character logs was a bit insane. So I'll just keep these three together. My fourth character has an established Livejournal, so I'll leave her alone. Anyways.. happy reading!
[Unknown LJ tag]