First Aid Demo Interrupted!

Dalthaine A surprisingly thick shock of coal-dark hair tops the head of this darkly bronzed young man, curls pulling into waves as his hair lengthens. An uneven part runs though it, just to the left of center, and a thin leather strap keeps his hair back out of his face. A hawkish nose bisects a pair of eyes of a most startling hue: their hazel tone is a combination of rich sienna flecked with a dark, intense green. His sturdy legs are beginning to lengthen in his latest growth spurt, and the rest of his body exhibits a certain stringiness; arms long and often akimbo at his sides, elbows out. Dal proudly wears the blue knot of a Harper Apprentice on his left shoulder. A study in shadows: cool grey colors the V-necked, woolen tunic, a perfect foil for the brief vest of shadowy suede which hangs, unbuttoned, from sparse collarbone. heavy trous of sable-shaded wherhide lend warmth while sporting myriad pockets to hold uncountable treasures; more charcoal suede edges cuffs. A braided belt of thin leather serves more as a secure spot for the well-worn leather sheath, and a matching pair of battered brown boots completes the outfit. Dalthaine looks to be in his late teens. He is awake and looks alert. Carrying: Dalthaine's Songbook Dal's Journal

Library/Classroom Wooden bookshelves adorn two of this room's four walls from floor to ceiling. Hidebound volumes line them, each proclaiming in bold lettering on its spine what secrets and knowledge lie within. In the center of the room is a soft surfaced wooden table, surrounded by many chairs. At the head of the table is an almond-brown, high backed chair with intricate patterns carved into it, used by the teacher. Set into the outer wall there is a huge cathedral window which looks out onto the garden, ivy creeps along the sill. You see Healer Chart, Anatomy and First Aid of the Eye, Abnormalities of Birth, and Dragonhealing - Type dhg help here. Leshana is here. Obvious exits: Main Hall

Dalthaine walks in to the classroom at the Healer Hall, eyes wide as he takes in the sights. So, this is where his friend, Aroniks, takes classes. Stepping off to the side of the room, Dal closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, absorbing the scents of wood, books, and the high, green scent of the ivy clinging to the sill. Dropping to an empty chair, he pulls out his pen and begins to quickly make notes in his journal about what he sees, what the scents in the room are, and mostly, how he /feels/ to be in this classroom for healers, so like, and yet, unlike, the classrooms over to HarperHall.

Leshana Soft brown hair falls down her shoulders in a flow of gentle waves that end somewhere near mid-back. Blue eyes gaze out from under thick lashes with a rather self conscious expression, contrasting with the pale skin of her face. A soft blush and a scattering of light freckles rest upon her cheeks, giving the faint illusion of youth. Her mouth is small but not thin and set above a rather angular chin. She's just a touch too tall to be considered girlish, though one might be hard pressed to mistake her for male. Her arms and legs are proportional to her height, with long fingers on her slender hands. She is wearing her formal robe denoting her as a member of the HealerCraft. The sisal folds of this flowing purple kaftan style robe encase her form from shoulder to floor. Over both shoulders a stripe of white perhaps one handspan in width, falls to waist level front and back. Draped off the shoulders the long deeply scalloped sleeves fall to just below wrist level showing her hands only occasionally as she moves. A slight scuffing noise and an occasional flash of brown reveals the simple sandals that complete the outfit. Aeon perches on Leshana's shoulder. Leshana looks to be in her mid twenties. She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 4 minutes. Carrying: Aeon A good dozen people trickle through the door's sturdy archway, mostly in their late teens to mid-forties and adorned with the brown and black knots of Fort Weyr. They murmur quietly among themselves, save for a few of the older riders in the back - especially one gigantic fellow, who crosses his arms and simply scowls at the wall.

M'an The passing of Turns have weathered M'an's oaken form kindly. True, his once rich mahogany hair has turned to close-cut silvery birch, and bark grooves have been etched into his well-formed features, but the laugh lines only enhance the warmth of his deep walnut eyes. His limbs remain straight and clean, trunk hardly thickened by the wheeling seasons, and a litheness marks his movements despite the knots and gnarls grown into the knuckles of those long, shapely hands. Wisely bending to the storms of time rather than raging against them, he has aged gracefully, his stature undimmed and strength merely deepened by the onset of autumnal maturity. Intricate vinings of black, brown and bronze proclaim him Fort Weyrleader. Pale shoot green sprouts boldly from ankles and wrists, unfurling in a flood of verdant color to sheath the dragonrider entirely in the fresh hues of spring. The leathers are soft, well-broken in, but far from worn: the bright bronze piping still holds its gleam. His boots, in deep loam, rise calf-high, and complement his complexion and garb nicely. The Weyrleader appears calm and collected, aside from the occasional muscle twitch in his left temple. But that could just be an old age thing. M'an looks to be somewhere in his sixties He is awake and looks alert. Carrying: To Do List Leshana is setting things up along a low table, directing the apprentice assisting her in the arrangement of items and chiding when things are handled improperly. "Gloves first. If we were tending a patient, you'd have put them in danger of infection. Be useful now and get the charts. It's not as if we're to have an actual patient here on which to demonstrate." Would she? Healers are strange, strange people. "Ah, there we are. Please make yourselves comfortable, I'm nearly done setting up. I apologize for being a bit late, but we had--" A waved hand dismisses what she might have said. "--a small emergency." M'an enters the room after the rest of the Fortian delegation have settled themselves, appearing in the doorway with the Masterharper firmly in tow (as soon as she gets here from RL distractions, that is). Yes, she does look to be in tow, her small hand tucked in the crook of his arm, and yes, it's very firmly - the Weyrleader looks like a forbidding patriarch, especially compared to the slender, lovely woman at his grizzled side. Any rumors of their involvement need to take a long look at his stern, steely expression.

Dalthaine's ears prick as the Healer mentions that. A small emergency? Is there really any such thing as a /small/ emergency?? His mum would have scoffed at the idea that /any/ emergency could be small, and Dal makes note of it in his journal. Just as his pen finishes it's skittering along the page, he senses a hush in the group around him. Looking up, he notices the WeyrLeader from Fort entering the room, with MasterHarper Epipahny's hand tucked firmly in the crook of his arm. Dal's eyebrows shoot upward into his hairline at the steely expression and he gulps, swallowing convulsively. Thank Faranth that stern visage isn't turned on /him!

Epiphany walks in.

Epiphany stays close to M'an's side... as if she'd have a choice otherwise, as protectively as he is hovering over her presently. She offers warm smiles to various people as they catch her eye, and settles in next to the Weyrleader to observe the class. Leshana takes the charts from the apprentice as he returns, setting the boards up on an easel and then turning, at last, to those gathered. "I'd like to thank you for taking the time to attend, I know some of you have busy schedules of your own which need to be attended, so I shall attempt to be as brief as possible. This-" she points at the chart depicting the human form with the major arteries and organs pointed out. "Is the subject of our lesson. Rather, the preservation of the life of this form in extreme or unusual situations. With the strange weather patterns that we have been experiencing as well as the threat of thread's return, it is imperative that we teach as many as will learn the basics of first aid."

That monstrously-sized fellow in the back - by his knot, a brownrider - narrows his eyes as the Weyrleader and Masterharper enter, giving the latter a very long look before he jostles his way through the other Fortians. Reaching M'an's side, he bends and murmurs something only for the Weyrleader's ear. M'an tears his eyes away from Leshana - well, let's be honest, he was actually giving the crowd a close scrutiny - to glance up at the man and nod. And right behind them is where T'cre (that's his name, you know) stands. For the rest of the show.

With most of his attention on the Healer, (who hasn't, to Dalthaine's knowledge, given her name) Dalthaine doesn't /really/ pay that much attention to the WeyrLeader and the MasterHarper... that is, until the moving mountain of flesh moves to stand guard (stand guard? Over a WeyrLeader??) over the pair. He squirms in his seat a bit, not quite comfortable with that notion, but unwilling to say or do anything that might attract undue attention to himself. So, shaking his head a bit, Dal turns his attention once more to the Healer and her discourse.

Epiphany glances up at T'cre, then gives M'an an elegantly raised eyebrow in silent question, before she looks back towards the healer. Her hand remains tucked on the bronzerider's arm.

"My name is Leshana, and I shall be the one who attempts to bring you this knowledge. There will, of course, be several lessons given by myself and others at your various holds, crafts, and weyrs in the future." The healer finally gives a greeting bow and then it's right to business. "The first basic and, indeed, the very most important rule to remember is that the patient is never to be moved unless not doing so will add to the danger of their situation. The most dangerous injuries are those that cannot be seen. Injuries to internal organs and to the skeletal structure can be fatal if the subject is moved. If you are attending a person who is injured, the first step is to try to calm them and instruct them to remain still so that their condition can be assessed." One hand is held up to hush a couple of noisy Healer apprentices. "Don't worry, I'll get to the interesting part very soon."

Dalthaine scribbles in his journal, and then he looks up, with a concerned look on his face. Not quite sure of the protocol here, he raises his hand in the air, and gently waves it about, trying to attract the healer's attention.

T'cre isn't standing guard at all. He just doesn't like sitting down - hemrrhoid problems, you know. One of the things they don't tell you about when you're signing up to be a dragonrider - forty or fifty years into it and these things happen. It just so happens that behind M'an and Epiphany is the most comfortable place to stand. From here he can glare at the younger weyrfolk, whose giggling squelches immediately. From here he can clear his throat at the codger falling asleep - already - at the end of the bench. From here he can glance down the Harper's dr- uh, make sure Epiphany doesn't try to run away from the Weyrleader. M'an seems oblivious to everything except Leshana's instruction.

Leshana walks over to the table. "Now, in most cases the person who needs basic first aid will have an injury that requires bandaging until they can get themselves to a healer. Cuts, sprains, and the like are by no means life threatening. It is those that we'll be focusing on in this lesson while touching on what should be done in more extreme situations. For now, just know that you should only apply the basics until a healer can attend." Dalthaine is pointed toward, though she does flash a studying look toward the standing rider and those he's /not/ guarding. "Yes?"

Dalthaine sits taller in his chair, and has to ask his question, even though a lot of the healer apprentices will probably snigger at him. "Healer Leshana? What do you do when you're not sure just how badly the person is injured, but you've got to move them anyways?"

Epiphany flicks looks up at T'cre occasionally, simply not used to having tall people behind her. At least not like such a looming thing.

By his air of unconcern, one might surmise that M'an spends all day being shadowed by a very large and angry-looking dragonrider. But then, he just might - who knows /what/ they do at those strange and improper Weyrs. As the lesson winds on his grip on Epiphany slackens just slightly, his expression softening a bit as well - going from steel to about a nice bendable tin. Still metallic, shiny, and hard, though. His walnut gaze drops to Dalthaine for a moment, so that he just misses the look Leshana sends T'cre.

Leshana ahs, nodding at the question. "That's a very good question, which I'll cover first. If the person must be moved and they cannot move on their own or you suspect that there may be internal injuries, then they should be strapped to a supportive device of some sort. Ideally, there will be what we call a back board available for use. In the case where there isn't, one should be improvised as quickly as possible." The board is pointed to with its many straps and buckles. "Now, once you have the--" There's no time for the Healer to go on as the scuffing of chairs and an uproar of voices interrupts and, from the midst of a startled crowd, a solitary figure with a Weaver's knot lunges at the Fort Weyrleader. "Tyrants!" the apparent Journeyman yells as he attempts to put his shears through the dragonrider's chest only to be stopped by yet another crafter with the knot of a Harper, who takes the stab intended for M'an, but in the much softer area of the stomach.

A split second of shock, then M'an's instincts take over. What's the first thing they do? Unceremoniously shove Epiphany back and to the side, toppling the Harper out of her chair and under T'cre's very protective shadow but leaving his flank totally exposed. If not for the Harper's swift moment, he surely would have suffered a grave injury; as it is, he writhes in his seat to right himself, springing up to lunge at his would-be assassin. T'cre bends to sweep Epiphany into his grip, making it very clear just who was being protected by the massive dragonrider.

From the courtyard, the landing area, the fireheights: an ear-ringing chorus of brazen voices ring out in anger from draconic throats, reverberating the very stones of the Hall.

Dalthaine's jaw drops in surprise. Then his own reactions kick in. He stands up quickly, and makes his way over to where the other Harper is injured. Not sure just what to do, he reacts on instinct, whipping off his soft cotton suede vest and placing it over the wound in the man's gut. He places gentle but firm pressure on the man, hoping to Faranth that the fellows guts don't come tumbling out. "Here now, lay still till Healer Leshana gets here."

The last thing Epiphany remembers is sitting watching a healing demonstration. The next thing she knows, she's in the arms of a huge brownrider. Her eyes go wide as she realizes who was attacked... the Weyrleader and one of her harpers. She's not sure who to worry about most, but the first name that comes to her lips is, "M'an!" She would go to him, if she weren't so effectively being protected for her own... er, protection.

Leshana holds up a hand to attempt to control the chaos. "Faranth's tail, would you keep those beasts quiet?! Meaning no disrespect," she adds, hurrying over to the injured Harper, all the while pointing toward the Weaver. "Restrain him, if you please. I'm sure the Masterweaver will find this interesting... Oh for the love of all that's under the sky, move back!" You, I need the bag from the table- Mind your hands!" The order is barked at whoever is closest as she tears at the Harper's tunic. "It's shallow enough, you're lucky it wasn't a Healer, or it would have been a proper cutting edge." A glance is given upward and she's as calm and collected as can be. "You're unharmed, then?"

Dalthaine looks up, relieved, as Leshana arrives to tend to the man. He looks a bit startled as she barks at him to move back, and his chin quivers a bit at the firm scolding. But he raises his head and firms that errant chin. He's done nothing wrong, and maybe even some measure of good, stanching the flow of blood as he did. After all, that's what the Healer siad was the most important part of first aid -- controlling the bleeding. Moving back, he lets his eyes rove over the crowd, noting details about the weaver, like height, hair color, clothing. As he makes his way back to his kicked-back chair and fallen journal, he swoops down to retrieve the book, rips a page from the back ans hastily scribbles down exactly what he saw happened, his impressions and various other details...only eliminating the fact that the first name called by the MasterHarper was that of the WeyrLeader, M'an.

A few men manage to get the assailant under control, which is just as well. By the look on his face, M'an would've done some serious damage to the man on his own. If you thought he looked steely before, now he's downright adamantine. "Shears?" he practically sneers, wresting the 'weapon' away from the man as a bunch of his riders gather around the 'Weaver'. "I'm unharmed, thank you," he replies over his shoulder to the Healer. As he turns, his eyes dart until they find the Masterharper firmly wrapped in the bulk of T'cre, and something flickers deep in them. But it's gone and he moves to Leshana's side. "And our savior - how is he?"

Leshana nods, pointing a gloved and bloodied hand toward Dalthaine. "Quick work, young man, you've done some good with the blood. He's going to need stitches," she notes to another Journeyman behind her. "We'll need one of the masters for this one, I'm afraid, the wound's messy and not at all a clean cut. It's a mercy that those shears were far too clean to belong to anyone actually practicing their craft." The patient begins to mumble something, but he's shushed quickly. "Your master's fine, young man, but if you don't shut up and breath from that swab, you won't be." In other words, be good and take your drugs. "He'll be just fine providing he stops fretting over the Masterharper. Honestly, you'd think he'd be worried about his own insides."

Epiphany looks up at T'cre and says icily, "Will you let go of me?" Wrenching her arms out of his grip, she immediately goes over to the Harper on the floor. "Easy now," she says. Of course she didn't call his name out... she didn't remember it precisely in the excitement. "I'm fine. You did a good job, Journeyman. Now you need to relax so the healers can tend you, all right?" She smiles warmly at the man. "Rest easy, now."

Dalthaine looks up from his writing and smiles, a wide smile full of relief that his fellow Harper's going to be ok, and also that Master Epiphany herself is all right. He finishes his writing of the incident, and checks it over, making sure it's clear and concise. Now, to see just what is going to happen with the fallout of this incident. And, when things calm down, to make sure that this gets back to Master Epiphany, for her to read and look over. Ripping another sheet from the end of his journal, Dal sits with pen poised to record the incident for posterity.

"We're quite lucky that some people value the Masterharper's well-being over their own lives," rumbles M'an, ignoring the fact that those shears were aimed at /his/ chest, not hers. As said lady breaks away, T'cre frowns and moves to recapture, only to be waved away by a subtle flick of the Weyrleader's hand; a few moments of silent communication and the cacophony of dragonvoices dims to a mere hum, then dies away completely. "Come now, gents, let's step away and let the Healers get to their work." Riders pull back and away, not-so-delicately wresting the rebel from his original captors (who look torn between glad to be rid of him and wary of the dragonmen). "Masterharper Epiphany, do you think we should contact Lord Darvael's guardsmen? They might have a secure place to keep the scoundrel." He lays but a fingertip on Epiphany's shoulder, and his voice is utterly respectful as he turns the situation over to her management. She is, after all, the Master Harper.

Leshana waves over the Journeymen with the board and helps to move the patient onto it before giving Epiphany a grateful look. "In the light of all of the excitement, I think it might be best to reschedule our lesson. I'm sure the guards will want to secure the area. Those below master rank are asked to not leave the room unless they're vouched for by the Masterharper or Fort's Weyrleader-- no arguments, they're the ranking individuals here. As for you," she indicate the none so delicately handled prisoner. "Hold him still, would you?" The same concoction that was used to knock out the Harper is applied to a tissue and held at the attacker's nose in order to render him 'knocked out'. "Put him in a barrel and nail the ends shut." Her voice carries an acidic tone. "Or whatever you must but get this filth out of the hall, if you please. We save lives here."

The riders holding Mr. X positively glow at Leshana's suggestion, and begin muttering their own embellishments: "Dangle him by his toes from adragonback." "Bury him to his neck in the hatching sands." "Drop him ::between::." It's just as well he'ls unconscious now; hearing all of that certainly wouldn't make him feel any better about having failed his mission. People mill about the room rather uncertainly, muttering and chattering among themselves. Speculation abounds.

Epiphany nods at M'an and says, "I'm sure that the Hold has ample resources for taking care of... that." Her disgust at the now unconscious man is not even disguised. She sweeps a look over the room at the various apprentices and journeymen in the room. Narrowing her eyes at a few who avert their gaze from hers, she says to one of the burly men about, "I think those two there should be escorted with our 'weaver' to the Hold's facilities." Guilty or not, she thinks they might know something given their behavior. She gets to her feet, brushing her skirt out with sharp motions. "A good suggestion, Journeyman," she says to Leshana. "I doubt anyone could focus on lessons right now anyway."

Writing so much so fast has given Dalthaine a cramp in his hand, so he shakes it out as he makes his way over to the Masterharper with his written version of the... happenings, including his own speculations of other guilty parties.. which just so happen to match those of his Master. "Master Epiphany? I wrote down all that's happened here, along with my impressions and interpretation of who else was guilty, which matched all the fellas who looked away as you glanced at 'em." He hands her his pair of closely written sheets, and then smiles up at her, attempting to lighten the mood a wee bit. "You were so very right, Master. Having a journal came in /very/ handy today! Not only was I able to witness this disgusting behaviour, but I also learned that the major point of first aid is to control the bleeding!" He then looks down at his blood-stained vest, and the happiness drains from his face. "Only, now I've got to get me a new vest. Ah, well. Ye take the bad with the good, I su! ppose."

M'an nods silently at one of the other riders - a slender woman of about thirty, with keen eyes and a hand that lingers very familiarly at her beltknife. She slips up to his side. "Lyta, please find the nearest guard and inform him what's happened - I'm sure they'll be around with all the noise our 'mate have made." Yes, /that/ Lyta, the one who's famed for her dueling abilities. The wiry woman nods and darts out with a fighter's grace. "R'denadon, F'miri, please escort our folk out. Leave Eaerdor here, though." The man so named, his eyes locked on the Weyrleader, twitches. M'an stares very deliberately at him for a moment, then singles out another of his entourage. "Kestrom, I want you home ahead of everyone. Tell Ghared yes. He'll know what I mean." The bluerider salutes and strides quickly out, ahead of the shuffling Weyrfolk herded by their rides. M'an exhales slowly, finally able to bring his attention back to the Masterharper and her enterprising Apprentice.

Leshana removes her gloves and rubs at her forehead. "What's .. oh! Bloodstains are the worst things, aren't they? Here, I've just the thing. Not with me, but I can write you out an order for enough to soak that in." A bit of parchment is snatched from the table and torn in order to write down a short note that's signed with her name. "Just drop by the pharmacist's- that's just down at the end of the hall, there, and to the left- and he'll set you to rights. Follow the instructions or it'll be the worse for the wear." Once her gloves are removed, she rubs at the bridge of her nose. "I'll see to it that something to eat and drink is brought in for those who have to stay behind for questioning and then return to give my own statement, but I dare say that that Apprentice has the right of things as he wrote them."

Epiphany looks over Dalthaine's report and smiles. "Excellent work, Apprentice. You've a good jump on getting your Journeyman's knot, I dare say." She sighs a bit rubbing her own cheeks a bit. Oy. "I think that the Hold guards can effectively question everyone who witnessed this, in case there was something the apprentice here didn't see himself." Any help will be good.

Dalthaine sure didn't include any speculations about riders in his report, since he doesn't know any of them anyways.. not realy. He ducks his head at Master Epiphany's praise, and the tips of his ears go red as the young man blushes. Wow, she said that he had a good start on his Journeyman's knot! Him, Dalthaine, a Harper Journeyman-to-be! He smiles again, and says softly, "Thank you, Master Epiphany." Moving forward, he takes the perscription from /Journeyman/ Leshana's hand, and nods as he tries to decipher the writing. "Thank you, Healer Journeyman, I'll follow the instructions given about my vest." Turning back, he becomes aware of the scrutiny of Fort Weyr's leader and, working up his courage, he tenders a small smile as he says softly, "I'm glad you're ok, sir. I know that that fella was looking to make you the first victim on the stretcher."

"I truly appreciate your concern, Apprentice," replies the Weyrleader with equal softness and gravity. "The Weyr values its Harper friends very deeply." And then the man cracks a smile, something that transforms him from the stern leader to a friendly old Uncle. "Although I have to say, if that man and his friends are just a little more patient, time will for them do what dull shears couldn't." It's a joke about his age, see. "Do you mind if I accompany you to the Pharmacist's, young man? I think my riders can take care of some things here, and there are some ingredients I need to pick up myself." Not to mention it wouldn't hurt having someone nearby on the walk there. Just in case.

Leshana bows to the others. "I'll excuse myself, then, and see to getting something to keep the crowd happy." With that, she's discarding her gloves into a container and heading off to run her errand. "I'll send word with the condition of your Journeyman as soon as it's available, Masterharper, but he seemed to be in good condition and should be fine after a little rest and healing."

Dalthaine looks up at the WeyrLeader again and is amazed at the transformation to his face. Instead of some grim and foreboding 'tyrant', M'an now seems as friendly as an old Uncle up at the Hall. He smiles, and if his chest puffs out just a little in adolescent pride, well, it can't be helped, as it's quite an honor to be asked to accompany the WeyrLeader... even if it /is/ only to the Pharmacy. "No sir, I don't mind at all." His voice is even, and there is no hint of the pride he's feeling displayed in his tone. "Master Epiphany, is there anything you might need at the Pharmacy as well?" Is Dalthaine playing Matchmaker? Or merely offering a way for the Master to escape the chaos? You decide.

Epiphany shakes her head at the offer. "No, I'll be fine. But I should likely get to writing up a record to send to the other leaders about this incident." She offers a faint smile to M'an. "I'm sure you'll be in good hands, Apprentice."
"Pleas

e accept T'cre as an escort, my Lady." M'an's expression turns grave once more, though his eyes nearly plead with the Masterharper. "I'm certain that your own Harpers are protection enough, but having a dragonrider along will allow you to summon help instantaneously." And a mountain-sized rider might be a bit of a help as well. Possibly. T'cre himself bows deeply to the Harper, remaining silent. "He's not much on conversation, but he's a very good man, I assure you." Giving his fellow a grin and a thump on the shoulder - the brownrider grunts and grimaces, which might be a returning smile - M'an turns away, but not without a last pointed look at the Masterharper. "This way, Apprentice... I think."

Infirmary Shelves of medicines and tonics line the walls on either side of the door, and an examination table sits in the center of the room. A tray of medical tools is seated at the side of the exam table along with a bottle of redwort and a jar of numbweed. There is a tapestry chart hanging on one wall depicting the human bone structure. There is also a heat converter set against one wall as well as a hearth that usually brims with some sort of herbal remedy. Obvious exits: Main Hall Landing Area Garden Doors

Dalthaine makes his way over to the Healer Journeyman who seems to be in charge of the medicinals. "Excuse me, sir? I was given this perscription by Journeyman Leshana, and she told me to give it to you and that I was to follow the instructions on how to get some blood out of my vest?" He holds out the scrap of paper with the writing on it, and tries, unsuccessfully, to hide the bloodied article of clothing where it won't drip blood on the floor. The Journeyman nods his head, and takes a bottle from off a shelf, pours a goodly measure into another bottle, and then writes out the instructions in a small script. "Iff'n ye don't foller the instructions EXACTLY, I canna guarantee the blood coomin out," he warns.

M'an does a fairly good job of being nondescript for such a descript personage, hanging back while Dalthaine gets the vest business taken care of. He's peering curiously up at the highest shelf, stocked with small vials, when an apprentice quietly approachest and murmurs to him. "Oh! Sorry... yes, do you suppose you could get me these?" He pulls a list from a pocket inside his jacket; the apprentice glosses it and scurries off, gathering what seem to be dried herbs from hither and yon. A few he consults with Journeymen about. "Don't worry about it too much, Apprentice," consoles the bronzerider, eyeing Dalthaine's vest. "If it doesn't come out, just let Master Epiphany know. I'll see to it that it's replaced. After all, it was ruined in service to the Weyr, and the Weyr always repays its debts."

Dalthaine looks at M'an, eyes wide. "In service to the Weyr? Well, if you say so. Actually, I think it was in service to the Harper Hall, but no matter. If it doesn't come clean, I /will/ let Master Epiphany know." He collects the large bottle form the Journeyman, and tries yet again to read the instructions. Mumbling under his breath, he recites, "Blend with hot h-two-oh... sir? What's an h-two-oh?" That sounds like it must be some kind of rare and exotic ingredient. The man's face wrinkles in surprise, as he takes back the script and writes something else in place of the word already there. "H20, sonny, is water. Ye mix this stuff with hot water. First, ye soak yer vest in COLD water, then heat a kettle of water to boiling, mix this bottle with it and soak yer vest in it for 15 minutes."

"Yes, to the Harper Hall, which was acting in service to the Weyr." It all comes back to that. M'an looks rather sympathetically at the young man, not envying the idea of slaving over laundry. But in short order his own needs have been filled: the Healer Apprentice trots up with a bulging packet. "Here you are, sir. The Journeymen say to be careful with the ashleaf in larger quantities, as it can be lethal - but you probably already know that, don't you, since you're asking for it." Shrugging at dragonrider eccentricities, he hands over the package. "Thank you very much, Apprentice," answers M'an, stowing his package. "Well, young Harper, here is where we part ways. Good luck with your vest, and please keep an eye on your Master for me. She needs all the support she can get."

Taking back the paper, and tucking the bottle under is arm, Dalthaine nods solemnly. "Oh, I will, sir. Master Epiphany's the best, and I'll watch for her to the best of my ability." Which isn't much, as he's only an apprentice, but he has a feeling that the two, WeyrLeader and MasterHarper, are more than just friends... unless it all boils down to the Thread-returning-rumor? He's not sure, and is eager to get to work on what seems to be a looooong project with his vest. "Well met, WeyrLeader of Fort, and may you have clear skies with your lifemate." With that., Dal turns and makes his way back to the HarperHall.

A (mis?)education in politics.

Drunken Firelizard Tavern Curiosities from every corner of Pern bedeck the high ceilings of the Tavern, giving truth to its name. Tall windows line the walls, their wide sills a perfect spot for the local firelizards to perch. A large, meticulously polished bronze bell hangs behind the bar, oft times used to signal closing to the more inebriated customers. The bell's hanging beam is the preferred spot for Hold and visiting firelizards, as many find their distorted reflections fascinating to no end. Obvious exits: Courtyard

This time of day, the usually boisterous Firelizard is quite subdued, with the fires crackling merrily to add some sound to the very empty air. It would be the perfect time for a handyman to slip in and do some needed repairs, and indeed Japh is here - but he's not handymaning, at least not at first glance. Instead, he's in a comfortable-looking chair by the corner window, a tankard by his right side as he leans on an elbow and stares sightlessly out the window.

Malthace slips through the door of the Drunken Firelizard smoothly--a characteristic not currently mirrored in her countenance. Her features obviously display her weariness as she eases toward the bar. Leaning tiredly against the counter, the young woman mutters her order to the bartender and awaits delivery. After a long moment, he hands her a mug and her eyes scan the room disheartenedly at the lack of decent seating. With a bit more effort, the girl eyes a few empty seats near a window and makes her way over, in no obvious hurry. As she takes her seat, she glances over in surprise. "You again," she says in surprise, and not unkindly.

Japh hmmmms? absently, raising his mug to his lips and halfway to a sip before he realizes he was actually spoken to and the voice is familiar. He straightens in his seat, putting the tankard aside before even looking to see it's Malthace. He's on his feet immediately, bobbing just slightly - it's polite to rise when a woman enters the room, after all. But since Malthace has seated herself already, he eases down as well, much more alert. "Again," he confirms, a touch glumly and his gaze downcast before he can wrench it back up to her face again.

Malthace smiles sweetly (a rare occurence for her) as he stands politely, nodding her head in return. However, at the note of his tone, she sets her drink down and her face twists in uncertainty. "Um, is everything okay?" She leans forward a bit and looks on with genuine concern. Pushing her hair from her eyes, she waves Dorian from her shoulder to stop his tugging on her hair himself. Begrudgingly, he flits to the windowsill and peers out.

Japh barely notices the little brown's movements, let alone flinches at them as per usual (although he has been slowly getting used to the bundle of trouble). He sees the concern in Thacia's eyes and smiles a bit despite himself. "Could say no, save y' some trouble, but don' think y'd believe me, would ya?" His mild brown gaze searches her face and he shakes his head, grinning ruefully. "Too smart f' that, y'are."

Malthace looks a bit relieved at the smile, and his comment cause the corners of her mouth to quirk upwards, despite herself. "I don't know about smart, but I will say I wouldn't believe you if you said 'no'." She quirks her head to one side and raises her eyebrows in a friendly, expectant way. "If something's bothering you, you're welcome to tell me about it." She almost looks surprised at herself--this type of attitude is unusual for her, and she knows it.

Japh bahs and waves a hand, leaning back and taking a slug of whatever he's drinking in an overtly offhand manner. "Nothin' bad, nothin' bad," he insists, only to abruptly shift his posture and hunch over in the seat conspiratorially, eyes darting this and that to make sure nobody's listening. "Only - d'ya feel it? C'n ya tell? Tense, all over." He gestures with his free hand, a circle that encompasses the whole of the Hold. "Lord Bihl and his folk aren't happy." The man speaks of his former Lord with consummate respect, yet without a smidge of slur for Torikan. It's a fine line he's walking.

Malthace leans forward so as to hear better as he hunches in his seat. Eyebrows raised like a child hearing a huge secret. "I /was/ wondering why everyone was so stiff..." Trailing off, the girl takes a distract sip from the mug formerly forgotten on the table. Setting it back down, she brushes her hair back and purses her lips. "What do you think will happen?"

Japh lifts one shoulder eloquently. "Don' think even th' Harpers know," he says flatly, his dislike of /that/ type very evident. "Had it from one a th' guards that there've been threats, y'know. To both Lords. No ideas where they're from, who they're from, what they are. But threats...." His moderate voice trails off as he shakes his head in concern. "'F they're from th' dragonmen, there'll be trouble f' sure. Big trouble."

Malthace smirks at his obvious opinion of the musical types. "That's... not good." Another sip of the mug and its back on the table, girl oblivious as it sloshes on her hand. "What do you think the dragonmen would want to threaten the Lords for?" Her features twist into a pondering countenance, and her fist comes under her chin to prop her head on as she thinks. "What do you think will happen?" Quite the inquisitive little Hold girl.

Japh raps a knuckle on the table. "Use that bright head, girl," he chides, his smile rather mentorly and yet cunning at the same time. "S'been no Thread for over eight hundred Turns. We're gettin'-" Pause; he starts again, more carefully: "-the Holds are gettin' grumpy 'bout feedin' the Weyrs, who don' do much but cause trouble, from what ya hear down my way. Now they say Thread's comin' back. S' that just a threat t'keep us down? If it ain't, an' it comes back, they say there ain't enough riders to save 'r shells anyway. Either way, th' riders 'r in a tight spot, one that'd be a far sight less tight wit'out canny ol' Holders like Bihl who can see through tha' sorta thing." The normally taciturn man has loosed a veritable torrent of verbage, and with an eagerness that implies that while gossip is impolite and improper, speculation on current events is not.

Malthace hrms quietly, and finally nods her head. "Makes sense. Its all so complicated though..." Sighing, Thacia grabs her mug and downs the remainder of the contents quickly and cleanly. "I suppose you can't really have a big problem like that /without/ it being complicated." Shaking her head, the girl calls her little brown back over and strokes his head gently. "What's your take on this?" Searching his face thoroughly, she quirks a brow.

Japh watches Malthace pet her friend with something akin to - could that be - envy? "Don't know," he admits grudgingly. "Hard t' say. From Keroon, y'know. Lord Bihl's a good man, good Holder. His little girl Namyste- " nevermind that she's not much younger than Japh himself "- she's a good worker. Useful, and pretty like a Lady should be." Apparently it's okay for Lady Holders to be beautiful. So long as they're useful. "Make a good wife for Torikan. Him... don't know. Don't know him long, haven't seen him working. If he's holding Bihl by force... well, that speaks volumes. 'd have to leave, if that're the case. Won't stay with a man like that."

Malthace misses the envy in his eyes--Thace tends to be oblivious to those sort of things. However, her eyebrow manages to twitch a bit on his compliments of the Lady Holder--Thace has never considered herself pretty and, on occasion, she is sensitive about it. She manages a quick recovery, though, and nods on his opinions. "Yeah, I don't know all that much 'bout Torikan myself." Glancing through the window, Thacia assesses the light and frowns in disappointment. "I'm afraid I offered to help out one of the Hold girls... Guess we'll have to continue this discussion later?" The girl ends her question with a faint hint of hopefulness in her voice.

The nudge makes Japh recall himself, and he looks around furtively. "Dunno, could be dangerous t' talk too much, y'know. Might be heard by the wrong people. Might be dangerous." Could it be? Level-headed, amiable, polite Japh a conspiracy theorist? Studying Malthace carefully for a long moment, he finally nods. "But more dangerous not t' have it all planned out. A'right. Talk again later - maybe somewhere less public. 'll look int' it." He rises again, apparently in anticipation of her departure, bobbing politely once more.

Malthace purses her lips in disappointment as he first denies her request, but brightens faintly as he concedes. With a nod, she manages a faint smile. "Well, I'll see you later then." She nods her head politely in return, then turns and swiftly exits the tavern, a look of embarrassment crossing her features once she turns away from the man she was speaking to.

Benden Living Cavern A Gathering

Living Cavern The domed ceiling of Benden Weyr's living cavern is ever filled with a warm and friendly ambiance. Several ventilation shafts open up at the ceiling to allow the passage of fresh air inside, formed from the natural crevices of the ancient volcano, while the walls are brightly decorated with accented designs from colored cements used to fill in cracks in the stone. The living cavern is filled with stout, highly carved tables where riders and Weyrfolk work, talk, and relax. The hearths are always lit and pots of stew and klah are always available, though the klah supply drops dramatically in the mornings. Trays of food are brought in by the drudges every so often, topped with meatrolls (covered so that the firelizards don't get them), bubblies, and other treats. Imani Stocky without being stout, Imani manages to seem huge despite an unimpressive height of five feet six inches. She moves with a stride that breathes control, a confident walk without hesitation. Her hair is groomed short, spiking at the top and cut evenly except for the two foot long braid which dangles from the right side of her head. What hair she has is a rich, warm cocoa, bleached by the looming summer to streaked sienna. Under heavy, expressive brows, her eyes are a cool grey-green, almond-shaped pools creased at the corners with many laugh lines. Quick to smile and quick to fume, she has an air of joy and suppressed energy waiting to be released. Not the one for fancy dresses, Imani can usually be found in a plain tunic or vest with a matching blouse underneath it. She's notably fond of trousers or pants, almost never caught in a skirt. If it makes her seem more boyish, she doesn't seem to care. Imani looks to be in her late teens. She is awake and looks alert. Krysa arrives from Outside the Living Cavern. K'pan is sitting at a table reading over a number of scrolls shaking his head and can be heard mumbling under his breath, "Sharding idiots, don't know what they were thinking.."

Imani sidles in from the bowl, fresh from the field and basking in her own self-importance. Hey, tithing notices are important, too. The messenger dusts her gloves on her riding pants with cheerful abandon, peeling them off and flopping down at a convenient table still smelling of runner sweat and covered in dust. Who needs /baths/? Ha.

Krysa strolls into the cavern, a creening baby flit in one arm, stack of hides in the other as the greenrider threads her way through toward an empty table. "Shards, I'm getting you some food. Daft little thing." Hides get deposited as she slides into the seat, free arm waving over a passing drudge. "Klah and some food for this one, and please hurry."

K'pan glances up from the scrolls and nods at the messenger before returning his attention back to them, "I don't understand why my family can't just get along without having to drag me into things. I mean it's not as if I'm there alot." The mumbling has risen in volume a touch as he shakes his head in frustration.

Imani does offer K'pan a friendly wave and respectful nod of her head, catching the drudge on her way by for the greenrider to add, "Juice for me, also, please? Thanks!" The little squalling Thing is noted with a flinch and a face. "Noisy beastie...how can you stand all that? Sure it's not ill?" Imani wouldn't know the art of flizzen-pleasing. "Are they supposed to make that noise?"

Krysa sighs as the screeching finally stops, the newly arrived plate of morsels drawing the young green's attention. Eyes narrow as Krysa looks over the dusty messenger, slowly sipping her drink. "Shards no, she's just hungry, not too long out of the shell this one is. Looks like you've had a long trip. Welcome to Benden." Picking up the top hide, the mumbling bronzerider is finally noticed, flit creening a huge distraction of course. "K'pan? Problems?"

K'pan raises his head from the scrolls and shoves them to one side, "No more than usual, my family seems to think I can solve all their problems for them...sharding fools have nothing better to do than fight over silly things."

Imani shuffles out of her riding vest and lays it on the seat beside her, revealing a scruffy knot boasting Benden colors. "Welcome back, of course," she smiles, taking her drink as it's brought with an appreciative nod. "Long trip, indeed...all the backwater Holds the past sevenday, it feels like." Which is, of course, not true. Just one or two. Imani settles herself over her juice, savoring the coldness. Ahhh.

Krysa raises her mug in his direction. "Best of luck with that, I've never had to deal with those types of problems.. having no family and all. Seems like a big hassle... too much trouble for what they are worth. Glad I haven't had kids yet either." 'Brow raises as the Benden knot is revealed, the messenger once again getting a closer inspection. "Shards, well then, aye, welcome back. Name's Krysa, green Seraphynth's rider, wingleader of Kasai, don't think we've ever met."

Imani laughs merrily. "S'allright, not as if I'm even at the Weyr that often. Well met, lady Krysa. Th'name's Imani, Benden messenger. Family can be a funny thing, I always got along with mine..but that's just because Papa had an heir before he had me. I lucked out there." Grinsmug. Thank Faranth for brothers.

K'pan snorts, "Well it's not as if I had a choice in who my family was I'm afraid, besides I suppose it is sort of flattering they think I can solve everything for them." he turns to the messenger, "Welcome back I'm K'pan rider of bronze Korinth..."

Imani nods in K'pan's direction. "Well met. Imani, messenger." Whee~.

Krysa gathers up the now sated green and tucks her gently in the crook of an arm, nodding toward Imani. "Well met, aye, well met indeed Imani, and drop that lady business, I an't no lady... just a simple rider." A stray golden lock is tucked behind an ear as the bronzer is regarded. "That's very true... you can't pick your family... and aye, it is flattering to you. I'd just advise to make sure that they don't rely on you for /every/ little thing... I could see it driving anyone daft, trying to solve other people's problems... all the time."

K'pan gives a wry laugh, "Unfortunately it's too late for that as it seems they've decided that since I'm a rider, and I ride a bronze dragon I know more than anyone else so therefore can solve all their problems."

Imani sips her juice, expression mild. "Considered asking somebody for help?" she offers, peering across at the bronzerider over her mug. "They'd never know the difference, would they?"

Krysa raises her mug in K'pan's direction. "Well, that be the case, you have my best wishes..." A head nod is directed toward Imani, "Aye true enough, if you need any help, just ask, and you will have mine. Several people, different points of view, easier to figure out a solution to the problem."

K'pan gives a wry grin, "Careful I might just take you up on that offer, and then you'll never know a moment's peace." K'pan takes a sip of juice as he rolls up the scrols again and places them off to the side.

Imani shrugs lightly. "The benefits of having a Holder for a brother is you can get insights without getting your hands dirty. He complains enough." She smiles. "That's what we're here for, though. To help the menfolk?" We all know the menfolk can't handle things on their own, naturally.

Krysa tries to hide her chuckles behind a fit of coughs at Imani's last words, but it was a lame attempt at best. "Help the menfolk? Hum..." Trying not to smurk, the greenrider shrugs before sitting back in her chair once again. "Aye, K'pan, offer was freely given... let me know if I can help out in any way. I'd never hear the end of it from Sera if I at least didn't try to help."

K'pan quirks an eyebrow at Imani's statement about menfolk, "I'll have you know I'm a menfolk and am more than capable of 'handling' things on my own...now womenfolk well they're a different kettle of packtail's altogether."

Imani arches both brows, mouth forming a skeptical O. "...of course," she agrees amiably, hiding her smile behind a sip of juice. "Well then, ought we to withdraw our offers of assistance, then? If you're capable, then by all means.." Haha. Is she /mocking/ K'pan? Surely not. It's the runners getting to her head. "Behind a good man is a woman cleaning up his mess...if I know males." Harr.

Krysa doesn't even try to hide the bark of laughter that emerges in response to /that/ comment. "Shards, Imani... I really think I like you. But, you got some strange ideas about menfolk, especially the ones here at /this/ weyr. I know some who are more than capable of taking care of themselves. Our weyrleader, T'on, K'pan here... just to name a few." A sly grin crosses her features as she nods toward the bronzer, before signaling for her klah to be topped off. "And to /us/ womenfolk... well, them men /do/ have their uses after all." Enough said.

K'pan snorts and shakes his head, "Well I don't know about a woman cleaning up anything after a male since we males normally don't leave messes lying about for anyone to clean up. But if you'd like I'm sure I could have a word with the headwoman to see if she could find some for you to clean up in your spare time?"

Imani laughs-- but at that last comment, it's cut off a bit sharply. Aw, K'pan had to spoil the fun. She colors just a bit, watching K'pan steadily. "Spare time? In these times when does a messenger have spare time but for a cup of juice between runs?" She thinks about his first comment, and tries not to smile. "Should I assume that your request for help is withdrawn?" A brow quirks.

Krysa leans back and simply sips her klah, shards this is entertaining, much more so than going over the hides. "Well..." Um, nope. Not going to interfere this is just interesting watching.

K'pan just shakes his head, "Well might just check in with her see if you can be temporarily re-assigned to cleaning duties.who knows I heard she's short of help at the moment..and no I appreciate the offer of help." He gives a smile and winks to Krysa before finishing off his juice.

Imani shifts a little in her seat. Darn these pesky riders and their Powers. Bah. How to make ammends? "I'm sure the Headwoman doesn't want a dirty old thing like me folding linens," she remarks, tone subdued and maybe a bit grouchy.

Krysa grins and nods toward K'pan. "Well, this has been entertaining, but, duty calls." Hides are gathered and the sleepy flit is transfered to a shoulder. "Imani, well met once again, and K'pan... the offer still stands." With a grin, the greenrider strolls out, whistling a merry little tune.

K'pan snorts at Imani's statement and nods to Krysa as she leaves, "Thanks Krysa that's appreciated." then turns his attention back to Imani, "Well I'm sure the headwoman would arrange to have you scrubbed and cleaned before she put you to work, wouldn't do to leave finger prints on clean clothes or linen."

Imani tries not to scowl at her mug of soup. Yep, K'pan's definitely not fun. "Eh," she grunts, offering no further comment. She can't think of any way to get even right now, however. "Well, were we going to have a look at those complaints or what?" Divert attention! Righto!

Fingerprints on clean clothes and linen? It's easy to tell that's Aoifen's specialty as he trots up from the lower caverns. His hair is wet, and his face is slightly pink, so he must've just had a bath - but his hands are already covered in dust and grime almost up to the elbows. He beelines for the beverage table.

K'pan laughs at Imani's attempt to divert attention from the talk of reassignment, even a temporary one. "Well now it seems my brother's herdbeasts wandered into a neighbours field and caused some damage to the crops, he's wondering what a fair compensation would be for the damages.." Imani is hard pressed not to smirk. See? A man's made a mess. We mustn't giggle, though. Nope. "Well," she replies instead, repositioning to K'pan's table with a polite nod to Aoifen, "If he grows any crops himself, a trade might be in order. I would see whether his neighbor has a shortage of some kind and make a trade equal to the damage done. Was it especially bad?"

As he passes by K'pan and Imani's table, Aoifen does his best to look unnoticeable, covertly looking the pair over just in case they're in league with the Weyrwoman's Clean Committee. His eyes freeze for a moment on the bronzerider's knot, and when Imani nods to him, he looks positively frightened. He glances down at his soiled hands, winces, and makes an abrupt about-face for the washing basin.

K'pan catches Aoifen's movements out of the corner of his eye, then returns his attention to Imani, "Let me look, no actually it was quite light as he caught the herdbeasts before they did much damange to the crops seems some hold brat managed to get 'herself' into trouble over the incident."

Imani must not frown. Straight face! Dragonpoker! No signs, we musn't encourage reassignment. Cleaning is no fun. Her runner'd miss her. Really! Break the poor thing's heart. "Equal labor, maybe, if it's nothing serious. He might think about installing some fencing, at least enough to discourage them from wandering." Imani glances desparately in Aoifen's direction. Wait! Don't leave! Help!

Aoifen isn't leaving, just moving to the sideboard to scrub his hands thoroughly. So thoroughly that he ends up noisily sloshing dirty water all over the counter. Not that he notices, of course; fourtteen Turn olds aren't particularly observant of such things. Eventually, his hands are washed - his hands, not his forearms. Don't need them to eat, so they don't have to be clean, right?

"Well they were fenced till that holdbrat managed to open the gate and let them escape, not sure what caused her to do it but what done is done. Am sure that she will be well punished for her actions as it nearly caused alot of damage to the neighbour's fields and might have resulted in the loss of some animals" K'pan looks to Aoifen as he heads to the washbasin and frowns as only hands are cleaned, "You know the weyrwoman sure was angry with that resident who didn't properly clean themselves, would have hated to be in their shoes let me tell you."

Imani takes the chance while K'pan's head is turned to make a not-very-nice face. Poor girl was probably trying to feed the things all by herself because some lazy brother hadn't felt like it and they rushed her before she knew what was happening. She was probably lucky not to get trampled. Still, she isn't going to complain if mean old K'pan's sniping at someone else. Imani peers at the list, frowning in thought. "If her well is contaminated, he might have to try and tap a different source, or send a fire lizard down to see if something's leaking into the water. It might not be patchable."

Aoifen screeches to a halt and turns huge blue eyes on K'pan. "The Weyrwoman?" he squeaks, his lower lip trembling a bit. Has everyone heard about the scene the other night already? He'll never live down the shame! The boy's frightened gaze drops to his hands, turning them over - "But I washed..." he almost whispers.

K'pan raises an eyebrow at Aoifen's statement peering closely at his arms, "Oh really seems to me you might have missed a few parts there...and you really wouldn't want to have her angry at you now would you?" turning his attention back to Imani he nods, "Yes and they are getting that done..then there's the matter of food spoiling in the storage area...I suspect dampness is the culprit there."

Imani makes a face. "Yes. Not much for it but just taking an inventory and cleaning everything out. They might be able to minimalize labor if they can call in a favor. My father's Hold isn't far, I can write him and ask about it. It might be an easier fix than that, but I wouldn't know." Ah, poor Aoifen. Sniff. If only he knew.

Knew what? How mean K'pan is? Looks like Aoifen's finding that out right now. With the bronzerider's prompting, he finally realizes that his elbows need a scrub, and after giving the rider a little bow, he trots back to the basin again and once more begins sloshing the water about. At this rate, he'll die of thirst before he gets clean.

K'pan gives a fake scowl as he watches Aoifen clean himself a bit more, "Yes that will do the trick, the weyrwoman will be pleased when I tell her how well you managed to clean yourself up." He stands and heads to the serving tables and refills his glass with juice, "Thank you that would be a big help, as for the rest of this stuff it's just a matter of choosing which one's are more important and doing them first."

Imani looks relieved, and stands hastily to refill her own mug. Hey, being terrorized is thirsty business. Imani gestures a drudge over for a whispered conversation, and after some private chat the drudge heads off to the kitchens and Imani flops down, finally noticing as she's still covered in dust and grime. But you know what? SHE'S not washing /her/ hands. So there.

Aoifen's eyes widen again as K'pan addresses him once more, but this time he hardly looks frightened. In fact, he looks almost... admiring? "Will you really tell her that, sir?" he asks breathlessly, dogging the rider's steps over to the juice and filling himself a glass with *clean* hands while he's at it. "Will you really tell her that I washed well?"

K'pan smiles and nods his head, "Yes I'll tell her that, she'll be well pleased to hear it too." He turns his attention back to Imani, "You know you could be a better example to the rest of the weryfolk, specially with the weyrwoman on her 'cleanliness' campaign."

Imani glances K'pan's way. Shards. Bossy mean old K'pan. She'll remember this! Oh yes, and Imani /will/ get even. Don't think she won't. "When did the cleanliness campaign begin?" she asks, voice dripping sweetness.

Aoifen practically glows, unconsciously straightening his posture with the praise. He finds a place, just behind and to K'pan's right, and refuses to relinquish it. The boy's expression settles into one of firm reproval as he, too, looks at Imani, sipping his juice solemnly.

"It's been going on for awhile now, not sure when it started exactly but were I you Imani I'd work on keeping yourself a bit cleaner than you are right now otherwise she might reassign you permenantly to some other duty." K'pan re-rolls the scrolls again and nods his head, "So do be careful would be a shame if you ended up oh I don't know a stablehand or something else."

Imani watches K'pan, stone-faced. Oh, he will catch it some day. She can't say when...or how...but revenge will be hers! Oh, yes. Stormy grey-green eyes fix on Aoifen, boring into him. What're you lookin' at, runt? Grrr.

Aoifen edges a little more to the left, putting K'pan a little more between himself and Imani. But he's not completely cowed, because he pops his head out from around the rider to pipe, "There's a wash basin over there," and point with one clean finger to the mess he made, "or I can show you where the baths are." Immediately he looks up at K'pan like a puppy waiting for a pat.

K'pan smiles at Aoifen, "Maybe she needs directions there, I know some messengers tend to get lost easily inside. She's in sore need of clean clothes as well.." Taking another sip of his juice he looks Imani over almost as if he's ticking off the mess she's in.

Imani sets her jaw, eyes burning into Aoifen. Feel my wrath! Rawr. "I /know/ my way around the Weyr," she replies tartly. "I've been here long enough."

Aoifen looks like he's going to explode with happiness. K'pan /smiled/ at him. "Well, maybe I could fetch you fresh tunic and trousers from the laundry, then, while you take a bath?" He's so very eager to please both of them. Forget the fact that just a minute ago he was looking quite sternly at the messenger. "You really don't want to have the Weyrwoman find you dirty," he adds in a lower voice, with the fervency of one who knows.

K'pan can hardly restrain himself from bursting out into laughter, "He turns to Aoifen and smiles again, you know you're very helpful indeed I know I've seen you about before but I've not caught your name before." He turns to Imani, "My isn't he a nice offering to help you get decent."

Is it hot in here? No, it's just Imani's temper bubbling. Usually she's so cheerful, too. See what you've done, K'pan? "He's just /charming/," she replies through gritted teeth. Quake with terror, Aoifen. You're expendable. Her eyes blaze. This is so unfair.

"My name is Aoifen, sir," replies said boy with awe, staring up at the bronzerider. "I'm with Iaveia a lot - you know, greenrider Sie's daughter." The two are actually rather inseperable. "You're bronze Korinth's rider, aren't you, sir?" he asks in that same hushed voice. Imani doesn't even exist right now.

K'pan gives a nod, "Yes that's right Aoifen, and I do know her sweet girl. Well I'm going to mention you to the weyrwoman and tell her how well you've done and how helpful you've been." snorting he turns back to Imani, "He's quite the young man, seems as if you could take a lesson from him."

Imani is silently betting K'pan never even /sees/ the weyrwoman. But she'd dare not say so. She contents herself with another sip of juice, and tries not to bite a piece out of the mug with it. She makes no comment other than a stony glare.

Aoifen has to stop himself from jumping up and down with glee. Brownie points! He got brownie points from K'pan! And the Weyrwoman will know, too! This is the best day /ever/. "C'mon, miss," he cries, gesturing eagerly to Imani. "We'll get you cleaned up in no time!" Her baleful glare is wasted on the blindness of youth.

K'pan can't stop himself now, laughter escapes him in loud gafaws, "You know you can help scrub her Aoifen, am sure she could use the help, can't you Imani?" Stopping himself from falling off of his chair K'pan controls himself "Am sure he'll do a good job too won't you Aoifen?"

Imani draws herself up for a hearty argument. "He most certainly will /not/!" she gasps, slapping a hand down on the table. "And shame on you working him over! You give dragonmen a bad name, what ever happened to honor?!" She stands, looking suspiciously like she might run. "Don't you even think about it!"

Aoifen's enthusiasm wilts as he looks from the angry girl to the laughing rider. Somehow, something happened and he missed it. He backs up a bit, away from Imani and K'pan both, and wraps both hands around his juice mug. He takes a very, very long sip. Let /them/ resolve this.

K'pan stops his laughter long enough to speak, "Oh please I'd not have the lad do that, but you're such a tempting target for teasing I couldn't resist." He looks to Aoifen and smiles, "But I am going to tell the weyrwoman about you Aoifen you've done well and she needs to know that."

Imani splutters, face burning red. "Well..you shouldn't even joke about it," she replies, flipping her braid behind her. It's annoying. "He was quite ready to chuck me in the drink! You shouldn't encourage it!"

The anxious look on Aoifen's face melts away and his boyishly cheerful smile reappears as K'pan reassures him. But he sees that Imani's still unhappy, so that in his turn he assures her, "Oh, I would /never/ do that!" He's very serious, too, as serious as someone his age can be. "I just meant that I'd get you new clothes lickety-split! Auntie Sie says I'm getting too old to bathe with girls." His pale cheeks flush.

"Am sure you are getting a bit old to help wash her Aoifen, but fetching her new clean clothes is a good thing." K'pan finishes off his second glass of juice, "Well Imani you must admire his wilingness to be helpful, after all he's more than willing to get you clean clothes and direct you to the baths." Imani shakes her head forcibly at Aoifen. "Of course you're too old," she replies, and tries to soften her tone a little. Oy. /Males/. "There is nothing wrong with my clothes!" Except she's a dustball, of course.

Aoifen gets that wide-eyed look again, this time going for the whipped puppy version. "N-no," he says softly, "they're very nice clothes. But the Weyrwoman might not like how dusty they are." The kid makes it sound like Lyllya's the Bogeyman. "I'd just get you some clean ones for a bit, and take the dirty ones to the washerwomen for you."

K'pan stands and stretches a bit, "Well am sure you two will get along quite wonderfully, and Aoifen if you keep up the good work am sure the Weyrwoman will be quite pleased with you." K'pan gives a wry laugh, "And Imani I'll talk to the headwoman for you if you'd like, maybe she can find you a nice safe, clean job inside?"

Imani narrows her eyes. "I would no sooner give up riding for the Weyr than you, even if our mounts are a bit different." This she says with a special vehemency, face a little too intense. "I will have no part of a job inside the Weyr, it's not my place." Well, way to rain on everybody's parade getting all serious, Imani. Sheesh.

Aoifen ums, "I'll just go get those clean clothes, then..." uncertainly. This atmosphere is getting way too complicated for his young-for-his-age mind to understand right now. He bobs a bow to K'pan, and one to Imani, too, then scuttles back towards the lower caverns.

K'pan sits back down at his table and starts to put away the scrolls, "So Imani thank you for your assistance with the 'problems' I appreciate it."

Imani seems to realize she's gotten all serious, and lets some of the anger drain out. Funny how light-headed one can feel afterward. "Er..right.." She glances in the direction that the boy went. "I meant no..I meant no disrespect, by what I said. I understand it's not..not my place." She bows her head. "My apologies." ...she'll still get revenge. When it'll be funny.

"Well that's quite alright, I understand that women can get stressed out quite easily and over react. It's in their make up or something." K'pan doesn't look directly at Imani otherwise he'll not be able to control his laughter, "So I understand it wasn't really your fault."

Imani is more relieved that K'pan didn't strike her than she is angry that he's still dishing on females. Another day, another day. "Thank you," she replies, closing her eyes for a moment. Phew. Lucky! Sipofjuice.

Faster than you can say Faranth's flatulent forefathers, Aoifen reappears in the tunnel entrance, his arms laden with piles of fabric. "Look!" he pipes, trotting up to Imani puppylike. "Catchka in the laundry room said that she's had these cleaned for you since your last run and has been waiting for you to be back for them." He done good! ...right?

K'pan quirks an eyebrow at Imani's lack of explosive reponse to his taunting, "Well done Aoifen, you're quite the young lad. I think I might have to take you for a ride with me and Korinth sometime if you'd like." he looks around for his juice glass and realizies it's empty, "You sure you don't want me to talk to the Weyrwoman to get you reassigned Imani? Wouldn't be a bit of trouble maybe get you to calm down a bit?"

Imani glances up. It just doesn't end, does it? She doesn't dignify it with an answer, and responds fawningly to Aoifen. She knows Catchka. "Thank you...Aoifen, was it? I appreciate it." Her hands are clean enough as she gingerly handles the clean clothes. Let's not frighten the younglings. For now. "Good job." Aoifen's head whips from K'pan to Imani to K'pan again, his eyes *bulging* now with incredulous joy. He literally might explode from happiness; his chest rises and falls in short jerks as his breathing becomes shallow. "Th-thank you," he whispers to Imani before taking a hesitant step towards K'pan, then stepping back again. He just can't believe his good fortune. "Y-... you mean it? You might take me for a ride on Korinth?" It's every boy's dream, you know.

K'pan nods his head, "Yes of course I mean it, Korinth will love taking you up for a flight Aoifen. He always enjoys doing that, and I know he'll be happy to meet you." Looking around he sighs a bit, "Well I think I need to get going, again Imani thank you for you assistance and for the company, it made the afternoon much more pleasant than it started out as."

Imani nods quietly. "Likewise," she replies, and gives Aoifen a smile. Ah, youth. How she lives it. "Enjoy yourself, Aoifen. I can find my own way to the baths." She gives his shoulder a pat as she stands, bowing in K'pan's direction. "Your health and your dragon's, sir. Good night." Exit: Stage left! Imani takes her clothes, too.

M'an and Henet Meet.

NOTE: This is the first time M'an and Henet collide.

Craft Complex Framed on one side by Harper Hall, the second by Weaver Hall, and the third by Healer Hall, this stone courtyard is large and bustling. Activity is constant with the the myriad of crafters running to and fro on their way to classes, or clustered together in small groups. Numerous stone benches edge the sides of the square to be claimed for casual gatherings and impromptu classes. The nights are growing noticeably shorter as the promise of summer hangs around the corner. Spring has yet to complete its cycle of rebirth though, as the nightly light showers and quickly growing vegetation attest. You see Cairth here. Henet is here.

Henet has overtaken a bench Weaverside of the courtyard, a baby blue firelizard curled up against a velvety black cat on the one side, herself perched crosslegged on the other, one hand resting on a dog-eared notebook tucked beneath one thigh while the other reaches out to nervously arrange the parchments scattered in the middle of the bench. But girl-turned-Apprentice is not to be intimidated, and stares down at the parchment in her lap with a distinctly unchildlike determination.

Cairth circles the courtyard lazily on a late afternoon thermal, blocking the sun to cast a massive (though small for a bronze) shadow over the sunbaked stones. His flight path tightens predictably until it has placed him squarely in the center, where he deigns to backwing a landing, complete with furious dust devils and flying bits of debris.

Henet squints at the parchment in her lap, overtaken with shadow, and glances up with mild irritation. She watches intensely as the dragon circles to a landing, brain function visibly churning with interest. Hesitantly, she slips the parchment from her lap to the bench, fingers curling about the little note-book as she untucks her legs and rises from the bench, turning to hastily arrange the parchments beneath heavy objects (a book, a shoe, and a firelizard, respectively) before joining a group of giggling Weaver apprentices as they slowly make their way toward the object of curiosity.

Cairth neatly folds the glittering expanse of his wings tightly to his back, extending his left foreleg with consummate grace while holding his angular head at an aristocratic tilt: he's the very picture of nobility and charm, and clearly playing up the attention. His rider doesn't notice, simply giving the dragon a thump on the neck as he unbuckles and dismounts.

Henet Tiny but stout with plump, round cheeks and a puddin'-bowl haircut, she's easily mistaken for and looks rather more like a little boy than a pubescent girl. That flat dung-brown mat is tempered with streaks of gingery-tawny goodness, a few lone strands straying across the band of liver 'n chocolate freckles that marches across her snubby baby-nose, muddying up a creamy complexion pleasantly toasted with almond. Despite an abundance of peculiarly droll coloring, the enigmatic curl of a lavender-hued lip and big, bright olive-flecked eyes of warm watery chestnut betray the essential vibrancy of her minute features; however, the sharp curve of her little chin and a peculiar asymmetrical slant in her left eye belie sweet innocence with an underlying shrewdness almost...calculating. Prim and proper as a young boy should be, with long woollen black trousers and a neat grey sweater. But she's a girl, so...a purple headband. Cadswallop perches on Henet's shoulder. Henet looks to be in her early teens. She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 2 minutes. Carrying: a songbook Cadswallop a dog-eared notebook

M'an The years have weathered M'an's oaken form kindly, adding slivers of birch white to the temples of his close-cut mahogany hair and etching bark grooves into his well-formed features, laugh lines enhancing the warmth of his walnut eyes. His limbs remain straight and true, trunk hardly thickened by the passing of seasons - in fact, a litheness marks his movements in spite of the knots and gnarls that have grown in the knuckles of those long, shapely hands. Proof that it is wiser to bend with the storms of time than stand against them, this man has aged gracefully, his stature undimmed and strenth merely deepened by the onset of autumnal maturity. Intricate vinings of black, brown and bronze proclaim him Fort Weyrleader. Pale shoot green sprouts boldly from ankles and wrists, unfurling in a flood of verdant color to sheath the dragonrider entirely in the fresh hues of spring. The leathers are soft, well-broken in, but far from worn: the bright bronze piping still holds its gleam. His boots, in deep loam, rise calf-high, and complement his complexion and garb nicely. Motu lounges aristocratically across M'an's neck. Unruffled as a still pond, his expression bespeaks only equanimity - but after this long, his command over his emotions must be absolute. M'an looks to be somewhere in his sixties He is awake and looks alert. Carrying: To Do List Motu

M'an caps his goggles and pulls his helmet free, slinging it over a handy peg on Cairth's riding straps. Beneath, his hair has a curiously flattened look - hathead - that does nothing to conceal that the silvery strands on his temples are becoming more numerous by the day. Nothing like Thread to give a man gray hairs. He rakes a gnarled hand through the rough strands, a searching expression adding more creases to his already lined face as his dark brown eyes sweep the courtyard.

Henet edges her way through the crowd, pausing to glance over the dragon's massive form with a distinct note of approval. Her own posture corrects itself almost arbitrarily -- failing, however, to add any inches to her height -- and there she stands, her brand-new knot clashing magnificently with her colorful clothing. She seems to be unaware of the fact that one of her feet is unshod, her little toes out for all to see. Clutching the notebook, she edges sideways, trying to get a better view of the dragon's rider, faint recognition registering in her features.

The searching turns more towards frustration as the Fortian Weyrleader apparently fails to find what he's looking for; his brow furrows into a deep crevasse and he shoots a rather irritated look at the Harper Hall. Cairth, of course, has already solved his rider's dilemma, a lightly roving compound eye and telepathic abilities coming in quite handy. He swings that long, lanky neck over, up, over, til his head isn't too far from Henet. A sharp curvature of the sinuous length brings him nearly eye to eye with her. And it could just be the light, but it looks like one heavy brazen lid quivers, lowers - a wink? >> I bespoke Henet with: Cairth thinks, <<>> <<

This is most unexpected. Switching her attention somewhat sharply from the rider to the dragon, Henet stares, unmoving, at a most interesting draconic eye. Her notebook-hand relaxes slightly and she cocks her head, distraught with indecision for a moment before taking a sharp breath and nodding her head slightly. "Er - hallo," she mutters. After a moment, her eyes widen abruptly, and she shifts her weight to her shoed foot, but looks over toward the bronzerider rather than down at her feet, with a look that plainly (and almost irritatedly) expresses a sentiment akin to 'What do I do?'

Irritated, meet irritated. M'an swings abruptly around, already reaching for the 'straps, when his narrowed eyes fall on a rather plump young.... ? He seems almost hesitant for a moment, but after a sharp glance at his lifemate, his body language relaxes immediately into an almost easy smile. "Fort's duties to the Harper Hall, Miss." So sorry, not enough time to ask your name. "I hate to be rude, but do you know if the Masterharper's about? I'd like to speak with her." Cairth, by the way, knows nothing. His head has swung far out of reach once more and he's gazing boredly up at the fireheights. You must have imagined that voice in your head.

...Harper apprentice stifles all surprise and indignance with stiff formality. Her head already swung back on her slight excuse for a neck, she peers up at the old(er) man with an expression of disciplined intensity. "Likewise. Masterharper Epiphany -- " She pauses a moment, glancing toward the Harper entry hall, and nods in that direction. "You might try her office." Reaching back to massage an increasingly irritated crick in her neck, her eyes flicker back toward the dragon with the keenest interest.

M'an begins to nod, but it's a halfhearted motion as he seems to get distracted by something in the Apprentice's expression. His brows gather again (going by the groove between them, it happens a lot) and his features take on nearly the same look as a curious Labrador Retriever. He even tilts his head to the side slightly as he regards this curious young lady. Out of the corner of his eye, Cairth is watching. Oh, no, he's not. That was just a bit of dust caught in his second lid. "I.. er, yes." Shaking his head a bit, the Weyrleader seems to collect himself, and his voice turns from that dazed vagueness to a firm, concrete tone, a tone of command, the tone you'd /expect/ a Weyrleader to have. "Please let her know that I was looking for her, Apprentice. I haven't the time to stop now." Flashing a tight smile again, he adds "Clear skies to you," before turning away to remount his mount. Of course she'll do what he asked.

Cairth stifles a yawn as M'an clambers easily aboard and straps himself in. Those long wings unfold once more, making stained glass patterns on the ground, and through the little noises of their immminent departure, snippets of conversation can be heard - well, of half the conversation: "....hmmm? Who?" ... "Oh, her. Yes, I suppose she was nice." ... "Of course, interesting, too."

You slip up upon your lifemate's back. Cairth Woodland shade defines this lean dragon, muted hues of leaf and loam clambering haphazardly over his lithe form. Umber shadows along the hollows of throat and chest, mingling with olive and pine in the tangled underbrush throughout flanks and slightly bowed haunches and giving way to earthen copper over the pronounced curvature of his ribs. Above, the sun's rays reveal the dappled gleam of his true bronze shade through the diaphanous panes of 'sails veined in ivy; they drive him out, slanted eyes rolling, squared talons clenching, into the determined light of day. Cairth is 38 turns 2 months and 24 days old.

Gossip!

Dining Hall Long, wooden tables fill the hall, sectioned off according to rank though the atmosphere is an informal one in general. Here, everyone who occupies both the Hold and Craft Complex can find respite from the constant work even if it is only for a quick bite to eat. A sideboard occupies one wall, usually filled with numerous entrees and beverages, as well as a tasty dessert or two. You see Fort Hold Menu Board here. Obvious exits: Great Hall Kitchen

Aaya Not very tall but not very short, under a bushy mane of tawny curls Aaya displays all of the signs of a girl growing into herself as a young lady. A brush of spotty cocoa freckles dusts her cheeks and pert little nose, skin a warm hue of sun-soaked chestnut. Narrow, smooth cheekbones set off a mouth thin and used to frowning, drawn down as if usually displeased. Wide, almond-shaped eyes of the richest hazel observe things around her with something of a skeptical look, as if her thick brows were burned into disagreement. Short of arm and long of leg, she shows every sign of an oncoming gawky adolescence, but she carries herself like one in command, as if everything is all just a part of the Plan. Still, gleaming eyes make big promises of loving sweetness, if only there is something to gain. Dressed as how she feels a young lady must, Aaya wears a warm green dress with matching bodice and skirt, fluffy white chemise sleeves running down to her wrists and >>adjusted there to make it easier to use her hands. Almost unseen, sandals encase small, delicate little feet that patter as she walks. Aaya looks to be in her late teens. She is awake and looks alert. Carrying: Aaya's Sketchbook

Liaden arrives from Great Hall.

Liaden She's all straight brown hair and gray-green eyes, her narrow oval of a face dominated by the rather hawkish nose that stops just short of being too large. Her lips are generous, her skin fair, but that short frame is all bony angles that begin with the stubbornly set chin. There are no calluses to mar her delicate hands, but the nails, albeit clean, are clearly and carefully bitten to the quick. Clean and practical: her trousers are navy and her blouse robin's egg blue, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, wherhide boots worn and comfortable. Sensible, as always, if not overly fashionable. Liaden looks to be in her early twenties. She is awake and looks alert.

Aaya is seated slightly apart from some of her fellow weavers. They seem to have come up to the main hold for a bit of a treat, a nice big dinner intermingled with the holders. She hasn't touched much of her roast, having eyes only for a kitchen boy coming in and out and helping with the servers. Despite that apprentices aren't allowed ..relations.. she keeps at it, occasionally checking to make sure her journeymen aren't noticing. Must be secret, you see.

Aaya's hands are also bandaged. Hmm.

Liaden strolls leisurely into the hall and towards the sideboard, taking her time in picking out her dinner -- fried chicken, mashed tubers, yellow-veined grass, and juice. A quick scan for empty places and she is strolling, still leisurely, towards the one closest. She clatters utensils and plate to the table next to Aaya, sliding her bony frame onto the bench.

Aaya prods at her sliced meat and salad, smiling oh-so-sweetly as the kitchen boy shuffles by on his way to the kitchen. She's all shameless batting eyelashes and giggles, smug in her own adoring prettiness. A clattering of dishes snaps her out of her flirtations, drawing her attention 'round. She's all scowls as she spots Liaden, that witness to her little episode the other day. "Do you mind?" she asks, forcing her tone into one of civility. "Others are trying to enjoy their supper!"

Lia, it seems, is far more tolerant of rudeness from Aaya than M'an -- or perhaps it's just the lack of humiliation, here. Aaya is treated with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, a faint smile, "I don't mind at all, thank you." She follows this with a pointed look in the direction of the kitchen boy -- "Are you sure it's your /supper/ you're enjoying?" She glances over Aaya's untouched plate.

Aaya swells up like a flustered wherry, and even resembles one with that raggedy mass atop her head. "Of course!" she huffs, whirling about to take a few determined bites of salad. At least until the blush in her cheeks wears down a bit. However, always up for gossip, she eventually addresses Lia again. Incognito. "Pssst! /Psssst/! Did you happen to /hear/ anything...you-know-who...was telling that journeyman?" Her voice drops, a conspiracy in action. After all, Liaden was there...so it's not really gossip, is it?

"Hear what who was telling what journeyman?" Liaden responds, quirking those eybrows again whilst beginning to attend to the yellow- veined grasses on her plate.

Aaya rolls her eyes. "You know..the.." Glanceleft, glanceright. She lowers her voice even more. "The /Weyrleader/! The other day, remember? You were there, of course.."

"Weyrleader!" Liaden exclaims, dropping her fork into a pool of gravy. "That despicable bronzerider was the /Weyrleader/? The one whose dragon was so unbearably rude?" She has, obviously, not forgotten.

Aaya gasps, hissing at Liaden as a few eyes glance their way. "Will you keep it /down/?" she snaps, whirling around to her food and taking a long sip of juice before turning back. "Of course he was! He had the knot! I've heard of him, but it was the first I've actually /seen/ him." She clears her throat. "D'you know, he was on an errand of /most/ important business." The young apprentice nods knowingly. "There was a /package/ involved."

"I didn't see his knot," admits Liaden, dropping her voice back to normal volumes. She inspects her fork, immured in its gravy bath on her plate, then picks it up by the least covered edge and carefully wipes it with a napkin. "And I didn't see any package. I didn't see anything but that.. that.." she is unable to come up with any suitable insult, and finishes "/dragon/, trying to eat your friend."

Scoff. "Keep your voice down, would you? But..oh, it was delicious. He comes rushing in on that creature of his, hot to talk to a journeyman. My sister and I saw it all. They were whispering about something..something to do with the Lord Holders! Oh, it was thrilling! You know, I almost think he was worried." She beams, basking in her own cleverness. Aaya is smart, you see. "And they didn't want us to hear, so he sicced his big bronze on us, I bet!"

Liaden considers this with all due seriousness. "Perhaps," she says finally, after a long pause, partially to process a mouthful of mashed tubers, partially to think. "But what on Pern could he have been so worried about?"

Aaya turns to have a couple bites of meat, washing it down and letting Lia do the same, before turning back and squirming on her seat to get closer. "I don't know..that's what makes it all so exciting. I've heard the harpers are all in fits over it, but I haven't spoken to Henny yet. I /know/ she knows more about this than I do! But I know.." She lowers her voice. "I know for a fact it's something about the dragonriders and the Holders. It has to be! Oh, but I wish we could have heard more!" Aaya pouts a little. "Something's happening, still. Must be!" Sharp eyes catch someone leaning their way, and she snaps, "Mind your own business, you!"

Liaden shrugs, unconcerned. "If it concerns us, they'll let us know, hmm?" She's content to let the world swirl around her. "It's probably something about tithing. Or that /bronzerider/," she turns this word into an insult, somehow, "just blowing things out of proportion." She's trying to be soothing, "I wouldn't worry about it. Besides, haven't you other things to worry about?" That kitchen boy is passing them again, and he recieves another pointed look.

Aaya's expression falls. Liaden's no fun. "I'm sure it's something more exciting than arguments over tithes," she pouts, sticking out her bottom lip. The kitchen boy doesn't even get a glance this time. "What would involve the Harper Hall and Benden and everybody? It must be something big!" Still, Aaya is convinced Lia isn't going to go in for it. Siiigh.

Liaden isn't trying to be condescending, but the tolerant smile she bestows on Aaya has the same effect. She spoons the last of her tubers into her mouth, washes it down with a mouthful of juice, and rises. "Talk to Henny. Maybe she'll know something." She gathers up her dirty dishes, and heads off.

Aaya sniffs, turning away decidedly. Yes, Lia IS no fun. She doesn't even dignify the brush off with an answer. Someone who won't gossip...how dull. Poor creature.

Seeds of Gossip

Rukbat's gradual descent has just begun to cloak the courtyard, making things that suddenly appear in midair rather hard to see at first. But moments later, an earsplitting bugle rocks the airwaves as Cairth announces himself to the watchdragon and anyone else within fifty dragonlengths.

A little (/non/-rotten) Harper apprentice-girl is standing near the edge of the courtyard, airily waving good-bye to a large party of dung-haired Holders who have just taken off to return home. One arm is wrapped tightly around the arm of another, taller Weaver apprentice, fingers clenched tightly around a small, dog-eared notebook. Said apprentice is wearing a horrid pink dress and a newish Harper apprentice knot.

The taller (/stringy/) Weaver apprentice and her quite-out-of-place tawny mane waves in quite a similar fashion, a forced smile stretched across her face as she waves continuously to the departing crowd. Yes, raid's over, they're all scuttling off, g'bye, yes. This one's wearing a green dress to clash pleasantly with the shorter's pink, a weaver apprentice knot clinging poorly to its front. She jumps as the bronze announces himself, whirling in a flutter of skirt to gape at the sky.

Henet starts, too, but fails to loosen her death grip on the Weaver apprentice's arm. Dragged about by the other girl, she stutters angrily for a moment, repositioning her feet and batting her hair back into Position, before glancing up and squinting at the dragon -- just a moment -- "Eek!" She nudges Aaya. "I think I know that dragon." A pause. "I mean, not /personally/."

Cairth coasts lazily down, down, down on the cooling thermals, his eyes lambent pools of azure in the mounting dusk. As he grows nearer the pavestones, his wings beat more quickly to stir up wicked drafts and errant currants along the ground, whirlwinds to wreak havoc on skirts.

Aaya does the best she can to maintain posture with the Harper clinging to one arm, expression darkening to one of sour distaste. "Oh, honestly, Henny, you're such a tale-teller, truly! When have you come to know any dragons, I wonder?" She sniffs in disbelief, clutching to her sister still. "Daddy looked a fright. To think!"

Henet glares at Aaya darkly. "I always thought /you/ were the tale-teller, Ya-Ya /dearest/." Her dress flares for a hundredth of a second before one hand snaps down to hold it in place. "I thought Daddy was looking splendid. Wasn't he just /darling/ in that hat I made for him?" She glows.

Eventually Cairth grows tired of playing with little girls in skirts and thunks to a landing, his talons screeching very unpleasantly on the stone. Aboard, M'an frowns slightly, slapping the bronze on the neckridge. "What's your problem lately?" he mutters in his rumbling bass while hardly pausing to think about it, already reaching up to unlatch his helm. "Hope this goes better than last time I was here. ... Hey. That is an unfair accusation."

Ashore Unruly strands of coppery hair frame her face in would-be curls, offsetting blue eyes and arching brows. Skin the color of cream is interrupted by numerous freckles that seem to have found focus along high cheekbones as well as the bridge of her upturned nose, their number increasing and decreasing depending on clime. Her frame is thin, arms and legs just a bit long and her build just a touch too much on the boyish side for prettiness. She wears a solid blue tunic in a soft taffeta, lined with a near midnight backing and loosely fitted to her shoulders and arms, with half sleeves turned back and cuffed to reveal the backing. The neckline is modest and oval, displaying her collar bones and the tops of her shoulder blades in soft contrast to the vibrant hue. Several golden brown wooden button hold the back together, and the front is embroidered in a golden pattern of curling and twisting strands, interlaced in a fine knot covering the top of her bodice. Draping down to her near midnight trous, the tunic is neatly held in place by a black leather belt with a buckle made with the same light golden brown wood, the pants legs falling loosely with pleats from her hips, and nipping back in at her thighs down to her ankles, where they are cuffed squarely and rest lightly on her matching ankle boots. Jewel perches on Ashore's shoulder. Ashore looks to be in her early twenties. She is awake and looks alert.

Aaya scoffs under her breath. "That was a hat? Really, it's not a wonder you daren't show yourself in the weaver crafthall, Henny /dear/. And wherever did you find that dress? Wasn't Uncle so cute? I sewed that tunic myself, you know. Just last turn for a project. Such lovely color!" She plasters another grin on her face for M'an's benefit. First impressions, and that. Or maybe she's gritting her teeth. Hmm.

You slip off your lifemate's back with a sigh. Craft Complex Framed on one side by Harper Hall, the second by Weaver Hall, and the third by Healer Hall, this stone courtyard is large and bustling. Activity is constant with the the myriad of crafters running to and fro on their way to classes, or clustered together in small groups. Numerous stone benches edge the sides of the square to be claimed for casual gatherings and impromptu classes. The nights are growing noticeably shorter as the promise of summer hangs around the corner. Spring has yet to complete its cycle of rebirth though, as the nightly light showers and quickly growing vegetation attest. You see Cadswallop and Cairth here. Aaya, Henet, and Ashore are here. Obvious exits: Harper Hall Sky Fort Hold Weaver Hall Healer Hall Landing Area

Henet flashes her teeth at her sister. Whether or not this constitutes a smile is a matter of opinion. "Just as you daren't open your mouth at Harper?" At this point, she unhitches her arm from her sister's and takes a few steps to the side, planting her feet side-by-side and twisting her whole self to the side with a sweet, sweet smile, aimed at a Weaver Apprentice directly to the left of the one related to her.

It's a good thing it's getting dark as the Fort Weyrleader swings down from his lifemate's shoulder and turns to face the gathering. Otherwise, M'an might possibly be blinded by the heinous sight of two loving sisters in two horrendously clashing dresses, standing side by side and smiling the most wonderfully polite smiles at each other. He still squints a bit, expression faltering as he thinks he recognizes the thing in the pink. "Fort's duties to the Harper Hall," he calls. At least his voice remainds stable, an impassive baritone.

Aaya falters just a moment, trap falling open for half a second and eyes burning up. Then it's gone and she laughs, albeit a bit forced, and waves merrily in M'an's direction. "Weaver's duties to Fort Weyr," she answers back, wracking her brains for phrases she ought to know. That was right..wasn't it? And was there just a hint of sting? How could he recognize /Harpers/? The tragedy!

The muscles in Henet's jaw put up a feeble fight in the resistance of a smirk. Subconsciously arranging her posture (as always), her lips curl in a yet sweeter smile, and one hand is thrust into the air to wave at the Fortian Weyrleader. She's decidedly less shy about it, tonight. "Likewise!" Smirk. "Hallo!" She tosses her head to the left, gazing at her sister from over her shoulder. "You should listen to me more often. Isn't that what Mummy said?"

Ashore had been making her way toward before spotting the small group. Passing by the rider, she pauses enough for a bow. "Harper's duties to you and your dragon, rider." A glance at the knot earns a minor quirk of her lips before she glances at the girls. "Apprentices." At least her tone is pleasant enough, though she does turn her eye toward Henet. "One bows and greets a rider properly."

Weavers? There are Weavers over there, too? Dragondung. Fortunately, Ashore's interruption saves M'an the indignity of apologizing to new Apprentices. If only he knew... Dark eyes search the young woman's shoulder and find her nametage. "No harm done, Journeyman. It's hard to remember these things on a lovely evening on a full stomach," he replies in a generously understanding tone, realigning himself to face Ashore more fully."If you're not on a pressing matter, could I ask a moment of your time?"

Cairth observes his lifemate interacting with the older Harper and immediately concludes that better entertainment shall be found elsewhere. His lithe tail squiggles across the courtyard like a headless tunnelsnake while he stretches each lanky limb one at a time. And his eyes - well, it's hard to tell where he's staring, really. Everywhere, it seems.

Aaya sucks in some air between her teeth. She didn't! "Did you see that, Henny? The nerve!" she hisses, but she doesn't hesitate to bow, even if M'an is...looking the other way. "We shan't allow that, shall we?" All this in a whisper for dear Henny's ears only, of course. And Aaya slides up to her sister, offering an arm with a look of firey vengeance.

Henet isn't going to pass up an opportunity to avoid humiliation. After staring unblinkingly at Ashore for a few moments -- managing, in that time, to register the knot, the face, and the words -- she nods slowly, but snaps her head right back up again to cast an ever-approving eye at M'an. "Please do accept my apologies, /sir/." Her sister's arm is accepted; all sisterly enmity is forgotten for the time being. Henet turns her head to observe the dragon, her expression unyielding.

Ashore nearly smiles. "Much, much better. Although, I'm reminded now to mention remedial lessons in duty to a few of the masters..." The sentence trails off as her attention drifts from both girls-with a glance lingering upon Aaya for the merest of moments- toward M'an. "The hall is ever at your service, Weyrleader, you have only to tell me what you require." Her words take on a pleasant tone.

And he'd've had that service, too, if it weren't for those meddlesome kids. As it is, M'an is forced to divide his attention between the Journeyman and the Apprentices, so as not to appear rude. Good thing this isn't an emergency. "No offense taken, I assure you, ladies," he replies smoothly to the girls, incling his upper body in a slight bow himself. Halfway down, he pauses and recognition makes a play on his features. "Ah, you're the young lady who carried my message to Epiphany the other day. I appreciate your promptness."

Cairth brings his tailspade down on the tiles with a distinct crack, swinging his head over to peer down at Henet much as he did the first time they met. His facets whirl delightedly, scintillating whirlpools of sea green, when he tilts his jaw to ogle Aaya equally. A deep inhale sucks the air towards his lungs, drawing wisps of hair and ribbons and Faranth knows what else with it.

Weyrleader outranks Journeyman. Henet's eyes flicker back to M'an and remain glued there. Unfortunately, this obligates her to a bow -- so she bows, but just lower, to within an inch. "/Most/ welcome -- /sir/." Her grip on her sister's arm loosens considerably as the dragon's attention is taken from her own chocolicious self.

Aaya smiles as pleasantly as can be. To think, M'an, bowing to her! Ha! Except he's still talking to everyone else but /her/. Oh, twisted alliances. "/None/ taken, Weyrleader," she remarks airily. "Of course, if the Weyrleader has any requests of the Weaverhall, they would be happy to fulfill them!" A bow which hauls Henet with her, Aaya's eyes glittering. Eyes on the prize, and whatnot. Ashore must not win!

Ashore watches the dragon for a few seconds, taking in the actions of the apprentices as well. If there's humor in her eyes, it's not betrayed on her face or in her voice. "It's a rest day, then?" The question is asked of both girls before she turns back to M'an. "It's gratifying to know that apprentices these days recall their duty."

M'an spares a last nod for Henet and Aaya, coupled with a tight smile that indicates total ignorance about what his dragon is or is not thinking and or doing. It's a more somber expression that he brings to the table with Ashore. "In days like these I'm glad that anyone recalls anything at all," he says in a lowered voice, turning from the sisters and inclining his head towards the hall. "I wanted to ask you about..." And his tone drops lower still, to a level that only the Journeyman can hear. You muttered "...about the current feeling towards dragonriders at Benden. I haven't had a chance to get together with Benden's Weyrleaders yet, nor to meet Benden's Lord myself - I'm looking forward to his handfasting for that." to Ashore.

Aaya blinks, barely concealing her frustration and unable to maintain that dazzling smile. The whispering is beyond said Weaver sister, but she can't help feeling a stab of curiousity. And so, with utter disregard for manners, she stares at both journeyman and Weyrleader, waiting for something she can respond to. And clinging to Henny, of course.

Cairth watches M'an turn away from the corner of his eye. That's his cue to sleep. Rather inconveniently, however, he decides to snooze exactly where he stands, and wiry limbs fold and bend until he's cuddled against the still-warm stones. Right in the middle of everything.

Ashore nods, thinking over something before tapping the cloth wrapped bundle in her arms. "I think I have what you want right here, Weyrleader. I was just conveying it to the Masterharper, but I'm sure that the weyrs will be getting their own copies as well." Under her breath, however, she mutters something else. Ashore whispers ""Bitra is the worst. They're turning out any Harper who dares teach duty to the weyrs or even includes dragon lore in their curriculum with the young. Were I the weyrs, I would keep my eyes on that hold. The others I have a report on for the Masterharper. You'll probably be getting a full list within the next sevenday." to you.

Henet leans forward slightly, ignoring her sister. Lean. Lean. Step. Nearly miss tripping over a snoozing dragonpaw. Muttered cursing.

"Leave it to the Harper Hall to have what I want before I even ask for it," replies M'an with evident approval, though his tone could just as easily be taken for flattery. "I'm afraid the Masterharper must be getting rather vexed with me. I tend to barge in on her at odd hours and with strange demands, but she always seems..." Ach, his voice drops again. You muttered "...quite amenable. However, I am concerned that not everyone shares my confidence in her abilities - some might object to her relative youth, some her sex. Do you forsee problems for her?" to Ashore.

Liaden arrives from Courtyard.

Snoozing dragon paw twitches in dragonsleep, Cairth whuffling the courtstones in some draconic dream. His forepaw stretches, reaches out, flexes, and drops. On the way down, a single brazen talon catches on the fabric of Henet's skirt, effectively pinning it.

Liaden She's all straight brown hair and gray-green eyes, her narrow oval of a face dominated by the rather hawkish nose that stops just short of being too large. Her lips are generous, her skin fair, but that short frame is all bony angles that begin with the stubbornly set chin. There are no calluses to mar her delicate hands, but the nails, albeit clean, are clearly and carefully bitten to the quick. Clean and practical: her trousers are navy and her blouse robin's egg blue, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, wherhide boots worn and comfortable. Sensible, as always, if not overly fashionable. Liaden looks to be in her early twenties. She is awake and looks alert. >> Liaden glanced at you.

Aaya isn't like her sister-- in that, she's not used to snooping into conversation. Nor is she even very good at it. Still, it's all as can be done, and she edges closer as unnoticeably as she can, still latched on to Henny. It's a wonder she doesn't trip on Cairth's paws or that their blinding dresses don't alert journeyman and Weyrleader to the two girls' nearing presences. Liaden droops into the courtyard, carrying a parcel tucked firmly beneath her arm. Exhaustion lingers in every line of her body -- but she's brought up short by the sight of Cairth. She pauses for a moment, mouth open, before pulling herself a little straighter and making for a nearby stone bench.

Ashore whispers "Trouble? Yes, but as long as I and a few other journeymen of my like are around, the trouble won't be such that it can't be overcome. No one will ever get close enough to the Masterharper to do any harm." to you. Spotting the two apprentices, Ashore taps the package. "I had best take this in to be looked over for copying. A copy will be finding its way to your weyr as soon as it can be made." A bow is flourished to both dragon and rider. "In the meantime, I beg your leave. I don't wish to be late or keep the Masterharper from any other duties."

Henet topples precariously, and goes crashing down -- /rrrrip!/ -- clutching her sister with the one arm and grabbing at the dragonpaw with the other, to no avail: shoulder meets stone, gasp meets air, and skirt of the dress is torn nearly in half. Fortunately, Henet seems to have pulled the dress right over her soft-knit trousers, so all that is made public is a patch of pale belly-skin.

Whatever Ashore murmurs to the bronzerider, it sits very poorly with him: his brow contracts and his eyes first widen and then narrow, as if to say, 'I hadn't thought of it that way before.' He quickly wipes the look from his face and nods, easing furrowed features into amiability. "Please go. I very much appreciate the time you've given me, and all of the effort you devote to your Craft and Masters." The last phrase is pregnant with ulterior meaning.

Another twitch and Henet's skirt is released, but then a drowsy shudder ripples through the dozing dragon's entire body, from the wedge of his tail to the very tip of his muzzle - a muzzle which, by the by, slides along the pavement until it's bellied up to Henet's belly.

Ashore bows again in M'an's direction. "Then my duty to you and your dragon," she states in parting before looking over at the apprentices. "Oh my. You may want to see a weaver about that." Joking? Possibly. Liaden is given a nod as she passes by on her way into the hall, and then she's gone before she should have disappeared from sight. Crafty crafter.

Aaya will worry about working all these mysterious things out later. For now, she's being hauled to the ground and dumped unceremoniously on top of poor Henet, only to bounce off of Cairth's muzzle and hit the ground hard enough to skin up both palms in trying to catch herself. Pain forgotten, pride gets the better of her as she rolls over in a most inelegant fashion, only to catch Ashore's comment. And, for some reason, her eyes well up with tears. "Oh, /Henny/! You /clutz/!"

Liaden's reflexes as a nanny are quick -- package forgotten, bench forgotten, dragon forgotten, she practically jumps towards Aaya. A worried frown, a gentle hand offered, and the dragon is eyed with carefully studied unconcern. "You alright?" She pauses, "I don't /think/ he's going to eat her," she jerks her chin in the direction of Henet.

Henet is too busy staring at dragonmuzzle to glare at (now-separated) sisters for saying *mean* things about her. Pulling the loose pink fabric of her dress until it covers that one patch of skin -- revealing, unbeknownst to Henet, another similarly-sized patch of skin on the other side -- she pulls herself onto her knees, rubbing at her shoulder, and peers around at Liaden, frowning. "I should think /not/." Chestnut eyes flicker back at the dragon.

With the Journeyman gone to meet with the Masterharper, M'an doesn't really have much reason to be here any longer. He pivots to pass this information on to his lifemate. Meantimes, Cairth has been quite busy on his own, a lovely nap having been interrupted by scantily clad young girls and the mention of food. The bronze hauls himself upright with an alacrity that utterly belies his age, his muzzle whipping past Henet and Aaya with disturbing speed and proximity. From the depths of his chest comes a rumble that sets M'an to pivoting just a bit faster. "Cairth--?" The rider pauses and looks up, up, up, at the sight of his dragon rearing back to hindlegs and exhaling forcefully towards the ground. No doubt some ladies are in for a dragonsnotshower.

Aaya is already in tears over her bloody hands...she has to SEW and stuff with those! And then she's drenched in gooey, hot dragonsnot. Mouth open midwail. She hesitates for a moment, eyes on Liaden wide and shocked. Something thicker than paste slides down a narrow cheek, and she makes a most unladylike sound. Gluck! "/HENNY/! This is ALL-YOUR-FAULT!" Aaya crumples into tears in special earnest, slapping at herself as though covered in crawlie things. And making a sound to shame Cairth's earlier bugle. Whee!

Luckily, Liaden stepped back just in time -- or jumped, rather, startled by Cairth's sudden movement -- and it's only her shoes that get splattered. Her eyes narrow, her lips compress into one single angry line, and she turns on M'an the glare reserved for those who make her look ridiculous. "What.. dragons... manners..." she mutters, wiping her feet on the grass rather more violently than is necessary.

In contrast with her sister's shrieks, Henet simply sits -- eyes shut, stock-still -- and takes a few moments to.../absorb/ whatever it was that just happened. Brushing the dragonsnot out of her eyes with two (considerably grimy) hands, she turns to stare down at the remains of her dress, and promptly kicks off her shoes, snatching one up with one hand and chucking it at an empty patch of courtyard. "That was so /totally/ rude." Here she goes to assist her sister, cradling her hands over Aaya's bleeding ones with what is intended to look like sisterly tenderness.

Liaden's glare is going to simply bounce off M'an, since he's first and foremost involved with talking his dragon down from such an awakening. Most of the conversation can only be seen in his face, but occasional bits come through in a very coddling tone: "... were they now? I see... and then she? Ahah...." The contact must reassure the bronze, because he lowers his immense torso inch by inch towards the ground once more, sitting neatly like a feline - and with a very similar inscrutable expression. And then the Weyrleader faces the girls, this time giving back Liaden's look and then some. He's had a lot of practice scowling over the years. "What exactly did you think you were doing, getting that close to a dragon without permission?" he asks in a deadly quiet tone.

Aaya drops the screaming...mostly. There's still a bit of disgusted sniveling from the girl's turned back as she stares wide-eyed anywhere but at a growling M'an. Bloody hands ache in Henet's grip, but she lets Henny draw her to her feet, trembling just a little in the face of M'an's wrath. She can't even accuse Henet, as her voice has almost died at the sudden drying in her throat. A dragon booger drips to the ground with a resounding plop.

Liaden bristles, crossing her arms over her chest. "What were /we/ doing, getting close to him?" Her tone is even cooler than M'an's, her eyes still narrowed furiously. "/He's/ the one that tried to eat her." Not even Lia has the audacity to tell a dragonrider outright he should control his dragon better, but the implication is there.

But Henet does. After helping her less-composed sister to her feet -- arm swung dramatically about the girl's shoulder, as if she were sporting two broken legs -- she turns to face the Fortian Weyrleader, chin held high (if glistening with snot). "I did /not/ give your dragon permission to get close to me, to trip me, or to sneeze on me. If I startled him, I daresay he deserved it." She nods her head -- as close to a bow as she can bring herself to give. "My apologies for the disturbance. Fort's duties." She reaches down to pick up her notebook -- shielded from the spray by herself -- by the very tip, glancing at it almost mournfully before turning to beckon Liaden. "She needs to visit the infirmary. Would you help me?"

There's a girl after her own heart! Lia gives Henet a wry half-smile, retrieving her own package from the ground before returning to Aaya's side.

"... Eat her? Eat /her/?" M'an glances from his dragon (conveniently looking not-smug at the time) to the gaggle of girls and it almost looks like he's going to smile. But he doesn't, remaining straight-faced and abruptly apologetic. "Ah, too true. It is rather hard getting enough for him to eat at the Weyr these days - tithes are a touch thin, and what with Thread returning the dragons are eating more. It's I who should apologize, ladies. Next time I'll try to feed him before I come to visit. And if I don't, I certainly won't let him eat her." He indicates Henet. "I'll have him eat you instead." The Weyrleader smiles faintly at Liaden, then spins on heel to vault into Cairth's riding straps.

Cairth flicks his wings open, shuffling another blast of air around the courtyard, and springs into the air with a powerful thrust of those lovely hindlegs (and yes, there's another blast of air, too. So you're all covered in snot and dirt now). And there's a parting snippet of rider conversation: ".... on /purpose/?" followed by deep, rolling laughter.