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.
