Bathing Pools, High Reaches Weyr
Omnipresent clouds of steam slink across the tops of three naturally warm pools, set into the floor of this kidney-shaped cavern. Near the entrance the ceiling is high and polished, gleaming with little mineral specks as it sweeps downward into increasingly ragged, uneven steps. The foremost of the pools is squared off with wide steps leading down into the water and has faucets for bringing in cooler water from a rain-catching cistern. Primarily used for laundry, there's an almost constant film of suds along its surface until the circulating current clears it at the end of the day. Four sinks line the nearest wall and various tubs stored beneath allow for the washing of delicates. Laundry bags can be dropped off in the bins near the door and clean, folded laundry is stacked in rows of tall cubbies for easy pickup.
The bend in the cavern leads to a rougher-hewn part of the chamber where the two circular bathing pools welcome those in need of a wash. Towels and washcloths are kept in neat stacks on shelves along the wall, along with sacks of sweetsand and a few bars of precious soap. Stone benches provide a place for sitting to remove shoes and clothing, while a row of gleaming brass hooks stand above, ready to hold clothes and robes.
The days seem longer in the summer, but whether it is because Rukbat seems to hang longer in the sky, or because these days a particular scribe seems to be picking up extra work by the crate it is hard to say. What is fairly obvious is that she has just slipped into the waters for a much needed soak. The particularly observant might notice the bruises, some old and fading, some relatively fresh. Sinking into the water she begins to work at the braid happy for once that the baths seem empty, or at least that is how she attempted to time it.
Luck may have it that V'ros is not in the slightest observant. He shuffles into the bathing cavern, covered in the day's usual layer of grime and sweat. One set of towels, fresh clothing, and a small bag of soapsand are his accessories, which he sets off to the side as he strips down to his birthday suit. Some of the weyrfolk already in the bathing pool move out of the way, annoyed at the prospect of all that 'dirt' entering their watery periphery. Still oblivious, the weyrling slips into the water and leans his arms on the rim of the pool, tilting his head back as he lets the steam curl around his face. Relaxed, his brown eyes make a cursory scan of his bath mates, and fall on Edyis. Then a furrow disturbs his brow.
Nimble fingers make quick work of loosening the length of her braid, fanning loose the long dark tendrils of hair in the water and dipping under to completely wet it. It's only when she emerges that she notices V'ros, too close to her vicinity for comfort, so much so in fact that she can't help but let a deep sigh escape. "Weyrling." The response comes curtly as she keeps the water shoulder deep, reaching for the bag of soap sand to start scrubbing. Maybe it will be quick and painless.
That feeling of being too close is mutual, but time spent with Zmeyth in his head has bolstered his pride to a certain degree - he's not going to be the one to move. "Scribe," he says in response, eyeing Edyis with a certain wariness; their first and last conversation didn't go so well. "You're well?" His interest is not with the brunette though, more on the rippling water with its trail of bubbling suds.
"Quite." While her usual lies are easy enough to cover for, this one isn't since she manages to scrub one sore spot just a little too hard eliciting a wince. She moves past it quite quickly though. "Zmeyth doing well?" She asks probably to distract herself, "He seems to be a rather interesting one." She admits soaping her neck more gingerly.
Like a king - albeit a pale, young one - V'ros is still leaning against the side of the pool, regarding the other occupants with an aloof air. "Zmeyth is.. well. Flight suits him more than it suits.. uh, me." They're deep into learning to fly now, this month particularly centered around manned flight. It's easy to see the weyrlings zipping around the bowl if one simply steps outside. He shifts a look at Edyis, frowning. "Someone beat.. you up.. or something?"
"No firestone sack throwing, someone's idea of a practical use of my time. To train with particular weyrlings." She doesn't sound entirely enthused about it, but then one look at her would probably explain why. Still she continues the scrubbing, until properly clean, and then dips back under to rinse the soap. Maybe she got a lecture or something. "What's he like, mentally?" She asks once she resurfaces. "Clever and crafty, strong and territorial, Honest and straight forward?" Dark eyes shifting to the weyrlings as leans back against the rim of the pool now, relaxing.
"Why would you do that?" Now V'ros is confused. Weyrlings don't even want to train like weyrlings do. He gives her a hard stare, his lines pressed together tightly, but her next question has his whole demeanor relaxing. "Zmeyth is.. everything." That sure explains a lot. His mouth creeps up into a smile, his brown eyes fixing on Edyis. "Strong, straight forward, clever, crafty, territorial. Mostly he wants what he.. wants. He gets what.. he wants. If he doesn't.. there's no end to it. He pushes hard. He thinks he knows everything. Nothing gets past him."
"Why indeed?" She chuckles darkly, turning to prop an elbow against the pool edge and give the weyrlings her full attention as she leans her head against it. "You can't always tell from the markings you know, what kind of creature lurks beneath the hide. I suspected he might be something special." Dark eyes searching V'ros's own, her soft soprano carrying only curiosity in the tone of the words. "I suppose the more interesting question is, are you? It takes someone special to handle a head strong dragon like that, to figure out where exactly they should fit in."
A curious look passes over Edyis, and is soon gone in favor of a frown. "No, I don't think.. you can. Just because two dragons look alike doesn't mean that they are. They ..they can be completely different." V'ros takes some of the soapsand between his hands, idly lathering it up in his palms. "He is." Her next question has a more forceful response: clenching of his jaw, hardening of his eyes, his whole body tense in anger. "Who are you to ask that? You know 'nothing'," he says darkly, "'nothing' about dragons and what it's like being linked to one." Seems she went and hit a sore spot.
"Who indeed?" She returns his furious query with a calm quiet tone, dark eyes focusing sharply. "You are wrong on one count. I do actually know quite a bit about dragons, for example that you have to space the stitches for a wing sail tear very carefully, and that they have a copper based circulatory system resulting in ichor instead of blood." There's a twist of her mouth, what might almost be called a smirk. "That is a very telling reaction you know." Leaning over her voice lowering so as not to carry farther than the pair of them, "The instant response from most is ego - you however are defensive. I'm inclined to think that means you don't know the answer yourself yet - but you will."
"Knowing about dragon anatomy is 'not' knowing anything." V'ros has his finger pointed towards Edyis now, all semblance of taking a bath forgotten. "You don't know 'shit'. You can't peg dragons down in your books." He is radiating tension, his whole body turned towards the scribe in an aggressive way. "I don't give a flying fuck about 'telling reactions." With a growl, he pulls himself out of the bathing pool, grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips. His lips are twisted in a snarl - perhaps half Zmeyth in this intense moment. "Go fuck yourself. Don't ever come near me or Zmeyth, do you hear?" But really, everyone can hear, because he's shouting. He doesn't give her a chance to respond, before he's stalking out, leaving his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor.
And Edyis? She's just quietly taking notes, filing them away for a later report. She doesn't get ruffled, one bit, although she may just for mischief sake see too it that the clothes, disappear if he truly forgets them. After all someone should learn a lesson or two about managing tempers. She waves off any looks from the other caverns members with a soft "Lovers quarrel." Which generally sends most folk back to minding their own business, with little more than a whistle. As for the clothes, if they are forgotten, she files them as her report with a certain Savannah Wingleader the next day.
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