Logs:Hay, Lady!
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 25 April, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Jorrth comes to the stables with T'mic, to learn about the runners. And hay. |
| Where: Stables, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 8, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Warm sunshine and cloudless skies make for a beautiful day and pleasantly warm evening. A breeze tempers the heat with no humidity lingering in the air. |
| |
>---< Stables, High Reaches Weyr >-------------------------------------------< Taking advantage of a natural overhang in the side of the mountain for its roof, this building boasts sturdy stone construction braced by beams of tough-as-nails skybroom. Just inside a pair of broad doors, the ceiling rises a full two stories high for the full length and half the width of the building. Beneath the overhang, wide windows admit light and more fresh air, while opposite is the second-story hayloft. The stables' main focus, however, is the double rows of stalls that line the walls below: one large stall serving as tack room, the rest housing a remarkable variety of beasts. -----------------------------< Active Players >----------------------------- Faryn F 22 5'4" lean, brown hair, brown eyes 0s T'mic M 20 6'4" broad, black hair, brown eyes 3m Though the weather is temperate outside, where a breeze can easily sneak through to steal heat from the people under the cloudless sky and mitigate discomfort, in the stables the air has thickened with the warmth, despite the wide-open windows at the front of the building. It's the result of so many bodies - most of the stables are full - and maybe partially of the feverish work happening in three of the adjacent stalls, whose doors are flown wide open. Inside, grunts of exertion, followed very shortly by large tosses off hay out into the aisle, and closer inspection would find Faryn within, deftly wielding a hayfork for the task. Jorrth is tired. It's a bit of a walk from the bowl, and of course, he doesn't just walk. He romps and stops and then tail-curls at T'mic and then romps some more, and goes here, and goes there. T'mic has started to manage to get him to settle once they're approaching the stables proper. There's a conversation, halfway out loud, halfway not, between the two, about runners, about how they feel about dragons in general (even though, yes, they have never met Jorrth), about not startling them. It's going well. Until they actually walk in, and the smell of dragon is there, and the (still pretty) little blue sees hay being flung, and charges for the pile with a warbly squeak of delight. "Slowly!" comes from the big nanny-turned-weyrling. Too late. Calling and yelling being commonplace, and focused as she is on her work, Faryn throws two or three more scoops out of the stable, before two things catch her attention. The first is the distressed whinny of one of the runners, whose eyes roll back in alarm at that dragon, however miniature it might be; most of the others take it up, once they find the source. The second is the skittering of claws on the stone floor. Bracing herself against the stall, the herder leans around to see what's going on. Her smile for T'mic is almost immediate, and pleased - but brief, because he's not the one skittering, and there is a little dragon that is dashing into the filthy hay. It's too late to say anything: he's there, probably making a mess of it, and maybe a little bit of a scowl from the crafter. "I didn't expect you," is her greeting, then, her eyes on the blue. Judging. Oh, he would make a mess of it, except that there was a whinny, and he's never even heard one of those before. The messing that takes place is the movement that requires diving into the (dirty) hay, and then whirling around to point in the direction of that noise, all four legs out at angles so that Jorrth seems to be balanced on a tripod (no, quadripod), staring at that runner with unmistakable interest, those shaggy little wings partially raised, even with hay on them, and everywhere. "Sorry," says T'mic, though it might be lost in the fracas of all those worried runners. "Jorrth, stay still," is something he doesn't think to keep quiet, at his dragon's side now, with two big fingers reaching down to press on that little head. Even if it means bending at the waist a bit. "Sorry," again, this time, with a wince. Whether or not Jorrth stays still is no matter, because Faryn steps out of her stall - she leaves the pitchfork, which is maybe some comfort - and to the nearest runner who is rolling it's eyes in unnecessary terror. "C'mon, you stupid thing, he's just a baby. And I bet he's even been fed, already." A glance to T'mic, which says maybe she wants confirmation of that. "Shhh, shh." Faryn's running her hand up the runner's face, from muzzle to forehead and back, soothing until it at least stops stamping, but decides it's best to keep watching Jorrth. Just in case. One by one, she does this - quite a touch - with conversation interspersed. "It's fine, I just wish I'd known. I could have met you outside with one of them." Which is moot, now. "I didn't think he was big enough to come this far." "This morning," T'mic confirms, in shushing tones, calming tones. He's almost accidentally massaging Jorrth between the headknobs as he speaks. As he watches Faryn go from one runner to the other, with an increasingly broad and increasingly dumb and sappy smile on his face. Can she hear it, when he talks? "He can go wherever he can get to. And I can carry him a pretty far way. He's still just little." Twice the size he was, but still so little. "It was just... the day for it. I'm glad you're here." Stupid dumb sappy smile continues. Faryn's quietly rubbing another face, a small mare with gentle eyes who seems soothed already and is watching Jorrth with more curiosity than fear, at this point. "I thought you guys had, I don't know, stricter rules than that. Limit risk of injury, or something." She's patiently not looking at Jorrth now, not after a glance to confirm that, yes, he would probably be easy to carry, even for her, at this size. "I'm glad to know you're not ball-and-chained in there. How are your lessons going?" T'mic shakes his head, a puzzled look making its way over his face, even to the point of taking the place of that smile. Even while Faryn's soothing a runner, yes. "If they had to just stay in one spot, though, how would they learn anything?" Like anything about these runners, with which Jorrth is just fascinated. There's something that keeps him, for the time being, focused on the first runner who'd let out that marvelous, strange noise. The one eyeing him back. Jorrth tilts his head. T'mic has to focus away from that dragon and back to Faryn, has to blink, has to try remember what it was his ears just heard. "Lessons are... okay. Good. I mean, the weyrling ones. Useful." He slowly lifts his hand from Jorrth's head. Slowly. "We get lots of practice, too..." His eyes are tracking toward that fork she'd left. The runner? The one who's still nervous? She's bigger than Faryn's current runner and more flighty. All it takes is for him to shift his head to send her into another small fit, whinnying again and kicking solidly at the back of her stall with one leg. She tosses her head, stamping and moving back and forth. "That's good. What are you -- " Faryn was starting to say, but she turns to the mare again, reaches, and then retreats when the beast will have nothing to do with being calmed a second time. With a sigh, she finally looks at the little dragon. "Can I show him one that isn't going to have a heart attack?" she asks. She points to the calmer one, who with her head free has leaned over the stall again, her curiosity outweighing her sense of fear. It's so small after all. The sounds of kicking make little Jorrth take a step back, and huff air out of his nose. He doesn't have time to go further, to paw at the ground or, Faranth help them, try to roar or anything. Because Faryn is pointing and T'mic is nodding eagerly with her idea. "That's good, that's better, yeah." Jorrth looks where that crafter is pointing, and hops to turn around (sorry, runner), and head back down to that other stall, trailing bits of straw with him... and nudging at Faryn with his head as he goes. Because he practically knows her already. Because T'mic is happy to follow behind them, but close. A small look of sympathy crosses Faryn's face at that step back, though likely it's because he didn't get to try and roar. And his enthusiasm? Refreshing, in it's own way. By the time she's made it back to the mare in question, the smile on her face seems to be without thought or concern; completely accidental. She's a few steps away before Jorrth nudges her, and reflexively she opens her hand to smooth it over his head, before realizing what she's done. He's no canine, for all his size implies he might be, and she pulls back rather quickly, not entirely sure what to do. She's content to change the subject to, "This is Aurel. And she's too calm to care if he's - your -" with consideration to Jorrth as a sentient being, "a dragon or not." Jorrth hardly seems to mind. T'mic hardly seems to mind. But Jorrth doesn't have time to encourage such things, because he's in front of that stall now, craning his little neck upwards, blinking those big eyes of his, and flipping his wings and extending his tail for balance as he looks. "Aurel," T'mic repeats, but to Jorrth, a confirmation. He just gives Faryn an easy grin when he pulls up beside them. T'mic swings his head to check those other runners down the line for reactions, all the while offering, "You can tell him everything you know about runners... if you wanted to? He'll listen. He's asking." Faryn leans against the stall, her expression wry. "He'll be grown up, by the time I'm done," she teases, but she looks between T'mic and his lifemate thoughtfully. She also cuts a glance towards the stall her pitchfork is in, and her disheveled pile of hay. Then she shrugs. "Aurel is a quarterrunner. That just means she was very very fast when she was younger. She was probably a good racer, but now she's slower because she's old." An affectionate pat for the long neck, outstretched so she can tilt her head down and regard the little blue before snorting. If she could give a mean look to her compatriots in the stalls further down, she probably would; she's got that air about her. "And...she's gold-colored, yes? That makes her a Palomino. But that one over there," she points "is a quarter too, even though she's red and has that black tail and mane. She's a bay." "He does grow pretty fast," T'mic answers back, following Faryn's look, back toward the pitchfork stall. Jorrth echoes that snort with one of his own, those little wings flicking excitedly, those big baby eyes whirling faster. Fun! He looks where directed, sentient indeed. T'mic has started nodding here and there, moments after Faryn lists off types, moments when Jorrth is repeating them, though he's old enough now that not everyone can hear. And the blue's weyrling rider starts to drift back, back towards the mess, and the stall, and the fork. While Jorrth breathes in the smell of the stable, deeply, and learns. If she had to be left standing, at least Faryn has this. She's animated, as she explains, listening for T'mic, and watching him, for confirmation the dragonet understands what she is saying and doesn't have questions. She points out a pair of the larger draft stock, and seems content after a while to watch the pair - predator and pray - interact with one another, for his return snort earns a whuff and a gentle stamp of the feet, not as violent or discontent as the other banging kicks. She's explaining how she knows where they're from, how Ista's breeders and Igen's are subtly different, when her glance at T'mic finds him moving away. "Where do you think you're going?" she asks. Lesson suspended. That little blue will think through what he's learned (and retained - he is still pretty little) later, it seems. He's watching with mostly-rapt attention, except for when the runner moves. And T'mic... T'mic freezes, around the same time Jorrth tries stamping one of his little teeny tiny feet back at that runner, dismayed to find the click of talons instead of a good sound like she'd managed with her hoof. Aurel. T'mic freezes, and looks guilty, even when he gives the answer of, "I was going to go clean up his..." a vague gesture to the pile of soiled and Jorrth'd hay. (At least all the clinging bits came off the blue when he'd moved.) That adorable little predator makes another snort noise, prompting the runner, testing her. Old and patient, Aurel does not snort back, but whickers. It's a sound not likely possible for Jorrth, and Faryn's preemptive smile says she thinks that the runner is more clever than she lets on. T'mic, though? Gets one of her frowns. "No," she says, stepping nimbly around the dragon, maybe even over that long and animated tail of his, in order to get closer. "It's my job. You have enough, stop it. It's not a big deal, and I still have one more stall to do afterwards, anyways." She bites her lower lip, pensive. "Sorry if I." Stop, retry. "I'm...I was just surprised, not really upset. I can handle it." It might be physically impossible, but there's only one way to know... Jorrth tries. It sounds... like a gagging snort, and makes him sneeze in its aftermath, hard enough that those little bitty feet slide backwards. "But I can," T'mic protests, spreading his arms out a bit, as if he could block Faryn should she try to be just as nimble in getting around him. There's a break in his protestation becaus he has to grin and laugh, because his dragon is adorable. But he soldiers on afterwards with, "Jorrth's still little, he doesn't take much. And he messed it up. And I... I want to help." Faryn's brows furrow at his protests, even in the face of that sneeze. It earns a glance, and she appraises the situation she's left. Aurel is tossing her head and pale mane though, victorious over the little dragon. But also, maybe, a little bored now. She ducks her head back over the stall door, not disappearing, but certainly not reaching anymore. Poor Jorrth, but all is well. Which leaves time for Faryn to turn that fierce look back on T'mic. "I know. And so can I, and it's my job. So let me finish it. If I'm taking a break to talk to your dragon, you don't get to do my work in the meantime." "But you're talking to my dragon," T'mic repeats. While Jorrth goes right up to the stall, and jumps up - jumps high - to peer into it, those little wings out for balance more than flapping. They're still so small compared to the rest of him. "And he likes it, and I like it, so let me just at least clear out..." He's trailing off. He's blinking once, his face relaxing... and then he's turned. He's running. For the fork. Jumping, is he? He might be met, then, with a big, brown, and long-lashed eye regarding him over the stall door, the albeit one that seems a bit dispassionate. And if he keeps it up? Well. Maybe Aurel will have moved closer. Maybe, just maybe, she'll suddenly peek her head over the edge of the door again. Boo. And she won't be discouraged by Faryn, because the herder shouts, "Hey!" Lulled as she was into conversation, she's off the mark slower, behind him, and she almost catches up, even. "You shit," she growls, when it's clear she's not going to beat him. Boing. Boing. Boing. Jorrth likes jumping. But Jorrth, as mentioned before, is more tired than his excitement wants to let on. And by the fourth jump, he's not getting the air he was. T'mic, meanwhile, if not overly agile or even super-fast, is big and hard to get around and had a head start. He can't help but laugh, grabbing that pitchfork with both hands and turning, with it before him, clutched right against his chest, to grin at Faryn. "What'd you call me?" But it's playful. "A shit," Faryn repeats, crossing her arms, tilting her head in challenge. The corners of her mouth twitch as she gamely fights her own smile. "If I could, I'd lock you in here for cheating. But you have thumbs." So heavy a sigh. She holds out her hands, flicks her fingers a couple times. "Gimme." Fingers still clenching that handle, T'mic wiggles his thumbs up and down. "Yup. And," starting to hold out the fork, slowly, "a fierce dragon who could break down the door even if my thumbs weren't working," and he brings the handle back firmly into the middle of his chest. That fierce dragon over there, he's finally resorted to making little baby dragon sounds at Aurel, even his shaggy little wings sagging a bit. Matronly, maybe, is the word Faryn was looking for when she was trying to describe Aurel - the runner peeks over at the sound, then leans down again, apparently easily solicited by babies. But none of that before she nickers in the general direction of crafter and rider, just to see if they're paying attention to the pitiful and tired little thing on the ground. One day he'll be fierce, maybe; but right now he's not, and maybe he's forever ruined any fear this particular runner has of dragons. Ce la vie. "Yeah yeah," she says, and she puts her hand out more insistently for it, looking for all the world like she's going to try to take it forcefully, until the little baby sounds and the nickering. She affords the pair a look, then gives T'mic a soft frown. "Is he okay?" At least most dragons at this Weyr don't tend to eat runners. It's not a fear she needs so long as she's here. T'mic's joviality fades a bit, and then more, until his face is serious. "Faryn, if he weren't okay, I wouldn't be playing." He leans a bit out of the stall, the fork nearer his shoulder now, rather than centred. "He's tired. It was a long way here." Then and there, the rider is working to stifle a yawn, while Jorrth looks up for that nickering, and makes his little noise again, albeit less enthusiastically. Faryn's satisfied with that answer, then, though she says, "I was just making sure. Maybe he should take a nap," and with a sidelong look at him, "and you, too. Don't yawn, they're contagious." A demonstrative yawn, then, because contagious. She's got her hand over her mouth, part of a watching circle, all while her hand slowly reaches for the pitchfork while he's distracted. Her actual snatch at it is sudden and quick. "Probably. Before we go back," T'mic nods. "Him, anyway, I'm okay. It's been getting better, sleeping..." And then she's snatched that fork and he's shouted, "Hey!" It's enough to bring Jorrth's attention over and away. There's a warbled excuse of himself to that mare, and here he comes, while T'mic stares at that pitchfork. "I see how it is." "Yes!" gloats Faryn, her grin wide and easy, and even turned on tired Jorrth as he approaches. She gives him a thoughtful look. "If you want," she ventures, "he could sleep in the loft, if you can carry him. A quick nap. And he can look out the windows." She leans against her pitchfork, tilting it around with her weight. Tired Jorrth is looking at that hate left in the stall rather as if it were a mound of pillows. T'mic is looking up that ladder, to the loft. "Are we... are we going to be up there with him? So he doesn't like... roll out?" A beat. "Do you have cards?" And then, "And another pitchfork?" Jorrth eventually comes to rest with his head flat against T'mic's shin. "Well, yes. Of course. He's a baby, you don't just leave them in high places. And yes, in my jacket. I play alone when I have a break. And yes," that one with a laugh, "in the tack room." She raises her eyebrows, looking at him very seriously. "Come on, just stay. You'll have to go back soon, and then it'll be a whole sevenday or more before I see you again." "Then wait on this," T'mic counters, making what is this time not a particularly crafty grab for the handle of the pitchfork. The motion has Jorrth sliding. The little blue catches himself, gives his head and wings a shake, tries to act like he's wide awake. "Until we go. And I can help you finish this up before we leave." He's even willing to relent with, "If you need," as if it could sweeten the deal. Faryn keeps hold of her pitchfork, even when she sort of jerks forward like she might catch Jorrth, when he slips. Her step forward curtailed, she instead issues T'mic an exaggeratedly long-suffering sigh. "Fine," she says, "but only if I need it." Then, to Jorrth, "You're going to be the dragon that's gone the highest in the weyr, I think, once we get you up there." T'mic gives a playful little tug to the pitchfork - even in Faryn's grasp - before releasing it. "Okay. You get the cards." He's dropping to a kneel then, with his dragon readily crawling into his arms. Because they can. "Well," said to that little beast, perfectly comfortable or forgetful about speaking in Faryn's presence like this, "guess you're going to see what's up there, huh?" Plunking the pitchfork against the wall, Faryn watches the exchange with a smile before she slips out behind them, into a different stall for her jacket and the cards they hold. "Up we go, then," she says, and her ascent to the loft is nimble, ahead of him. And if he needs help getting Jorrth all the way up, she'll certainly help. T'mic waits for Faryn and her nimble ascent before carefully shifting Jorrth onto one shoulder. They're halfway up when the ladder gives a warning creeeak, and T'mic freezes. Jorrth just looks down and watches. Nothing happens. Nothing falls. The climb continues. "Just..." as T'mic does his best to steady himself, while Jorrth sings his talons into the hayloft and starts moving forward, "make sure he's okay?" To Faryn. Even if the blue's sudden enthusiasm for hay is probably enough to make sure he gets up there just fine. Faryn freezes too, at that creak. It's probably good that T'mic is looking down, because the sheer panic on her face suggests she's reconsidering this entire idea. "Maybe..." she starts, about to suggest they go back down, but then Jorrth's claws are scrabbling for purchase, and the herder can reach out to pull him up and clear of the edge, even if he's already whuffling into the scattered hay. Her sigh of relief? That's out before T'mic gets there. This place, it is glorious. It is warm and it smells like hay and it makes T'mic happy. Jorrth takes little time in making himself at home, scooting around Faryn to make a nest just where Tomic used to sit on those late-night visits. It's a place he knows, without having seen it. And this hay, you guys. T'mic is up after Jorrth, of course, grinning, especially when there's no sign that the floorboards are going to come out or anything. "We might need some hay for his couch." Faryn's bale of hay is as much hers as T'mic's spot is his, even if he shares it with Jorrth. She nestles back against it, pulling the deck out of her case and shuffling them. "What shall we play, then?" is her question, and it's (almost) just like old times. T'mic eases in next to his dragon, even pushing and nudging him over a little bit. Jorrth doesn't seem to mind, is even happier when he can drape overtop of his rider a bit. "I don't know. Why don't you beat me at poker." (Almost) just like old times indeed. |
Comments
Alida (00:38, 26 April 2015 (EDT)) said...
Love this. Nice scene with them all. :)
Leave A Comment