Logs:Precious But Icky Cargo
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| RL Date: 27 September, 2013 |
| Who: Gallagher, Leova, Vrianth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Leova, Vrianth and Gallagher are all fulfilling their duties, though they're not exactly routine. |
| Where: Courtyard, Crom Hold |
| When: Day 27, Month 11, Turn 32 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Light rain |
| Mentions: Taikrin/Mentions |
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| Crom Hold Like many Holds of Pern, Crom is built within the shelter of a solid panel of rock. An expansive courtyard rests beneath this shelter, leaving up towards massive stone-wrought doors and a wide deck of smoothed boulders. The distinctive shadows of the watchdragon's ledge, the drumheights, and the fireheights rise high on the cliff and dotted along the wall are windows that are either flung open or shuttered depending on the weather or, more dangerously, Thread. Vegetation is lacking in this mine-based Hold, though the carts and beaten paths of miners returning home weave in twisted circles about the Hold, leading far off towards the furthest reaches of the few mines untouched near Crom itself. A proud Hold, the crests and banners of the family flap in the wind, hanging from the highest windows of the stone walls. A light rainfall patters on and off throughout the day, making everything slick and gray and muddy.
In the distance, the ringing sound of one dragon's greeting to another needn't be audible, but is: the first sign of her presence before ever she's visible to those down below. Audible also is the bass rumble of the one on watch's reply, the rickety brown going so far as to rise all four paws to watch in truth. It isn't long before she comes into view, a rangy, long-winged green. But rather than land on ledge or heights, she enters a spiral that's exactingly slow, a promise to those in the courtyard that she will be landing there. They might not like, therefore, to linger. They have time to leave that open stretch of rock. She's giving them that time, for that purpose. She lands at last in a rush of hat-threatening wind and the rain that falls as a minor torrent from her furling wings, her head held high and her eyes uncommonly intense even behind the single lids that shield them from the drizzle. Her rider has goggles and a helmet, at least, but behind her is a peculiar growth, a two-humped lump not much greyer than the rest of her hide that eventually resolves into an oilskin tent of sorts. It moves. Passengers, then. The dragon rumbles in her turn, again echoed by the one on watch. The rider beckons towards the nearest guard. The dragon's tail sweeps from side to side, a slow, strong lash. The nearest guard is a nervous looking youth who looks only too relieved when Gallagher's hand rises to still his tentative pair of steps forward toward the green. By contrast, the gold-banded man's approach is confident and swift stride, approaching thankfully from the nose-end and nowhere near that swinging tail. "Crom's duties to High Reaches, rider." He offers politely. It may be with all the rain gear and the way his head doesn't tilt all the way back to look up that identities, for the moment, might go unnoticed. "News from the Weyr?" He inquires simply, the tilt of his head being just enough to take in the legs of the shifting growth on the green's neck. The substitution meets with a squared nod from the rider, though the set of her mouth stays grim. Once the self-chosen replacement is near enough, she returns, "High Reaches' to her Hold. Naught news from us." But what had started as whistling, nasal breaths from behind her now becomes audible whimpering, and she glances not to its source but to the passenger furthest in the rear. "Introductions must wait," she says to that person, the timbre of her voice softening if only slightly. Her helmeted head turns back to the guardsman once again, then, compensating unerringly for the twist of her less-than-pleased dragon's neck. "Your headwoman is expecting these two. Will you take them to her directly?" It has an odd formality to it. She does not move to unstrap them until, if, his agreement is secured. "Is she." It's not really a question, simple observation of the statement reported by the rider. He twists slightly, beckoning to the young man who was initially to greet the dragon. It's a simple flick of his fingers to indicate he should come. "Not I, rider, but Guard Bransin will be too happy to oblige." He claims, even if the lad looks like he might be getting paler by the footstep toward the dragon. Gallagher is looking upward once more, at the passengers, "What is she expecting them for?" It's ask casually, but with an air of inspection. One can't be too careful, though one would also never accuse a rider of bringing trouble intentionally, even if one has heard stories from other Holds. "Do your passengers need assistance dismounting?" He can offer at least this much courtesy, even if it doesn't seem to be an offer borne out of good manners, but rather efficiency. "Since you'll vouch for him. Good day, Guardsman Bransin," though from behind those goggles, it's difficult to tell just how penetrating her look might be. "My understanding is that they are family of some variety." The adult passenger leans forward as though she might elaborate, but stops at the greenrider's firm nod towards the rest of the courtyard. "Getting them down... and dry... is a priority. Thank you." Finally she unbuckles herself, pivoting back to first uncover partway and then deal with the harness restraining what proves to be a small child, young enough to not be in harper classes if barely so. Despite the second woman's would-be reassurances, he protests the rain in his face, the movement, and just about everything as the greenrider hands him silently down. With him comes the unmistakable tang of urine. Gallagher likely could explain Bransin's competence despite his youth and apparent nervousness at being so close to a dragon, as he does stop some paces back from the older man, and more from the dragon herself, but the fact that he's bearing a badge of full guard and not trainee should speak for itself, in theory. "Family." He nods simply, "It will be done, then, to be sure." Gallagher is... underwhelmed by there being a small child passed to him, but he reaches up to receive the burden anyway. He keeps the child at arm's length until he's set him down carefully between himself and the younger guard. "Bransin," He gestures and the teen who seems much more comfortable with children than dragons crouches and places a hand lightly on the child's back while removing his hat to hold over the child to keep some of the rain off while the older man reaches up his hands again to offer assistance to the woman. In theory. Whether the rider's noted the badge or its significance or not, she at least isn't giving the younger guard so much as a questioning look, not even when the kid's aiming to steal the hat-umbrella for his own. Rather, though there's a press to her mouth that's less than pleased with the significance of not the badge but the odor, she's focusing on aiding the woman in turn, murmuring quiet instructions that hold some degree of sympathy. Up close, the second woman proves to not only be younger but comely for those who don't mind a girl's looking wan, or the bulky awkwardness that comes with a certain stage of pregnancy. She leans on Gallagher with definite relief, though not overfamiliarity, being focused on getting her limbs to work once again: legs for standing, arms for receiving the pair of bags that appears to be their only luggage. "It's been a long flight," the greenrider understates. "She'll need to take it easy, particularly with stairs." And if the woman's flown straight from the hold that the Nabolese accent of her murmurings had implied, circumstances may well have been dire indeed. Gallagher is decidedly more pleased to be assisting the woman, though if it's her comeliness or simply her age by comparison to the child, it would be difficult to say. As he supports her, it doesn't even look like it takes much effort on his part, even though he's not bound in muscles like some. "Where have you come from?" He inquires as he uses his free arm to help pass the bags down, passing one over to Bransin for the man to carry for the woman. His address is to the rider still, letting the passengers get their bearings. Bransin's hat is relinquished to the child, though a hand stays nearby to make sure the little doesn't go running off. Gallagher might be able to guess where they've come from, but... why guess when an opening to ask is offered so nicely? At least they aren't taking in Blood, if the woman's willingness to deal with her own bags had been any indication... unless it's just that there's something in them that causes uncharacteristic urgency. Certainly they aren't overly heavy, though the padded weight suggests there's something that isn't just clothes or a change or two of shoes. Gallagher gets a look from the rider that has more to do with the tip of her head and a tilt to her mouth that's more an allusion to a smile than one in actuality. "We took the river up." The passengers get their bearings, but Vrianth, Vrianth abruptly swings back to her haunches and twists in a caracole, wings beating at the air. Not at those on the ground, though. Not unless they move towards her rather than away. "Anything else?" the rider calls down. Whatever Gallagher had been prepared to say in answer is abruptly forestalled by Vrianth's move which has poor Bransin stumbling back, tripping and going down hard onto his tailbone, though at least he thinks to clutch the bag he holds belonging the passengers to his chest so it's protected from all but a little of the splatter of the mud. The older man's look goes stony with disapproval. He didn't flinch, of course. He does shift carefully once he's sure the woman has her own footing solid to help yank the younger man to his feet. He's therefore distracted when the rider calls down to him, "Actually, yes." He takes a brief second to assure himself that his guard isn't injured in anything but his pride, then turns back to the woman still in her straps. "Would you mind relaying a message to Szadath's Taikrin for me?" If Vrianth's rider has any sympathy for poor Bransin, that still doesn't mean that she apologizes for her dragon. "Not at all," the rider says. "She's a wingmate." Wingleader, if they were being technical. "But let's make it quick. I've got to get her washed off." Vrianth. Who has pee on her neck. If Gallagher were other than as he is, he might have a quippy comment about urine helping the upkeep on the leather of her straps, or about how the rain coming down was helping with the neck situation, but he's not. He's Gallagher, so it's all about business. "Please tell her Gal says business is picking up and she ought to make it a point to come by for drinks soon. Tell her, too, the sandwiches are on me, but she's buying the drinks." Here, his lips curl into their first outwardly friendly look, and even then, it's a smirk. "And my thanks to you, rider. I appreciate your service. We'll take good care of your passengers." He's looking then to Bransin who's up and moving to offer his free hand to take the woman's other bag from her so she can have her attention on the slick mud that seeps through cracks in the courtyard's stones and get a hand on her little for the trip into the Hold proper. The rider's head, in the goggles and helmet, stays bent toward the guardsman so far below. There's no visible, or even palpable, humor at 'Gal.' Neither is there overt repetition of what he's said, not even to reassure him that she's paying attention. "I'll pass that along," she says. "Welcome." Perhaps the rider might have said something to the other woman, even something as simple as 'safe travels,' only she's busy with her burdens, little and otherwise. With that, the rangy dragon drops back to all four paws but only to stalk away from the little assemblage rather than towards it, enough to minimally reduce the amount of wind caused by her sudden, skyward leap. This time Vrianth vanishes the way she hadn't appeared: through between. |
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