Logs:Wyaeth Searched Rika
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| RL Date: 8 May, 2009 |
| Who: Rika, N'thei, Whitchek, Isziyo |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 8, Month 9, Turn 19 (Interval 10) |
| High Reaches Hold Isolated on its westward-jutting peninsula, from the landward side High Reaches Hold appears burrowed deep into the mountain, with only a few shuttered windows overlooking the rows of cotholds that line the river road. Its double courtyards appear designed more for transportation or defense than for welcoming visitors. From the seaward side, the slant of the windows overlooking the fine deep bay attempts to ward off the sea winds, the higher stories evading the less pleasant odors prevalent at low tide. However cold and bleak the Hold's setting may be, inside, its colors of dark blue and tan act as neutrals for the warmer, brighter hues of its llama-wool tapestries and rugs. Below the Hold, oval caverns house lengths of seasoned wood for its shipbuilders, and to its outskirts are several minor Crafthalls including a glass-smith's shop. Though the Hold's main access is by sea, the river road leads to its Weyr and the rest of Pern, while minor roads lead to a few outlying Holds and the distant lighthouse. A layer of gray clouds covers the sky. The air feels cool and damp, but there is no rainfall today. Rika looks up from her weeding at the shadow in the sky and blinks. What's a dragon doing here? "Good morning." What, indeed, is a dragon doing here? Arriving overhead from *between*, dusty wings quite out of place in the autumnal sunshine and chill of High Reaches, Wyaeth spirals his lazy, swaggering way down to a landing near the middle of the courtyard, hitting the flagstones with a loud thump. His rider, teeth ground at the abrupt landing, dismounts hastily with a glance around for the source of the greeting. "Morning at least," N'thei answers summarily, pulling off his helment to start that way. Rika peers at the dragon. He *seems* to have all his harness parts attached. "Were you the ones who dropped the bit of harmess I retrieved from Mount Hammen a few days ago?" N'thei looks over the girl speculatively, the whole wiry look over her taken in with one glance. Blatantly, openly, he finds something lacking in her appearance if the twitch of his frown is any indication, but-- "No," he answers succinctly, starts by her like there's nothing more to be said on the subject and he'll just go on about his business. Behind him, the bronze issues an amused snort and settles down in the sun, disinterested. "Who are you?" comes abruptly, with the rider already halfway across the courtyard toward the steps. "Rika." She doesn't seem to mind the bluntness; if anything, it reassures her. She doesn't have to figure out how to be polite back. Instead, she says directly to the dragon, "Could you move over? I need to dig the weeds out from between the paving stones. I've already done that part." She points at a section of courtyard. "Ah." That when Rika addresses Wyaeth, when Wyaeth unlids his big-whirling-eye to give the girl a look that, if it were translated into a human expression, would be wholly doubtful. "Answer would be no," conveys N'thei, met with the stubborn lack of movement from the bronze. On the bottom step, unbuttoning his jacket, he pauses, delays, squints against that bright sunshine. "We have eggs. How old are you?" Let's not beat around the bush. Or weeds, as the case may be. "Seventeen." The dragon gets a Look. No, Rika, you really can't pick him up and move him over. You'll just have to finish the weeding when they go home. "Eggs?" What is he talking about? N'thei, under his breath, "Skinny." More the shape of the word than the sound of it conveys toward the girl, more the intent of the word than anything else. "Eggs. Origins of dragons. You've heard of them?" The look he gives Rika is a little concerned, a little dubious: she's simple, then? Shame. "Of course I've heard of them." Rika bristles. "But since I don't see them in my courtyard, I'm not certain why your dragon has decided to take a nap here." There's a joke in there. Where does a 37-feet-long dragon take a nap? Anywhere he wants to. "Not napping," N'thei points out, less bristly, more stern. "Go and get your things," he suggests abruptly, stepping down the last step without ever having fully removed his coat. In his mind, in his world, this directive conveys enough that she should understand without question. Rika stands her ground. "Why?" But it's not the question of a simpleton. She understands the implications now; it's not directed to N'thei, where it might mean, "Why are you telling me to do this?" It's directed at Wyaeth, and it means, "Why should I do this?" and it is coming from the pale face of a girl whose world is coming about at the seams but who is trying to think fast enough and well enough to figure out her new one for herself instead of walking into it blindly. Nothing personal, but-- no matter how many times she turns to Wyaeth-- he's still never going to answer her. Really, he only barely manages to acknowledge her; or maybe that's more an acknowledgement of N'thei, who approaches, passing the girl with a look that does not invite why as a question. "Either you're coming with me, or you aren't. One way, you're a candidate. The other, you stay and pull weeds." She eyes N'thei warily. Of course the dragon won't answer her. If anyone does, it'll be N'thei, but he's more frightening. Anyway, at the moment since he doesn't seem inclined to answer either, she turns, swinging around so hard her braid flies out behind her, and runs toward a low building near the Hold's far outer wall. It doesn't take her long to return with a small bundle of indeterminate objects wrapped up in cloth, and a cloak with a hood which keeps her face mercifully shadowed for now. That was a lot easier than N'thei might have suspected, if we're being completely honest. But that only shows briefly, in the climb of his eyebrows when she turns, in the re-climb of them once she returns. By then, he's already back up between bronze neckridges. "Don't look like I just stabbed your best friend," he suggests in a rare moment of humanity, offering down a much-abused hand, for the girl or her bag, whichever she prefers first. "Candidacy isn't that bad." Rika lets the rider take her bag and climbs up herself with the ease of someone who's been hauling herself up and down the High Reaches mountains since she could stand. "I like your dragon," she explains in a low voice, "even though he won't move when he's asked. But there are a lot of people around Candidates, aren't there?" Dragons aren't bad. People just might be. You climb up between Wyaeth's neckridges. Rika climbs up between Wyaeth's neckridges. "Don't know him that well yet, though." N'thei gives a glance down to Wyaeth with those words, receives a snort in response and-- and there's really no time for getting settled before those wings flare out, before Wyaeth's crouching in preparation for that leap aloft. Busily, accustomed to the haste of his mount, the rider hands forward a strap that Rika can cling to? Buckle to her belt? Just something so she doesn't go spilling off to one side. "Not sure. You'll find out when you get there," is his answer for the latter question. And-- and up. You launch up towards the skies above High Reaches Hold. Rika takes the strap in both hands, makes a sharp double-flip so that it's wrapped tightly around her wrists. If it's meant to clip to something, she doesn't have time to figure out how it works right now. She *does* have time to treat it like a climbing line, and she's never fallen off of one of those yet. Leaning, not that he can't just peer over the top of her, N'thei takes stock of her actions with the strap, met with a frown. Not a word, though, just his hand reaching to clasp the back of her belt for an extra big of security. Still not a word to brace her for... cold. Cold, senseless, black. » Wyaeth disappears into *between*. Black... Blacker... Blackest... » Wyaeth arrives from *between*. Rika draws a long, slow breath, a little unsteadily, perhaps making sure that she still can. "Do you ever get used to that?" With the same haste, with the same lack of care for his passengers, Wyaeth veers sharply down toward the bowl almost the same moment he arrives on this side of *between*. Behind her, N'thei's answer is customarily brief; "No. --Hold on." Because, if flying was bad, if *between* was jarring, the way the bronze lands is worse. Hard. Abrupt. An audible /thump/ when he sets down against the hard stone of the bowl floor, dropping the last six or seven feet like a stone. Even N'thei, braced for it, still cringes as the jarring shock hits those astride Wyaeth. You land down in the western bowl. Rika winces, but doesn't say anything about the landing. When she unwinds the strap from her wrists, there are deep welts where it dug in from being clenched so hard, that's all. Rika climbs down from Wyaeth's neckridges. You climb down from Wyaeth's neckridges. Rika murmurs a slightly shaky, "Thank you," to Wyaeth. And no, she does not expect a reply. At least she's a quick study, then, because Wyaeth doesn't delay to give her an answer. With a slight grunt of effort, he's up again, this time with a dizzy angle over to land on the Star Stones, to leave N'thei to glance at the girl's welted wrists. "That story's going to come out all wrong," he mutters, shaking his head then leading with one shoulder toward the caverns. "Come." Rika follows, restraining the urge to rub at either the welted wrists or the bruised hindquarters. She's not going to think about whether all dragons are that uncomfortable yet. She's got people to worry about. Piss poor tour guide, N'thei is. No indication what they're passing while they're passing it, just long strides that expect the girl to keep up. ...travel spam... Candidate Quarters, High Reaches Weyr(#286RAJ) Two caverns lead one right into the other from a hallway just off the Common Room. Taking advantage of the high, vaulted ceiling, bunk beds march in four neat rows of five beds each allowing up to forty people to sleep in one cavern. Functional and spartan in atmosphere, there's little in the way of decoration here, just the one tapestry depicting a hatching on the wall of the first cavern and eggs on the sands in the second. Each bunk is made up when there are candidates in residence, with standard sheeting, gray woollen blankets and somewhat lumpy pillows. A trunk stands at both the head and foot of the bunks, providing a little space for the occupants to store their belongings while the wait for the eggs to hatch. The archway between the two spaces is covered over with a hide hanging, easily hooked back when both caverns are in use, but tacked into place when only the first is needed. A proper wooden door closes out noise and drafts from the hallway. Rika heads in from the common room. Rika follows N'thei in, face hidden partly by the hood of her cloak, but the large red welts on her wrists are pretty obvious. Of course. Large red welts. And N'thei, looking grim and intolerant as ever, though he does take the time to unbutton his coat so at least there's a shred of casual about his overall appearance. "Barracks," he announces succinctly. "Probably better take a cot-- or get assigned one. Not sure how it goes." Rika looks around at the cots which don't look as if they have anyone's things near them, then picks the one farthest away from everybody else. Isziyo is here, having been left to his ways for the time being. Until someone takes notice of him, at least. Thus, he's sprawled at on a cot, and doesn't lift his head at the entrance of yet more people. He's getting used to it already. A rest day, and Whitchek seems to have elected to spend it in his bunk. No, not like that. He's propped up peering through a stack of unfolded papers. Upon a new face's arrival coupled with a familiar face, he looks up--and then carefully holds the papers up just a little higher as he goes back to reading. For the rest of the cavern; "This is Rika. And anyone gives her a problem." Never mind he just dumped her off here all bruised and scattered without any indication what she's supposed to do with herself. "I'll hear about it." N'thei looks over the few candidates scattered about the room at this time of day with an important frown. Somehow, N'thei's pronouncement does not seem to make Rika any less edgy about the rest of the population of the room. Who does he expect to give her a problem and why? She looks them over one at a time, trying to figure out. Isziyo doesn't much care about said pronouncement, though he flags a hand in the air to indicate that, yes, he heard it. What? He's enjoying the quiet and relaxation while he still can. "'Lo, Rika." Whitchek's eyes peek over the pages again, cautiously narrowed. "Sir," he manages to acknowledge N'thei, almost choking on the word. Back behind the papers again, like a shield. So now what? Is she supposed to say something? Oh. Right. The guy over there reading just said something to her. "Hello." Good. Everyone's on the same page-- the page where N'thei's new candidate is special. Without a word, he leaves them there to do candidate things. Kind of like throwing her to the wolves, only first telling the wolves he's got a taser. |
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