NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Logs:Nontraditional Students

2015-07-10T11:24:23Z

Isidro: Created page with "{{Log |who=I'dro, Ka'ge |what=Ka'ge distracts I'dro from cramming for an exam, but so does everything else in the universe. |where=Weyrling Classroom, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort..."

{{Log
|who=I'dro, Ka'ge
|what=Ka'ge distracts I'dro from cramming for an exam, but so does everything else in the universe.
|where=Weyrling Classroom, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=3
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.10
|quote=I don't want to spend my days studying remedial history with a bunch of teenagers.
|type=Log
|desc=This cavern could easily house up to sixty weyrlings at a time, with
desk-space provided in neat rows for academic lessons and classes taught
by both the weyrlingmasters themselves and the Weyr's posted Harpers.
Heavy tapestries line the walls, depicting wings of dragons fighting
Thread, perhaps to serve as a reminder of the ultimate task and skills
that must be passed down the generations. At the head of the room is a
sturdy desk for the instructor, beside which is a tall filing cabinet from
which writing materials can be claimed and distributed. A chalkboard has
been hung against the wall in full view of the rows of desks before it. At
the back of the room, there is also a sandtable and space for storing wax
tablets and important texts.

At first glance, it looks like a wooden screen has been set against the
wall in the last third of the room, but closer inspection reveals that
this heavy screen is set on small wheels and can be folded and drawn back
to reveal a hidden feature of the classroom.
|log=Not Blood, certainly, but I'dro's upbringing, Holder parents, not from the middle of nowhere--surely it must have gotten him more in the way of formal education than most people on Pern could hope to claim. He is not, perhaps, the most likely candidate to be hanging around in here relatively late in the evening, just before a history exam. If anybody should feel confident, shouldn't it be his sort? Heaven knows his skills can't possibly lie in things like tossing firestone sacks. But, still, here he is, while Nasmaeth sleeps. (Still, it must be said, not in her own wallow.) He might be making more progress if he were actually looking at the book he's got open instead of staring at the tapestry on the wall.

The darkling Zymadiath doesn't sleep, but preceeds Ka'ge entering the room in the dragonet's predatory stalking crawl as if something were waiting, something beyond the sliding wall that he needs to take care. Ever watchful, vigilant as he is. Neither boy nor dragonet stop to consider who else is in the room until the teen has drawn back enough space for the bronze to pass through into the sunroom to watch the bowl cast in night through the windows. "Studying not your favorite past time?" The hooded boy speaks before he actually turns around to look at I'dro, "Or something more important on your mind?" The arrogant smile that claims is face is a rather weak one. Aren't they all just a bit tired? Just a bit.

"Not ancient history, anyway." It might be noted that the book he's got only covers since the start of the Interval, but time is such a relative thing. I'dro flips through a few pages of it and lets out a sigh, slumping in his chair. "I'd rather do it now than later, but this is exactly the kind of tedium I thought I was getting to leave behind. He... really is getting to be huge, isn't he?" Still looking after where the bronze had gone. "Anyway, no offense, but I don't want to spend my days studying remedial history with a bunch of teenagers. That would just be adding insult to injury."

Ka'ge picks a desk a couple of spaces away, sitting on the tabletop of it rather than the chair itself. He picks up a book abandoned nearby, though with the way he thumbs through the pages so dismissively, it's doubtful he actually picked up what subject matter it's on. "Just gotta do it once right?" He pulls his boots up onto the chair seat, resting his forearms over his knees "Remedial surely isn't that bad, just a little extra time together." It's not a positive way that's spun, a little sarcastic disgust in his tone. "Besides, you should leave the good majority of them in the dust, make 'em feel bad." The grin is a little more awake now. His gaze trails off towards where his bronze had gone briefly before sliding back to I'dro, "Maybe a bit bigger than Nasmaeth."

There's a slight eye-roll there, at the end--okay, the bit before the stuff about Nasmaeth. "There's not much that's even vaguely dignified about proving that you know more than someone who's five or more Turns your junior," I'dro observes. "But I can't bring myself to care who was Weyrleader in what order. I just want to graduate into a wing and be told where to go and what to do and it's not like I could accidentally end up Weyrleader someday. You," gesturing at Ka'ge, "should be the one with this," stabbing the finger down on the page of the book. "Aren't you worried?"

"Even if they brag about how much they know? You don't want to shove that in their face, even a little?" Ka'ge offers, his tone an innocent thing. As if ''anyone'' would, of course. "About what?" The grey-garbed teen breathes an indignant sort of brief laugh at the puncutation of that, "About being able to tell a weyrwoman a bedtime story about her dragon's great great grandmother?" Everything that could be insinuated from that, is, as he tosses the book back on the desk he'd taken it from with a not-so-subtle thump. "Can't have stupid wingriders. Might get confused at people talking historical nonsense and then might fly into something hard. Like a Weyr."

Eyebrows lift just a little. It's a slightly appraising look... that slides into a more indulgent one. "It makes about as much sense for me to worry about know-it-all seventeen-Turn-olds as it does for someone who's seventeen to worry about somebody who's twelve." Okay, maybe maturity isn't precisely that linear, but it clearly makes I'dro feel better to think about it that way, and that's all that matters, isn't it? He finally slides his book closed. "There's more to being Weyrleader than sleeping with the Weyrwoman, I'm pretty sure. Bit odd, though, not having a real one just now. I probably should have tried to understand better how all that works during candidacy, but I knew--well, no. I didn't know I'd Impress, obviously. But if I did, I knew it'd be her."

"No." Ka'ge agrees, a half-hearted and lopsided shrug given as he settles a chin on a gloved hand. "But it starts with that." Crude, perhaps, but unjustified? The topic as it slides into relevant notes gives a slight narrowing of his eyes, his expression no less amused, "He's causing more than one man's fair share of complaints so soon after getting the knot." A thoughtful pause, perhaps even a touch admiring? It's not without sarcasm if it is. "It'll be soon enough one of them will fly, you'll be too busy staring at our lovely faces until it does, I imagine. Who did care in candidacy? Most of this bunch were hoping to go home before the shells even cracked."

A chuckle--okay, it's probably closer to a giggle than even I'dro would want to admit--is halfway covered by a hand. "Your face? No, thank you. Not that there aren't a few bronzeriders around here--" Ka'ge can be crude, his slimmer compatriot seems loathe to even finish that sentence in such company. "I would have been staying regardless. This way means a few rough months, but then a weyr of my own and no need to keep arranging for rides to go visit my mother. I keep telling myself that. Those are the important things in life." If you're reasonably shallow, anyway.

"What's wrong with my face?" Ka'ge appears briefly, mockingly offended, maybe even hurt. But it lasts about as long as it takes to say it. "A weyr of your own, but still plenty of time stuck with us. You won't get away so easily." But that's said lightly, not with the effort one might expect of something that could be so ''suggestive''. He may as well be talking about the weather. He slides off the desk in an easy motion, turning away from I'dro for a moment to skim over the collection of reading material set out for them. "Your family that important to you?"

Thankfully, in that brief period, I'dro does not get so far as actually outlining the faults in Ka'ge's face, even though his mouth moves like it might just be starting to form a word. "You're much nicer to have around in smaller quantities," he says, without much indication of whether this is truth or mere platitude. "You want part of my free time at that point and you might have to earn it." But oh, yes, lightly. "I suppose they're as important as anyone's. My parents have their faults, but I like them. Or, I like my mother, and my father and I make polite small talk and the rest of the time he pretends my sister's husband is his only son. They're decent people. I never intended to cut them off, only--again, smaller quantities."

"Glad you enjoy my small quantities." Charming, of course, but he moves on to the latter, "Seems everyone has a bit different feelings on parents." is a searching, prying sort of thing more than an offer on his own accord. Ka'ge eventually lets his gloved fingers stall on a collection of bound hides, and apparently what he came for since it drags it towards himself with a hooked finger and clutches it in not exactly the most respectful manner of a shared resource. History of another Weyr, it would seem. Not Fort. "I shouldn't be promoting your potential remedial studies, or you may just have to stare at my face longer." He tips the book to his forehead as if some mockery of the salute they're being trained to do. "Good luck with that." Smugness trails him as he turns his back, and moves in the direction the bronze dragonet had previously.

Privileged upbringing or no, I'dro is apparently not enough of a snot to go lecturing anybody about the proper treatment of books, though he's a bit more gentle about his when he re-opens it and sets about flipping around regretfully trying to find the page he abandoned not very long ago. "Yes, go do whatever it is that you two go do, and stop being such a distraction," the slightly sour response to the smugness, but his renewed discipline is no doubt only going to last a few minutes. Hopefully he'll get in enough reading to make it worth it.
}}

Logs:Get Out of my Dreams

2015-07-10T11:12:54Z

Isidro: Created page with "{{Log |who=Dimatrin, I'dro |what=I'dro and Dimatrin are totally responsible adults, the trouble's all imaginary. |where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=19 |m..."

{{Log
|who=Dimatrin, I'dro
|what=I'dro and Dimatrin are totally responsible adults, the trouble's all imaginary.
|where=Living Cavern, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=19
|month=3
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.09
|quote=If I felt very ambitious, I might get into some kind of trouble.
|type=Log
|desc=Fort's enormous Living Cavern is a vast, echoing space, with deep set
windows carved into the outer wall to let in light and fresh air. Large
enough to house the entire human population of the Weyr with plenty of
room to spare, the most common use of the living cavern is as a communal
eating and gathering space. Long tables with benches usually line the main
part of the cavern with a table set aside for the Weyrleaders on a raised
dais, as well as other smaller tables set along the walls for quieter
dining. Tapestries depicting historic moments in the Weyr's history and
scenery from the coverage area decorate the walls and lend the space a
warmer feel than bare stone.

To the east, a large doorway leads out to the Bowl, with a sturdy metal
door that can be closed during inclement weather or Threadfall. The
Nighthearth is tucked away in a little alcove near the door. The large
main hearth is used for cooking and for heat, though chairs are often
pulled up nearby for the Weyr's elderly to enjoy the heat. A swinging door
not far from the hearth leads into the Kitchen that shares the wall behind
the hearth. To the west, a passage opens up into the Weyr's Inner Caverns.
|log=Dimatrin is sitting backwards on one of the benches with his elbows slung back on the table, his long legs spread wide and knees tilted at odd angles as he slouches. He's been exchanging sallies with one of the kitchen staff, who's been cleaning up a mess that some weyr children were ultimately responsible for, but now as the last of the mess is cleared away and his kibbitzing has been abandoned, forcibly. He puffs out his cheeks and blows a long breath past his lips, the slight lilt of a whistle screeking out on the gust of the exhalation.

Most people would walk into the living cavern the normal way. Which is to say--forwards? I'dro, apparently not content with his usual levels of peculiar, backs in from the bowl while making gestures outside that look suspiciously like what would go with a "stay put" or "wait here". He only turns once he's a fair distance in and has managed to back into a table. Not so much a turn as a whirl, startled, then straightening and running a hand down his front like there are ruffled feathers that must be settled. However much of a whistle that wasn't, maybe it just came at the wrong time. It's then that he actually notices Dimatrin on the bench, there. "You. You're real."

"Mmhmm," Dimatrin hums. He tilts his head, looking up at I'dro with eyebrows swept high toward the dark rumple of fluff across his forehead. He says: "Do I want to ask if I was a dream or a nightmare?"

All smiles, all teeth. "No." Strange bird, I'dro. He sweeps over to deposit himself on the same bench Dimatrin's on, although, it must be said, a polite distance down. "I'm trying to see if she can tolerate sitting out there to wait for me instead of waiting back at the barracks, which she's not done very well with," conversationally. "I thought you were probably real, because you have a very real sort of face, but you never know, do you? Or, I don't. I tend to have very vivid dreams, but not about strangers. Usually." He does keep glancing back towards the bowl entrance.

"I heard once that even when you dream about strangers, it's actually just your brain recycling people from bit parts of your memory that you don't consciously remember," Dimatrin says conversationally. "Your brain isn't actually clever enough to make up new people out of nothing. Or. Well. I don't mean your brain in particular. I mean people's brains." He follows I'dro's glance back toward the entrance and obscures the curve of his mouth behind his hand, musing with eyebrow and eye as he hides his lips. "Are you expecting her to come charging in at any moment?"

A distracted sort of nod, then a head-shake, then a lift of shoulders. "Maybe. I don't know. If someone flies too close overhead, maybe. I think she's settled for the moment. She's talking with one of the grown greens. That's nice, isn't it? I think it's nice." I'dro doesn't actually seem to expect Dimatrin to have an opinion, if the very short allowance for any kind of answer is some indication. That's when he turns back. "It's a bit creepy. So if I dream of strangers, they're all patchwork men, bits and pieces of... other things. Well, not that there's anything wrong with patchwork, I'm just not sure there ought to be patchwork people, even imaginary ones. Is that narrow-minded? What are you up to?" A quick veer off into left field, with nary a breath between one question and the next.

Dimatrin seems to tack into this new wind with only a brief stutter of a blink over the previous stream of consciousness. "Not like you can control what your waking imagintion does, let alone your sleeping one," he says. Huffing a breath, he drops a shoulder in a shrug. "Me, I'm just hanging about," he says. "I've been cut loose for the evening, and I've no giant baby to chase after, so that means--" He opens both hands wide. "If I felt very ambitious, I might get into some kind of trouble." Slouching against the table behind him, he doesn't look like he feels terribly ambitious.

"I don't think I'd say she's giant. I mean, maybe for a human baby, but she's also very worryingly green, in that case." Is this apropos of anything? Maybe not. I'dro is not so good at slouching, at least not when he's properly awake, but does try leaning an elbow on the table, with some success. "But she is a great deal of Responsibility." How do you pronounce a capital letter out loud? Very carefully. Very pointedly. It's hard to deliver a liquid consonant like it's intended to stab and draw blood. "Which significantly infringes upon my availability for any of the good kinds of trouble. You shouldn't take it for granted."

"I'm open to suggestions," Dimatrin says, thumbs set against each other and fingers spread wide. "I mean, no guarantees. I have responsibilities, too, you know." He doesn't bother to cite them more specifically. This is because they involve folders, paperwork, and general gopherism.

"Do you?" It's not actually an invitation to elaborate. Rhetorical. I'dro might not be big on the nitty-gritty of rhetoric, but the questions, the questions he likes. As long as they're his. Dimatrin's proposition, he seems to be taking entirely seriously. "I don't know what you like, I suppose. I know that I've started having elaborate fantasies about just being allowed to go have a couple proper cocktails. That's probably not normal. That's what this will do to you. Saps creativity. Maybe a couple cocktails and flirt with a stranger, both things I would under no circumstances do prior to the approved point in weyrlinghood, obviously."

Dimatrin laughs and scruffs a hand through his hair as he eases, all be it lazily, back to his feet and stretches out his arms, loosening them with a roll of his shoulders. "Under no circumstances," he says. "Of course. I bet I could find a couple cocktails. Maybe even a drinking partner who won't throw one in my face, you never know."

"I have an extremely hard time imagining you making the sort of comment that gets a drink thrown at you, somehow." I'dro braces one hand flat on the table and uses it to sort of pry himself back off of the bench and up to standing, since the other man's doing the same. "You should go have a nice time, tell me all about it later. Let me live vicariously." Poor, pitiful creature that he is--though he hardly seems to be exuding misery as he says it. "And I'll go stop torturing my poor dragon and be Responsible for a few months longer."

Dimatrin grins a crooked grin that makes an illustrative exhibit of his chipped tooth. He says, "You'd be surprised, I think," but doesn't expand. Instead, he shrugs his hands into his pockets, widens his eyes, and says, "I'll have to report back. Good luck with that whole responsibility thing." He apparently lacks I'dro's talent for capital letters.

"Good luck," the response so cheery that it borders on inappropriately smug, "on finding some trouble." Then I'dro's back off to the bowl and his not-actually-freakishly almost-five-foot-long green infant charge.
}}

Logs:Well-Behaved Young Men

2015-07-08T04:03:52Z

Isidro: Created page with "{{Log |who=Dimatrin, I'dro |what=Not the rudest of awakenings. |where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=13 |month=3 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015...."

{{Log
|who=Dimatrin, I'dro
|what=Not the rudest of awakenings.
|where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=13
|month=3
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.07
|quote=I know who you are. I've taken notes about all of you.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon I'dro just-can't-even.png,
|desc=An irregular archway leads into the alcove that houses the Nighthearth.
This cozy little nook contains a hearth, protected by a grate that can be
used to prop chilled feet to warm on cold days, that is surrounded with a
several leather, upholstered chairs. A small table pushed against the same
wall as the hearth is kept stocked at all times with fresh, hot klah, a
pot of stew, and a basket of baked goods including breads and both savory
and sweet filled rolls. The Weyr's aunties also keep the space supplied
with a stack of perpetually renewed afghans in interesting color choices,
while the Headwoman's staff ensures that some of the older towels are
always on hand on a row of hooks for riders ducking in off of sweeps in
bad weather. Otherwise, the Nighthearth is undecorated but for the motley
collection of mismatched mugs, bowls, and spoons that line the mantel for
general use.
|log=About a month since the Hatching, and aside from the knots, it's not hard to tell a weyrling, these days--they're the exhausted-looking ones with the fleeting appearances in the caverns for the sake of food and washing-up. The time available for meals has lengthened, the schedule is getting more straightforward, but apparently two things have not changed: the sleepiness and the need for nutrition. It's not all that long after dinner, but long enough for this to be a more reliable stop for food. I'dro has acquired a sweet roll, and it sits on the table by his chair, one large chunk missing but otherwise untouched. The young man himself has nodded off, apparently for long enough to have curled to hide his face against the chair cushion. It can't have been too long, though, or someone would have woken him by now.

Dimatrin could be here on an errand from someone else, as an assistant role might generally make him wont to do, but there's little urgency about the way he wanders toward the hearth, scoops one of the mugs and spoons from the shelf, and waggles the spoon through the air, casual in his survey of the space surrounding him. It was only a short Turn or so ago that he was responsible more often than not for cleaning this or for making sure it was full or for collecting cushions for other people to wash and so on and et cetera, but if he's inclined to introspection about his elevation, it doesn't show in the crooked flash of a smile as he surveys the sleeping unfortunate who has dozed off in these environs.

Dimatrin hooks his foot into the leg of one of the other chairs and drags it noisily across the brief space between it and its mate. He perches on it, one leg flung over its arm, the other folding beneath him, and slaps his hand in a crack against the side of the mug he's holding. "Back at the Hall I'm pretty sure that any apprentice left alone long enough to fall asleep in public would be walking away with ink mustachios," he remarks in a conversational tone, possibly in case I'dro is already awake, but maybe just narrating a potential course of action for some invisible audience.

"Guh--wuh?" I'dro really is a genius. Brilliant young man. You can tell, can't you? Of course you can tell. Something has registered that somebody is talking. It has not registered who this someone is or that words actually have meanings beyond just being pretty sounds. There are levels of alertness, here, and the weyrling pushes off any more of it by covering up his eyes with an arm. But there's an unhappy noise to go with it, suggesting that he's not in a position to just slip right back away to dreamland. Words. What do words mean? "Hall?" That's a short, simple one. But he doesn't seem to intend to invite any light to the waking-up party, even if it might rush things along.

"Harpers are terrible fiends for ink mustachios." Dimatrin slaps the mug again and rolls it between his hands, turning it about. "Nice defensive move, protecting your face. But careful you don't choke on your own drool or something," he adds with sunny, companionable cheer. With I'dro's arm across his eyes, he can't see the bright gleam of humor in Dimatrin's dark eyes, but he makes little secret of it.

Is I'dro really worried about choking? Maybe not, but he does move his face, and rub a hand around his mouth, like the suggestion has at least brought the idea to mind. He tries opening his eyes, squints vaguely in Dimatrin's direction. His irises are really going to have to work at that focusing thing. "Are you a Harper?" Look, it's a complete sentence, and even one that would be intelligible to a member of the outside world. "Sounds like... a ghastly place." His eyes require rubbing, too, and then there's a lengthy stretch, all expanse of slender limbs, before he settles back in the chair again and lets out a heavy breath. "Time is it?"

"Once upon a time," Dimatrin says. It would be the beginning of a story, but in this particular instance it appears to also be the end of it. He watches I'dro's stretch with dark eyes narrowed by humor; his breath huffs past his nose, and he rolls his shoulder back, swinging his free foot loosely as though he's caught some sympathetic twinge of restless motion across the brief distance between them. "It's lateish," he says. "Not too late, though. Nobody's come scouring the hall for you."

"I was going to be a holder. Once upon a time." There's something in it, extended as a kind of kinship--but also a lingering, dreamy quality to the words, and I'dro's posture in that chair is almost boneless, like he might be supported only by the muscles that move his chest for breath. "She's still sleeping. Such small favors." He regains, after a moment's thought, enough initiative to reach over and start picking at his pastry again. "Is molesting sleeping young men a hobby of yours?"

"I kept my hands to myself," Dimatrin demonstrates his occupied hands as he says so, swinging up the mug and flashing a grin of crooked cheer only briefly across his expression. He cants his head, slanting sidelong and away as he surveys the hearth instead, dark eyebrows creeping up as he does so. "Could have been terrible, though. You were so helpless. I also didn't eat your food."

An easy and entirely insincere agreement: "Terrible." Chewing occupies I'dro for at least a few moments after that. "Guess they're not very fresh, either," with a bit of disappointment, as he inspects the thing again and sets it back down. "I wouldn't have trouble finishing dinner in a sitting if people didn't act like it was weird to bring her. It's not like she's any more disruptive than any given small child." Woe is him. He is really, really woe. Way woe. "Since you're being such a gentleman, are you going to introduce yourself?"

"I don't frequently get accused of being a ''gentleman''," observes Dimatrin. He leans backward into nothing, since at his current angle of perch on the chair, the back of the chair is doing him exactly no good, and ticks his thumb a few times against the handle of the mug he's still messing around with rather than filling with anything. "Personally I can't say I want to bring small children to the table. At least your baby is likely to be a few octaves lower in pitch. More barrel." He frees a hand from his toying and pats his chest. "It's Dimatrin, though I know who you are. I've taken notes about all of you."

"She's also got claws." And I'dro's got a few marks here and there to prove it. Most of them healed. Mostly. They'll fade with time. He stretches again, takes longer about it this time, like a cat, or like someone in the process of inventing their own personal kind of jellyfish yoga. "Do you? Have you? That's very novel." He seems, abruptly, much more awake than he was, his eyes sharp. "Who am I? Maybe you'll know better than I do." His stretching is suddenly all angles, and then he straightens in his own chair, like this is really a point of intense curiosity.

Dimatrin's smile changes, a closed-lipped thing of bright humor as he tips his head. "What's to stop me from telling you lies about yourself?" he says. Having teased, he downplays: "I'm afraid most of my documentation isn't terribly interesting. This place doesn't administrate itself, unfortunately."

Raised eyebrows. "So what you're saying is that you think I'm a bore? If I'm that dull, I'd probably prefer to hear lies. I'dro is a well-behaved young man who sleeps approximately eight hours per night, consumes three balanced meals daily, and spends every other waking moment engaged in responsible and productive activity. Can you imagine that being your whole life?" Of course, I'dro does not seem to be getting his requisite eight hours or three balanced meals, which might call into question the responsible and productive bits.

"No," Dimatrin says. His teeth flash, and the broken one is particularly illustrative. "That is outside the bounds of my imagination, I'm afraid." He unfolds from his haphazard perch on the chair, tossing and catching the empty mug in an easy flick of his wrist like somebody who has spent too much time juggling physical objects to show off his dexterity, and then says, "I'dro, weyrling to green Nasmaeth, who I kept trying to spell incorrectly, very nearly twenty-three years old, and I'm afraid I can't remember the rest. If sleep's your druthers, though, you'd better stay off of this stuff." He moves to fill his mug with klah, which will definitely prevent him from using the mug as a juggler's object.

Children, not adults, are the ones who tend to watch jugglers so attentively, rapt like something about the movement must be magic. Or maybe I'dro's not yet so awake as to be totally separating the real from the dream? It happens, early mornings, apparently also not-actually-very-late nights. "Spelling is difficult," distracted, like an idle musing. "I mean, theirs. I'm not totally sure that's it, but it's the only one that looks right. I'm not even always sure I'm pronouncing it right, out loud. Like there could be some vowels that mouths can't quite reach..." A pause. "Sleeping is hard in a big room full of teenagers and baby dragons."

"I think the idea is to train you up so that you can sleep anywhere. Expect you've a time of it; harder coming from privilege." Dimatrin draws the full mug away from the klahpots and wanders back to his seat, though instead of sitting down in it, he leans against the back, balancing the mug between both hands and holding himself up on the prop of his elbows. "Maybe you need to sing it," he suggests with a laugh on his breath. "A lot of you lot talk so much nonsense about your hatchlings it sounds like it might ought to be a song."

This sigh is entirely melodramatic. "Alas, my musical aspirations were hampered significantly during my adolescence by the complete and utter inability to carry a tune." I'dro drums his fingertips against the arm of the chair, but the cushioned leather is not a good drumhead. "Privilege is a strange way to put it. I'm accustomed to a slightly nicer mattress, but apparently I'm capable of falling asleep nearly anywhere as it is." Tap-tap on the chair more pointedly. "I imagine wearing the dragonriding populace down during Passes is... practical, if distasteful. But during the interval, I feel as though we're just carrying on traditions that were considerably easier when the average weyrling was... what, thirteen, fourteen?" A grimace for all those eons of time passed since he saw that age himself.

"Hah." Dimatrin hunches his shoulders and then relaxes them by main force as he lifts his mug for a long swallow. "Of course, then the question becomes what we're even doing here, of an Interval, doesn't it?"

"Easy!" Is it? "The golds and bronzes are around to provide a diverse breeding pool for during the Pass. The greens are around to keep the bronzes happy. And the blues and browns are around to give the greens variety." It would not be hard, however, to imagine this as a vaguely clever thing that I'dro heard somewhere and is now repeating with slight paraphrasing, despite the way he smiles when he says it. Of course, he adds, "I don't know about you, but I didn't belong where I was. Maybe if it had really been a life of privilege. Cotton is not a high-margin crop unless you're able to get extraordinarily cheap labor. Certainly not during an Interval, when the usual threats and coercion aren't terribly effective." Once upon a time, some people solved that problem, but never mind that. "I might not have minded if I could have just sat around with someone to feed me grapes. Glad enough there's still a Weyr here, as it is."

"If I belonged where I was, I'm pretty sure I'd still be there." Dimatrin takes a longer slug of his klah after tipping it toward I'dro in an easy salute. "I mostly meant the privilege not to sleep in an apprentice barrack full of unmentionable evils, ink bombs, and detonated farts, but I'm sure if you ask ''someone'' very nicely, you could be fed a grape or two." He says this with a very nearly straight face. "Probably not your dragon, though. I don't think they're very delicate."

"I'm pretty sure anywhere populated by sufficiently unsupervised teenagers turns into that," I'dro observes. "The primary advantage to being a weyrling, from that perspective, is that nobody leaves you alone long enough for there to be trouble." A just-long-enough pause, then his smile turns just a little sly. "The primary disadvantage is, of course, the exact same thing." But that look doesn't linger overlong, not at this hour. "I don't see any grapes in my near future. Nor anyone arriving with a sedan chair to transport me back without my having to walk all that way. It's a really difficult life."

"That does sound tragic," Dimatrin says. He finishes off the drink and then ducks his head, teeth grazing his lower lip as he chuffs a little snort. "But it will probably build character."

No such undignified noises from I'dro, but he does roll his eyes back for a moment. No undignified ''noises''. "Character is at the bottom of the list of things I want right now. After a morning to sleep in and... a lot of other things. But if I'm not going to get to spend all morning in bed, I'd best actually haul myself back there on my own poor little legs." However slim he might be, he's probably equal to the task of walking somewhere. Low bar. Important to set reachable goals, isn't it? "Maybe you can tell me if I develop enough character to start being memorable."

"Oh, I think I'll remember," Dimatrin says. He pushes off his lean against the back of his unoccupied chair to drift over to deposit his mug amongst those that have already been used. "Watch where you sleep, though. Next time, I might not be so generous."

Whatever else might have transpired, I'dro unfolding himself out of his chair seems considerably cheerier than when he was first roused. Yes, perfectly adequate legs, though he leans on the chair for a moment, giving his impromptu companion a look that's entirely more thoughtful than a comment like that really warrants. "Promise?" Apparently his need to get back must be quite urgent, since he doesn't bother with a proper goodbye or nice-to-meet-you or any of that. Or dealing with his poor abandoned pastry. It's a hard life for a sweet roll, alone and unwanted.
}}

I'dro

2015-07-05T21:45:04Z

Isidro:

{{Profile
|picture=Isidro.jpg
|body={{wysk}}

== Soundtrack-in-progress ==

* [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9XQ2MdNgKY Pentatonix - Royals (cover)]
* [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3GkSo3ujSY Pink - Perfect]
* [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w1oM3kQpXRo Taylor Swift - Everything Has Changed]

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{Icons}}
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{{Character-Categories}}
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:Fort_Area]]
[[Category:Fort_Weyr]]
[[Category:Greenriders]]
[[Category:Quartz_Wing]]

Logs:Boy-ish

2015-07-01T10:58:23Z

Isidro: Created page with "{{Log |who=I'dro, Isabeau, |what=Gender roles are hard. As is hair care. |where=Weyrling Barracks, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |custom=Somewhere in the realm of a few days..."

{{Log
|who=I'dro, Isabeau,
|what=Gender roles are hard. As is hair care.
|where=Weyrling Barracks, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|custom=Somewhere in the realm of a few days post-Hatching.
|day=23
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.07.01
|quote=People do a lot of noticing around here, if you get my meaning.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon I'dro teeth-like-a-military-cemetery.png, Icon isabeau bedhead.jpg,
|desc=Through the entrance to the barracks, one is immediately presented with
the door to the Weyrlingmaster's Staffroom to the left, while a path
leading forward and a path to the right lead to two separate chambers,
allowing two classes to be housed with their fellows. Each high-ceilinged
chamber contains two neat rows of cots, each bed with its top to the wall,
enough to house at least thirty weyrlings and their growing dragons.
Placed at strategic intervals between the rows are barrels of oil, clean
buckets and other equipment needed for dragon care or the cleaning of the
premises. Windows are concealed by heavy drapes, but can be opened to
provide fresh air and sunlight. Glowbaskets line the walls for nighttimes
lighting.

Each weyrling pair is provided with a bed, a bedside table, and a trunk
for their belongings. Beside each bed is a smooth indentation in the floor
to serve as a wallow for growing dragons. If required, fresh linens and
materials for wallows can be collected from the tall unit of drawers and
collection of barrels at the very back of each room.
|log=Some little time has passed to settle into the routine of this new life, for the new riders. Their dragons, of course, are now spending a great deal of their time growing. Lots of food to eat, lots of oiling, and then lots of time sleeping while their little cells are multiplying like crazy. They have wallows for that purpose. Nasmaeth, so far, has not been persuaded as to the merits of this. The beauty of being green: it may be awhile yet before she gets so large that I'dro has to kick her out of bed. Right now, though, she's got it all to herself, still gleaming from her last oiling, dozing in a position of limbs and wings that doesn't look even vaguely comfortable. I'dro is just taking up a corner of it, working on his needlework. Or, well, stitching up a tear in a shirt, anyway. Occasionally, he's been shooting looks off to where some of the weyrlings have been talking with one of the assistants--but once the assistant in question has gone, his interest dissipates immediately, and he never actually moves to join them.

Banth is one of those dragons who seems (to Isabeau at least) to be everywhere all at once ... that is until she isn't. At present, she has made a ''nest'' of Isabeau's bedding, half hidden in the tangle of blanket and sheets. Isa seems to be relieved that the little devil is sleeping soundly. The blonde is currently trying to detangle what must have at one point been long blonde hair but now just looks to be a mess. With a pair of sheers in hand, she's thrusting them in I'dro's direction. "Cut it all off." Which probably seems strange considering they barely know each other and Isa doesn't seem able to remember I'dro's name.

"Oh, sweetie." I'dro looks up as she approaches, and that's even before she's actually offering him the scissors, just looking at her hair. Because his is perfect. Obviously. Aside from the hatching, that much has maintained its place as one of the fundamental truths of the universe. Despite the lack of proper getting-to-know-you prior to this, he takes them without hesitation. But he does add, after looking at her a moment longer: "Are you sure? I mean--that must have taken forever. If you braid it up, maybe?"

"I don't even want to think about what all is matted into it at this point. Chop it off. If I wake up looking like a wherry nest one more time I think I will lose my marbles." She sighs seriously for all the dramatic flare. Then there's a moment, and she blushes. "Ah... sorry. I didn't mean to be so bossy. I'm Isa, or Isabeau if you prefer the extra syllables. Sorry I'm horrible with names."

"Isabeau," the slim young man repeats, then he smiles, brightly, if with slightly more in the way of teeth than is conventional. "I was Isidro, before. I'm trying to get used to the 'I'dro' but it will probably be awhile. I wonder why it is that you girls seem to be able to keep as many syllables as you like--suppose that's just one of the mysteries of the world. I wouldn't say you're bossy. Bossy is a word people use for girls who don't behave according to traditional standards of docility, which seems hardly worthy of an insult." A pause and a glance around, then he gestures, not with the scissors but with the free hand. "Why don't you pull that trunk over? Sitting on a bed will just end up with someone's linens full of hair, a hard surface we can sweep off."

"Um. I am not sure about half of what you said... but it's nice to meet you, er properly?" She offers as she drags the trunk over plopping down unceremoniously. "You mean how guys get an apostrophe? or whatever the little floaty mark is." Handing over the brush and comb too.

"Honorific, someone called it. I don't know. It seems to be the convention. I don't think dragons can actually spell--at least, not at this stage." I'dro gives a glance over to his, but then gets up, scissors in hand, and starts surveying the state of Isabeau's hair, careful not to pull while he prods at the tangles. "Don't worry about me, everyone says I talk too much. Nearly everyone. How short do you want it? I don't think you're at risk of looking boyish, regardless."

"I trust your judgement," Presumably with her hair at least if nothing else. "I don't mind that you talk, just... a lot of big words in a small space." She laughs. "Probably what I get for playing hooky all the time during harper lessons. Not that I didn't get caught." She holds still, "What does it matter if I look boyish? Or Girlish. I mean is anyone going to notice next to her?" She points her thumb in the direction of the now no longer sleeping green.

"I'm all mouth, evidently." And teeth! But friendly teeth. Really, there is such a thing as friendly teeth, here, and I'dro's got 'em. "I suppose if it doesn't matter to you, what people think, then it doesn't matter. Lots of people are apt to notice. People do a lot of noticing around here, if you get my meaning. Are you from one of the holds, or...?" Fill-in-the-blank! It's like personal history mad-libs. "How you present to the world makes a very big difference in how people treat you."

"Igen Weyr," Isa states, and for presentation she shrugs. "Never been one who cared much what other people thought. Seemed like a gigantic waste of time, I figure people should be themselves warts and all." She shrugs, "I could be wrong in that. Is that why you are good at sewing?" Glancing over to the stitchwork discarded for emergency hair issues.

"I'm not sure I'd say I'm good. I still take my tailoring home to my mother. But I can do a few things in a pinch." Including hair? "Let's trim the worst of it and then you can make any further decisions from there," I'dro decides, or doesn't decide, one way or the other--waiting for the okay on that before actually going to work with the scissors at about shoulder-length. "I'd not say I'm apt to be shattered by anyone's poor opinion of me, but it saves a great deal of time if the sort of person I'd like to get to know better knows I'm the sort of person they'd like to get to know better. It's like... talking in code, with your hair, your clothes, whatever."

"That sounds like an awful lot of work." Isabeau notes, even as the tangled sheets and blanket on her cot starts moving toward them, whirling eyes peering from within the mass. "I think... chin length? She's so much work I don't know that I have time to braid it every day."

"Chin length," I'dro agrees by way of confirmation, and then sets about doing just that. While he's not exactly the most graceful about this, he seems to know his way around a pair of scissors well enough, and, well, with chin length the primary concern is just making sure it's all lining up. That much, he can do. "It is a lot of work, but I think it's worth it. If you don't, that's fine, too. Or maybe you won't now but you will later. Anyway, we're not supposed to be thinking about that for months, yet." Oh, the lament in his tone.

I'dro's timing is perfect because it's time to rescue Banth from the blanket monster that has so rudely engulfed her. She runs a hand through it with a grin. "AHA Just try and bed head this!" She's in for a rude awakening later to be sure. "Thanks a ton I'dro! Catch you around?" As she begins untangling the green and the two proceed to repeat the whole food clean oil thing.

Such a good guy I'dro is: he even handles the cleanup without complaint. But then, he's the one with a dragon who hasn't yet woken. "Anytime," he chirps right back, before going to find a broom.
}}

Logs:Find the Idiot

2015-06-09T08:56:14Z

Isidro: Created page with "{{Log |who=Isidro, C'stian |what=Search, find, idiot, Isidro, whatever. |where=Northern Bowl, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=10 |month=13 |turn=37 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |ga..."

{{Log
|who=Isidro, C'stian
|what=Search, find, idiot, Isidro, whatever.
|where=Northern Bowl, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=10
|month=13
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.08
|quote=Only an idiot'd be out in this weather
|weather=Cold, wet, awful.
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Isidro everything-is-terrible-except-my-hair.png,
|desc=This section of the Bowl is just as devoid of plant life as the central
portion, the sandy soil having been packed more solidly due to the sheer
amount of foot traffic passing through. While there are weyrs located to
both the east and west, there are very few toward the north.

Toward the northwest leads a set of stairs to two ledges for junior
goldriders. Above and slightly east of those ledges sits the Weyrleaders'
complex, which a second flight of stairs leads to. A little to the
northeast is the entrance to the Hatching Cavern, while an entrance to the
living cavern is located directly to the east. At the opposite and distant
southeastern end of the Bowl would be the lake and feeding grounds, with
the weyrling barracks and infirmary to the southwest and southeast,
respectively.

Early in the morning and late in the evening, the cold rain falling turns
to almost-pleasant snow, but most of the day is mired in a bleak, gray
drizzle.
|log=Many would think that rank hath its privileges, but being wingsecond of Hematite and the rider of the bronze who caught the latest gold to clutch apparently does not count as sufficient rank; C'stian is out in the cold, grey drizzle on some errand, riding leathers on and hands stuffed firmly into the pockets in hopes of preserving some warmth. His normally-unruly hair is flattened against his skull by the damp, and his mood seems somewhat sodden as well.

In the vicinity, a brown lands, but only one party dismounts, offering enough vociferous gratitude that it's clear the pair are not really friends. "Find some way to make it up to you--promise!" That dragon simply sits, bored, throughout this process, some comments are made by the rider to the effect of it being nothing at all, and the young man who's just dismounted is soon left behind as they take off again. He's got a rucksack, and a muffler wrapped about a dozen times around neck and head, only just pulled down for that attempt at speech. It's not the best thing for the damp, but you'd think he was half-frozen as well. He starts to make his way to the living caverns entrance. Somewhere along the way, a patch of mud, his footwear nowhere near enough traction for it. He doesn't go face-first, but it's a near thing, flailing arms and the bag dropped. But Isidro's got his own two feet under him, miraculously. He just has to collect himself again.

C'stian watches Isidro nearly take a spill, and winces; that can't have been fun, especially not in all the wet and damp. He shifts direction, making his way over to check on the other man and the dropped bag. "Hoy, you alright there? Only an idiot'd be out in this weather." And what's that say about you, C'stian?

"Well, sir, pleased to inform you that you have found your idiot!" Good-natured about it, evidently. Shamelessly so. Isidro hoists the bag up again--it must be light, even in that coat he's clearly built like a five-year-old's drawing of a person, all edges and lines and no filling-in. "I made the extremely unwise decision that today, it being my day off, would be a brilliant day to go visiting my mother, which only got me six lectures and a muddy bag." Pause. "And she did all my taking-in and hemming, but never mind that."

"Ah. Mothers," C'stian notes, his tone dry even if nothing else is. "You have my sympathy on that score, believe me. Mine's an instructor at Healer Hall, and I'm certain she'd have a few choice words for me about being out in this rain. But everyone has errands to run; the Weyr doesn't stop for weather, unfortunately."

A brisk shake of the head. Brisk enough to nearly shake the scarf loose, in fact. "No, it doesn't seem to. I mean, it can't, can it? Weather happens. Things still need to be done. Not going to stop cooking meals because we don't feel like it, right? Imagine you folks aren't going to get it easier than that. At least you could get out to somewhere sunnier if you had some free time?" Big smile from Isidro. "If you lot collapsed when you got a bit of a chill, expect going between would be mighty difficult."

"Between's cold, but it doesn't usually soak into your clothes or drip down the back of your neck and along your spine," C'stian points out, with a hint of a smile despite himself. "There's a special kind of misery that comes from water in your boots." He glances upwards abruptly, as a shadow passes through the rain, and then shakes his head. "And as cold as Between can be, it's worth it; freezing rain doesn't have a lot of payoff."

Head cants to the side just so, thoughtful, regarding C'stian. "Well, there's something to be said for getting cold and wet every now and again just so you can get warmed up after. Maybe you just need to find somebody to warm up with." This could definitely be construed a particular way, but there's also something about it that skews more towards the sharing of hard-won tidbits of wisdom. Isidro, currently a combination of Dear Abby and a mud puddle. "Certainly going to need it just standing out here. I," pointedly, "am going somewhere dry," pointedly as in actually pointing with one finger towards the cavern entrance in question.

C'stian seems about to agree, but moments later a bronze dragon lands beside them in a shower of mud and cold rain. "Augh! First Egg, Liesanth, what was that for?" the bronzerider remarks, exasperated. "When I said we needed to get back up to the weyr, I didn't mean for you to soak me half to death. Or anyone else, for that matter," he adds, with an apologetic look towards Isidro. Liesanth seems to have at least some marginal degree of contrition for this, because he stretches his wings to provide a momentary shelter.

The thing about having arms with the circumference of Isidro's arms is that they are really, really not useful in shielding one from, for example, a broad spray of droplets of muddy water. The best he can do is get a hand across his face, and peer out from between fingers after the surrounding area seems to have become suddenly less wet instead of more. A quick peek up at a wing that blots out the sky. "I believe I am at least nine-sixteenths alive." Still good-natured, after all this.

"Well, that's better than half," C'stian remarks, wiping a bit of mud from his own face. "So I guess we'll consider that a win. Still, very sorry he did that." The dragon twists his neck to gaze curiously at Isidro, as if wondering precisely what this sodden thing is. Whatever his commentary is, C'stian's attention shifts to his bronze lifemate now.

It's a bird, clearly, all skinny legs underneath that coat and scarf, all chirpy voice and toothy smiles. Birds being known for that. "It's fine! Completely fine. I am completely and totally fine." And brushing his face off on his sleeve, just in case there's any residual mud spatter there.

Liesanth tilts his head, regarding Isidro with evident bemusement. After a moment, C'stian turns back to look closer at the resident himself. "How long have you been at Fort?" he asks finally, as if this is an oddly important question.

The oddness of the question is enough to lend that smile a brief, frozen quality before it fades into a sort of puzzled expression. "A few months, now. Long enough to be reasonably settled, I guess. Came up here because I didn't fit in at home. Hardly the first to do it." Preemptive explanation, like Isidro's been asked that follow-up question more than a few times before. But this time: "Why does it matter?"

"I suppose I was just curious," C'stian answers, with a glance to his bronze. After a moment, he turns his attention fully back to Isidro, and elaborates, "Given that Liesanth here seems to be of the opinion that you would be a good choice to stand for one of the eggs in Eliyaveith and his clutch."

Good choice. Brilliant choice. Isidro exemplifies everything one wants in the rider of a fighting dragon, for example in the way that he sways and seems to come just short of fainting on that news. To his credit, he doesn't actually collapse. His voice is fainter, though, when he answers. "Oh. Yes. Of course." At least the shock doesn't linger. "Of course. What... what do I have to do, now, then? What does that actually mean? Aside from going out there when the eggs hatch and, evidently, doing a lot of dishes?"

This earns a chuckle from the bronzerider. After all, he's not /that/ much older than Isidro himself, and wasn't /that/ much younger when he was found on Search. "Other than the chores, which apparently you're already familiar with and which there will be many of," C'stian notes, "you should go to the weyrlingmaster to receive your knot. Then just get to know the other Candidates, and be ready to come onto the sands when it's time."

"Huh. Well. Easy enough." Composure is coming back, maybe being shielded from the weather for a moment is helping with that. His hair curls quite a lot when it's wet, and Isidro ends up pulling off one glove to fuss with it, like even without a mirror he can just tell that it's misbehaving. "Knot, chores, play nice, see how it goes. I can do that. Sure. Might as well. Something to tell the grandkids, right?" This seems to strike him as completely hilarious.

C'stian seems slightly bemused. "You remind me a little of me as a Candidate," he notes. "That's not necessarily a good thing; I was pretty certain I wasn't going to Impress, so viewed the whole thing as a sideline. Don't pin all your future hopes on it, but don't write it off, either." He moves now out of the shelter of his dragon's wing, preparing to mount up, and adds lightly, "And get indoors before you end up catching a chill and having to stand while sick."

"You seem to have turned out all right," Isidro observes, with a smirk he doesn't have a right to after that little wavery episode. "I think... I think I'll be fine, you know? I'll be fine." Repeating something enough times is known to make it true. He takes a deep breath, raises a hand to the bronzerider in a sort of farewell. "Thanks. Think I've got some warming up to do, anyway." And the first stop for that is the dry caverns.

With an amused smile, C'stian mounts up on Liesanth. They do, out of politeness, wait until Isidro is clear before taking to the sky in another shower of muddy water.
|Categories=Search Logs
}}

File:Icon I'dro oh-look-shoes.png

2015-06-06T02:59:52Z

Isidro:

File:Icon I'dro teeth-like-a-military-cemetery.png

2015-06-06T02:59:52Z

Isidro:

File:Icon I'dro not-hiding-behind-anyone-really.png

2015-06-06T02:59:51Z

Isidro:

File:Icon I'dro everything-is-terrible-except-my-hair.png

2015-06-06T02:59:51Z

Isidro:

File:Icon I'dro just-can't-even.png

2015-06-06T02:59:51Z

Isidro:

File:Icon I'dro look-at-this-face.png

2015-06-06T02:59:51Z

Isidro:

Logs:Deficit or Surplus

2015-05-19T12:15:07Z

Isidro: Created page with "{{Log |who=Lilah, Isidro, |what=Adventures in Bookkeeping |where=Records Room, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=28 |month=10 |turn=37 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015.05...."

{{Log
|who=Lilah, Isidro,
|what=Adventures in Bookkeeping
|where=Records Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=28
|month=10
|turn=37
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.05.17
|quote=It's hard to tell if it's bigger, or just bigger.
|type=Log
|log=As evening settles on the Weyr, the records dies quickly into an abandoned quiet. The only people that can be found here so late in the evening are the recordskeeper on duty and usually only one or two of the more studious residents, especially with the Senior Weyrwoman Sands-bound with her queen. Tonight, however, Lilah has enough work to catch up on from the last sevenday that she's claimed a table to herself. The recordskeeper isn't even giving her trouble over the steaming mug of klah she keeps at hand as she attempts to work through hides and numbers and records that have fallen behind, fingers tangled up in golden-red curls with a hint of frustration as she goes over a column of figures once again, words forming on her lips as she does but never making a noise.

Studious! Is Isidro? Maybe not. He doesn't walk in with the sort of bookish reverence that one would expect. More of a casual stroll, fingers in the pockets of his slim-cut trousers, thumbs hooked, big eyes looking around like a tourist. Or a newbie exploring this great big Weyr and just happening to stumble upon the place. Except without stumbling. No faltering in the step. "Farrrranth." Is it supposed to be quiet? He's not particularly quiet.

The sound of a voice is enough to bring the flick of dark eyes up from those numbers eagerly enough to find the cause of the sound and pin its source with a narrowed gaze. This leaves the junior weyrwoman staring at Isidro, the hint of a brow curving upwards for the exclamation. At least she is helpful enough, to some degree, to add, "Can I help you?"

"Didn't figure--our records room back home was--was--" Isidro's eyes finally drifts down from all that shelving and the tapestries down to the carpet, which he scuffs at with the toe of one (hopefully clean) shoe. "Mustier," he finally settles on as words go, before setting about a more determined wander, looking at things as though looking requires personally having contact between his fingertips and whatever it is. Except the junior weyrwoman, of course. When he gets to her, he settles for eyes alone, and a smile with teeth. "Sorry. I'm interrupting. You're doing--is it something important?"

Lilah's gaze trails after him as he wanders, though she offers a dry, "You wouldn't be the first person to be struck by the size of this room, and you won't be the last." The goldrider seems unimpressed by smiles (though she's likely grateful for the lack of fingertips), as those brows curve only slightly more upwards before she corrects, "Ma'am." Surely, she's not calling ''him'' that. "Or weyrwoman. You must be new; I have been-- behind on my duties these past few days."

"Yes, ma'am, of course." A drawing-up, a straightening of shoulders, narrow as they might be. "Pardon, I'm not accustomed to--this." Which part of this? An overly large gesture takes in the room, but maybe more than just the room. "My father is absolutely 'sir', but my mother isn't that sort, and I'm not sure even my father ever spoke to Lady Boll." Establishing a place in the food chain, after a fashion, but with a deep, perhaps lifelong, awareness of how middling that place is. "Anything madam needs is my pleasure, or I can be going." His thumb hikes back towards the exit. "But I've no other commitments until breakfast service, if I can be of any help." Sleeping should probably happen in there somewhere, but there's enough natural energy there to make one question whether he intends to.

"Once is an acceptable mistake, especially when you are new. Twice is stupidity. Anymore than that is a particular snub," is said in a dismissive way, of his mistake and of the apology both as Lilah studies the young man who straightens so suddenly in front of her. "Holder or crafter stock?" she questions of that established rank, curious. "And how are your numbers?"

Though he doesn't relax precisely, Isidro does crane his neck a little, as though trying to get a glance at just what it is she's working on, now that he's offered. Second thoughts? "Hold, thank you, ma'am. Cotton, which is--well, you expend nearly as much to pick it as you get for it." The face he makes is as good an indication as any for why he's here, if the combination of Holders and his manner weren't enough. "Good enough at sums, with marks." Fractions! "More than that, if I were you I wouldn't trust me with it." He has the grace to look a bit sheepish about the last.

"The numbers aren't adding up, here. I think I have been looking at them too long; just go through and see if it equals out or if you get a deficit or surplus, ok?" Lilah tells him, sliding over the hide that she's been reading so that he does not even have to crane to look at it anymore. It is-- a fearsome amount of numbers, all in tiny neat printed marks along columns, but there must be hundreds of transactions, both front and back in three columns each. She watches him thoughtfully once she's freed of that sheet of hide, considering his words. "Cotton, hm? Well, it could always be worse. Did you not like farming?"

Invitation implied, at least, Isidro draws up a chair so as to be able to sit down and start squinting himself at that fearsome line of totals. "I suppose it's a necessary thing, but it's not one that's ever done much good at holding my attention." A minor talent: he seems to be actually counting as he says this, mouthing a number here and there but otherwise not seeming to struggle with the multitasking. Of course, if she were to start spouting off random numbers, that might get harder. "And small Holds..." A few moments' pause. "...are very small places."

"You wanted to be in a larger place?" questions Lilah in natural prompt, her attention lingering on the man as he mouths those numbers. "And how is our larger place so far for you...?"

"Sometimes a person just needs space, you know?" Isidro's eyes don't leave the hide in front of him, but his hands spread out in front and then stretch to the sides, palm up, with a little flourish. The second question he doesn't answer right away. As the numbers get bigger, he's more inclined to mumble about them, until he reaches the end of one column and recites off a total aloud. "Only off by a mark--I haven't seen enough, I don't think, to tell, ma'am. I mean, I've seen plenty." Tap of finger just to the side of one eye. "But it's hard to tell if it's bigger, or just bigger." Is that what he meant to say? He already seems to have gotten into the next column.

Lilah makes a soft, understanding noise for ''that'', though she tells him, "You will have to report to me when you decide. I think I am no longer an unbiased judge about the amount of space one can find in this Weyr." She pauses, studying Isidro again before she questions, "What did you say your name was?"

That comment warrants a long and curious look at the junior weyrwoman, warrants lips pursed like a question is sitting just inside them--but it's swallowed back. And, unfortunately, his finger trails back up like he's had to start from the beginning. "Faranth." Wait, that's not an answer. His oaths: not very creative. "Isidro," correction.

The curve of Lilah's brows lift immediately at that ''first'' name, but there is a hint of buried humor in dark eyes as Isidro continues. She introduces herself, "Lilah of gold Eliyaveith. You have been settled away with a job and a residence, I take it?"

He could put it to words: He knows. The flip side of that food chain, the impossibility of anonymity when junior weyrwomen are in short supply. But Isidro doesn't say that, doesn't say anything until he's a little further down the column. Repeating a number twice before he says, "Yes, ma'am. Running plates, mostly. Bit of food prep." Said like it's a pleasing state of affairs, this demotion in the world, followed immediately by more muttering, more counting.

"Good, good," repeats Lilah, approving, of the job the Headwoman's staff had done in the time of her distraction. Not, say, that the junior weyrwoman would be seeing to that personally, but it may seem that way when she adds simply to Isidro, "If there is anything else that you need in settling in to the Weyr here, let me know. We do want your time here to be productive and comfortable." A pause. "Did you come for the eggs on the Sands?"

This time, a longer delay in the answer. She can go about the pleasantries, but the question--Isidro nearly opens his mouth to answer before he stops, finishes the column. "This one looks right." A delay, then, before getting into the third. "Seems worth seeing, once in my life, a Hatching. But I wasn't thinking of it until I got here and someone mentioned. Aren't Weyrs the place that Hold-folk go when they don't fit? Seems like that's how the stories always go. I figured it would feel more different, somehow."

"Nothing in life is ever what you expect. That, at least, you can always bet on," Lilah tells him dismissively, though not without an appraising look over the young man.

A noise, something like agreement: "Mm." The last column seems to give Isidro substantially more trouble than the first two. Even without answering aloud, it takes him several times restarting, and a few furrowed brows, to make it any distance at all. More of a challenge, or just fading already after this? "I think--I don't think I know where it's coming up wrong, here, but I can't get the same total twice. I'm sorry. Ma'am."

If it were a test, having Isidro work at those numbers, the grade that he receives isn't communicated in any way in the neutrality of Lilah's tipped nod. "I will have someone else look them over," is all she answers, holding out her hand to the young man to take the hide back. "But for now, I do have to get back to the work you interrupted. Welcome to Fort Weyr, Isidro."
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Isidro

2015-05-18T02:02:56Z

Isidro:

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2015-05-18T02:02:04Z

Isidro: