Weyrling Barracks, High Reaches Weyr
Tucked off the back of the training room, the barracks are a huge, high cavern that stretches far back into the stone of the Weyr. Both of the longer walls are lined with couches for the dragons, enough for a couple of Pass-sized clutches at once, each matched with a cot and press for the weyrling dragonrider. In this day and age, however, the couches in the back have been allowed to grow dusty with long disuse. Hearths are spaced between every few couches to heat the big room.
For decoration, there are a number of tapestries on the walls, looking almost as beat-up as the couches out in the training room, but scattered flower pots with their bright blooming contents provide a cheery touch. Additionally, some of the couches have had graffiti scratched into them over the Turns that were never quite cleaned off: smears of chalk messages or even rough pictures, some not fit for young eyes. In many cases names and dates have been painstakingly carved into the rock, a record of those that once made their home here.
Head held high, the bright silvery blue trots triumphantly into the barracks his rider, trailing behind attempting to catch her breath. "Knioth - we run laps - already why do I have to do extra?" Ghena pants in her lifemate's general direction. The blue simply bugles at her, perching on his bench wings extended. It's Oil time, clearly, as is their nightly ritual.
A'rist and Lythronath do not rightly have rituals; the bronze is too unpredictable for that. But tonight is a night when oiling is a fact for them as well, and so they've staked out some space in front of their couch. Lythronath's mind is full of aggressively content, « Smooth! » at the moment. As soon as A'rist takes his hand away to go for more oil, that smoothness starts to give way to something... bumpier, projected, wordless.
Ghena peers up as the blue continues to bugle, spotting the bronze rider. "Oh, Hello didn't know anyone else was in here. Your... " She struggles to put a name to the face. Terrible with faces this one. "How goes it with your beastie?"
The bumpiness is slowly becoming an « Itch, » and turns, almost instantly when A'rist looks to the approaching pair, into, « Blue! » And then, a sage-sounding, « Blood, » directed to his brother. A'rist hesitates just a beat, then smiles, all charming. "He's a beastie all right. How about you?"
Ghena laughes, as the warbling subsides, Knioth has something to occupy him, she soaks the cloth and starts on an extended wingsail. "Struggling, Knioth is - well about as opposite me as one could get on the spectrum always wanting to do more. I'm struggling to keep up to be honest."
« Blue? Yes. Thou speakest of blood? » concern in the little blue's mindvoice as it reaches out. « Thou art not hurt? »
A'rist nods, sopping oil up in his own cloth (and down his arms and over his hands), and reaching for the rather remarkable eyeridges. Lythronath closes them. « Not hurt. » This time, « Blue, » is exasperated, paired with a snort from that giant snout. And then he's distracted again by, « Smooth! »
Ghena says, "I am sorry I don't remember much of you from candidacy, Where did you come from?" she asks, as she works dilligently on another wingsail, though Knioth's head swivels and studies the bronze. « doest thou have a problem with blue? » His rider lifts an eyebrow, as she is on the receiving end of a question from her life mate. "Your's is a man of few words isn't he?""
"Crawled out from under a herdbeast," A'rist answers with a grin - a grin that quickly fades, as he focuses in on the task at hand. The next words sound distracted: "He's... more feelings than words, I think." « Smooooooth. » Distracted there, also.
Ghena lifts an eyebrow at that, and yes she does distinctly have two. "I see. I might prefer that to his harpery flowery banter." She works over the blues face and neck having quickly perfected the art. "So what color was the herdbeast? one of those spotty ones?" she replys sardonicly.
A'rist grins broadly, and shakes his head. "Nah. Just one of the brown ones like the dragons eat. Or maybe it was a runner. Now that one might have been spotted." A few final rubs, and the young bronzerider removes the cloth. Lythronath's eyes open, and when he spots Knioth and the action over there, he remembers. Sort of. « Blood, » this time tastes of it. And also a little bit of snow. He swivels his head back and forth and waits for understanding from his brother.
Ghena rolls her eyes. "Farnath your going to be worse than my brother aren't you." Laughing in spite of herself, Knioth's limbs and tail get the final coating of oil as she works, though the blue seems both intrigied and confused by the sendings. He tries something else, and sends to his bigger brother the image of a bronze and blue hatching from their eggs with « Blood? » He then tries a porcine running from a weyrling as the weyrling goes for the kill. « Or Food? » To his rider he simply sends a query about the intelligence of the larger colored dragons.
"That's G'laer, right?" A'rist is halfway decent with names. "The one Lynner throws his food at. Well," and he sops more oil, "one of the ones." The word 'food', repeated all around, has the little bronze's attention. He tilts his head. « Both! » Licks his lips. And then starts to feel that « Itch, » again.
Ghena thinks hard, "Lynner?" The blue oiled, and possibly disturbed by his brother, tries again to get something that makes sense to him. This time a blue dragon with a bronze hanging from his mouth like a dog with a chicken. « Blood? »
A'rist juts a glistening thumb in his lifemate's direction. "Lythronath." Knioth's latest attempt just makes the bronze growl, and scrape at the floor of the barracks with his back legs, first the left, then the right, then the left again, tail swinging as he scrapes. « Blues. » More pointedly at A'rist, more pointedly away from Knioth: « ITCH. »
A musical welling of what can only be draconic laughter erupts from the little blue who proceeds to roll about to his rider's irritation. His sendings a jumble of clanking armor and swords. Perhaps he's found a new source of amusment for weyrling hood. Sending instead an image of a blue and bronze soaring happily picking off wherries. « Sorry. Friends? » Keep it short and simple maybe. Ghena just looks at A'rist a moment, "So Lynner throws food at my brother?"
A'rist's mouth pulls down just a little bit when it's Ghena who speaks his dragon's nickname. "It's nothing personal," is pensive. He squats beside his bronze's shoulder, and rubs, the smoothness of that doing more to placate the bronze than Knioth, who just gets eyeballed.
Ghena lifts her hands appologetically, "It's either that or Lyth, More than two sylables and I struggle." She jokes, though makes the extra effort to fully pronounce the name. "Lythronath scares him a little I think," she says of Knioth who is immediately indignat at his lifemates suggestion, trotting over to his couch, no longer entertained. He doesn't have to take that kind of abuse nope. "I wouldn't care if it was, just interesting is all. Here." She covers the mouth of a bottle with a rag, "You wear less like this." She offers the fresh rag in a gesture of peace.
"I- No, I guess it's fine, it's just weird to hear. When it's not, like..." A'rist gestures toward his temple, "in my head. Or whatever. Anyway, he doesn't care what you call him much." Lythronath stomp-stomps, left then right, and wiggles his hips and tail, claiming the space vacated by Knioth. A victory is a victory, and he doesn't dwell on how it came to be; just that it's his. A'rist watches Ghena's oil technique, and just shrugs, cheeks reddening.
Ghena smiles a little bit at the blush, before she gives Lythronath an odd look, snorting. "Knioth had to show me if that makes you feel better, little buggar is nothing short of obsessive about his oilings. He's sweet though, Lythronath. In his own charming way." Knioth pays the bronze no mind, snuggled on his couch and already half asleep. "How are you handling it? Having another mind up here?" she taps at her temple. "I can tell you he's all noise, its like a freaking army stomping around in my head all the time." She thumbs over at Knioth.
"It's not awful to get oil on your hands," A'rist starts, cautious. "Especially in winter." The cloth is laid over Lythronath's back, so he can knead at his hands, thoughtful, but looking at Ghena rather than his own fingers. "I don't know. He feels lots. And hard. Not lots of noise though."
Ghena nods, settling on the nearby bench. "I imagine you've got more on you too because you impressed bronze, Queenflights and such to worry about. Heck you might even end up as a weyrleader one day." She rubs the left over oil into her hands, he had a point about winter after all. "It gets easier they say, at least that's what my parents keep telling me."
A'rist straightens up his shoulders a little at the mention of 'bronze', eyes going a bit wider. He looks appropriately serious, solemn even, when he nods. "Yeah, I might." With that rag draped over him, Lythronath takes a few steps forward, stretching. There are no words for 'sleepy', just a sense of fatigue projected to all who will sense it as he makes for his couch. "Don't have much for riders in our family."
Ghena nods thoughtfully at that. Stretching finally before. "Well early start tomorrow, I imagine Knioth will be up at the crack of dawn again. Nice talking to you, and Lythronath." She offers before heading off to her cot to plop face first and begin the old nightly argument with her lifemate about cleanliness.
"Sleep well," A'rist calls after her. But his attention soon turns to Lythronath. And even as the little bronze sleeps, he's likely to get oiled well into the night.
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