Difference between revisions of "Logs:A Change of Plans"

The hatching galleries are bustling with crowds of incoming weyrfolk and visitors alike, the strong midday sun making the heat in the caverns swelter. The humming of dragons reverberates in the cavernous space, the air dancing with their welcome as much as the heat. Lujayn's arrival is a bit late, her arrival earning her a seat at the end of one of the benches where she tries to avoid getting the hem of her dress stepped on by a group of incoming holder ladies. They giggle and crowd into the tier behind her, all vapid gossip. No eggs have cracked as of yet, but no one is taking the chance of missing the first hatchling - plenty of folk placing last-minute bets call to each other through the humid air. Keeping herself to herself for now, Lu grins. It's a happy day.

Hustle and bustle equates out to a ton of elbowing and jostling for one worn-slightly-ragged, perhaps slightly-used (or abused) islander. Khorde is elbowing his way back, the advantage of his relative height and total lack of inhibition for throwing his skinny weight around the only way he manages to get through a pack of hyen-- er, High Reaches Holderfolk, scooting in to hover over Lujayn's shoulder, scanning the tiers below for seats. He wants a /good/ one, obviously. Only belated do his eyes fall upon the weyrwoman he's closed to, and a half-surprised, "Goldrider Lujayn," blurts out as his version of a greeting.

Lujayn is blessedly free from elbowing and doesn't notice much when one extra body squeezes into the bench behind her. She's still watching the sands, gray eyes bright and calculating. Which egg first? Which candidates will hang back, which will step to the front? They're there in their trademark white sacks, fighting the good fight - or rather the wait - like the folks in the galleries. It's only at the greeting, almost in her ear, does the goldrider nearly startle from her reverie. "Khorde!" She smiles, glad to find herself seated by /some/ good company. "Glad you were able to find a spot. I swear they're bringing half the hold in.." Wait. "What are you doing up here?"

Despite a lingering disgruntlement about the eyes -- is Khorde ever completely free from /issues/, as it were? -- the young man seems to be genuinely pleased to be seated as he is. "What /is/ with all the holderfolk?" His bewilderment carries over into his tone, as he squints about him. The excitement is slowly getting to him, by the antsy shifting in his seat. "Uh." He squints owlish at Lujayn. "Watching the hatching?" He's a little clueless, obviously.

It might be the fervor of the impending hatching sending Lujayn's nerves sparking, but her eyes grow wide at the young man's admission. Twisted around in her seat, facing completely the wrong way now, she earns a pack of whispered giggles from the holder girls. "You've got to get down there, Khorde." The happy smile fades even a bit, true urgency in her voice. Clueless or not, Lu is willing to take the time to beat it into the islander's head.

Uh oh. The death of a happy smile because of /him/? Khorde is stricken, by Lujayn's attitude and the imperative she directs his way. "Uh." Blank stare. "Me?" Squeaky, like a little kid, his voice; "I do?" The holder girls giggle even more by the look on /his/ face. "Me? Down there?" Incomprehension stretches over the lengthy expanse of his face.

Are they really having this discussion? Right now? Lujayn's already in Khorde's face thanks to the crowded tiers, but would have gone there anyhow to press her point, her conviction. "Yes, you. On the sands, as a Candidate." The humming grows more intense with every moment; it's all the rider can do to resist the urge to turn around, keeping her eyes locked on Khorde's. "I'll take you to the barracks if you're nervous." Which he certainly appears to be, all squeaky and boyish. "You deserve to be there." From the looks of things, she's one exchange away from bodily dragging him down the stairs to the sands, robe or no.

They are, evidently, having this conversation. Khorde's expression is quickly turning from incomprehension to something very close to -- fear? Fear, from gawky skinny sulky snarkaholic Khorde? This is new. "A candidate?" His voice, rather embarassingly, breaks on the last syllable of the word. Damned hormones. Damned puberty. Damned stressful situations. "Me?" He's still not caught up. "Uh. The barracks?" He shakes his head once, as if to ward off clingy thought-muddlers, and awkwardly moves to stand. "What do I tell them?"

"Rielsath will let them know you're coming," Lujayn assures him, standing halfway as well; it looks like Khorde is liable to fall over on his face from nerves or shock - or a well-timed elbow. "They're already out there. Just grab a robe and go. You know where they are," He's lived there long enough to be in the loop, at least she hopes. One whoop from someone sitting nearer to the sands makes her stand and haul him to his feet, tripping over her dress in the process. Is it an egg? An Impression? She doesn't know and almost doesn't care. "Now. Run."

"Erp." It's not a word, but it's audible, so -- it counts, right? Khorde's wide-eyed at Lujayn for one more long moment, until the uproar of the crowd in reaction to some action down below causes him to stumble over his feet, half-trip, and then haul arse through the crowds like a crazy man. She told him to run: thus, running. He leaves a string of disgruntled people in his wake, including one lady who draws herself up with a sharp, "Why, I've never..." -- it doesn't seem to impact him overmuch, though, as he's gone.