Logs:Testing Tempers
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| RL Date: 20 July, 2014 |
| Who: G'laer, Jadzia, Quinlys, Telavi, V'ros |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: It's feeding time at the... barracks. Tempers flare. |
| Where: Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
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| Weyrling Training Cavern, High Reaches Weyr All the furniture here has been pushed to one side of the room to allow a large pathway opposite: room enough to let weyrling dragons pass from the bowl's archway to the cavernous barracks at the back. None of the furniture matches, either: it varies from big cushioned, claw-footed chairs to those of plain wood, while the most seating is at the two stone tables ringed by low and equally hard stone benches. Without the tapestries that decorate many of the Weyr's other interior spaces, the room always echoes with noise, no matter how few are there. What it does have, however, are several colorful murals: on one wall, a detailed diagram of a dragon's anatomy; opposite, next to a creaky wooden door, a number of painted and labeled wing formations. Near the entrance is a large-scale version of the Weyr's badge, while the back wall, by the barracks, features a detailed map of the continent. The latter area's also home to one big, beat-up couch, black or maybe blue -- the thing's so old and filthy it's hard to tell, though it's certainly comfortable. It's morning, perhaps a week after the hatching, and just after breakfast. Officially, there's a schedule that says that this time should be for bathing (in big tubs of water lugged across the bowl), feeding and oiling, though unofficially, well... since when have babies ever kept to a proper schedule? "We're not grading you in prettiness," chides Quinlys, doing rounds through those weyrlings presently out here in the training cavern. "Big enough to chew and swallow; that's all that counts. No, you don't need to cut off the fat. Do you want that pretty green of yours to starve?" She's got her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and there's blood on her hands, now, as she attempts to demonstrate. "Shit," is groaned as V'ros, bent over with his hands on his knees, spits out the lingering bits of breakfast swimming around in his mouth post vomit session. It's taking the former Holder longer than expected to get over his queasiness around blood and gore. He wipes a hand across his mouth, slanting a look at Zmeyth, who is presently, inelegantly, gulping down a hunk of meat; bits of skin and fat hang from his teeth, a sight which makes V'ros turn green again. "Another?" he says in a squeaky voice, but after a brief staring contest, he breathes deeply and stands, making his way leisurely to the bin of fresh meat. By contrast, Jadzia doesn't seem to have any problem dealing with the insides of dead animals. It's the cutting itself that seems to be of some difficulty for her. And only because she's been having a hard time focusing with her hands shaking just noticeably the way that they do. Savroveth isn't much help with the focusing. He's staring at his weyrling, which probably means there's a running commentary going on inside of Jadzia's head. One that tastes just like what she'd really like right now. In a competition between 'dragon who will starve while her rider cuts up perfect meat chunks' and 'weyrling blowing chunks,' it's pretty obvious which one of them wins; the sound of V'ros' gastronomic explosion has Quinlys turning, nose wrinkling. "Do you need some water, V'ros? Take a deep breath. You'll be fine-- Jadzia, how about you?" Olveraeth's not present in the barracks, though his thoughts are: a star-spangled sky, distant nebulae lurking about the edges of his charges' thoughts. Just in case. Telavi chimes in, "A rinse-and-spit will do wonders!" from where, nearby, she'd crouched some minutes ago to look at another dragonet's paw and assure that new rider that yes, that's perfectly normal. No, they shouldn't worry. Yes, dragons can get hangnails and yes, it's a pain but yes, they'll survive and that isn't what this is anyway. Now she straightens, stretching, and not wading in to get her own hands bloody. Though he looks skinner and there are dark circles under his eyes, V'ros nods in the affirmative, giving a disjointed nod as he walks to Zmeyth's side and offers the latest hunk of some poor herdbeast. "Fine, just fine," comes his clipped answer, a passing of his brown eyes over the Weyrlingmaster before they settle on the dark brown dragon he stands before. Rinse-and-spit indeed! Rather than heed their advice, he's locking his eyes with whirling draconic ones, seemingly hypnotized as he watches his lifemate scarf down yet another piece of bloody meat. "I'm fine," Jadzia practically snaps, like Quinlys asked the question more than once before she managed to answer. Even though that's not the case. Savroveth mantles out to their full size then refolds his wings carefully against his body, looking away with a very dramatic sort of sigh. At least he's patient about waiting for Jadzia to cut his meat. Outwardly, anyway. Teisyth has been permitted in the training cavern before, but she just gets so danged excited that most times, G'laer banishes her to the bowl when she's not needed. But he can't keep her exuberance from rolling on in like an out of control coal cart: fast, heavy and chaotic. « Howdy do, little dragons! » It goes to all the dragons nearby in her copper and pistachio flavored twang of an alto. So, the dragons at least can guess that G'laer is on his way in, the austere man appearing moments later in tidy work attire that must have been his quick change from the riding leathers required for morning drills with his wing; sucks having two jobs, but there it is. Quinlys, heedless of the blood on her hands, puts said hands on her hips, gaze turning from V'ros to Jadzia, and then back again. For someone who probably isn't getting a huge amount of sleep herself - she's been regularly sleeping on one of the spare cots - she is remarkably chipper. "Tela, want to get V'ros some water, please?" The direction is made without a glance in the greenrider's direction; nor does she glance towards G'laer's arrival, though Olveraeth is certainly conscious of them both. "Such a lot of very fine weyrlings we have here. You're ruining my buzz." Her tone is mock-chiding. Telavi may not be in a hurry to get herself bloody, but she does bestir herself to head outside with a bright, 'Yes, ma'am!" and an extra bounce in her step that surely has nothing to do with bypassing G'laer while he's heading in. He gets a look-over and a nod; then she's gone, presumably out fetching from those tubs of water that are not far outside... and are, minute by minute, cooling. A tense moment passes, wherein the smoky haze of Zmeyth reaches out towards the green, then recoils, drawing up tight like a door slamming shut. V'ros visibly winces, the effects of his dragon's temperament not withheld from even him. He breathes out deeply and gives his head a shake, as if trying to clear out something. "No--," but before he can get too far, the brown butts him in the middle with his head, knocking the wind out of him, and there he is again, bent over, trying to draw in breath. "Oh, fucking shit," he manages between wheezes. Purpose? Please. The excited chaos of Teisyth's arrival draws Savroveth's attention like a moth to flame. He bounces to all fours from his carefully seated position into the green's direction but sort of falls forward before his wings flash out to his sides to try keeping his balance with limited success. It gives Jadzia a few moments of forced focus to finish cutting meat. Except now Savroveth is distracted and only paying attention to things that aren't her. "Dammit, Sav. Here!" G'laer's steps aren't slow. They're not overly hurried, but he's moving with purpose, already rolling up his sleeves as he approaches the grouping. There's a nod for Telavi as she passes; professional, just a slight tip of his chin to acknowledge her. Quinlys gets a verbal, "Weyrlingmaster. Where can I be useful?" His eyes are already skimming in case Quinlys doesn't feel like bossing him around today. (Ha!) Teisyth jumps, mentally, as that door slams shut, and it's to Olveraeth that she asks in what is probably supposed to be a whisper but that all the dragons can hear. « Is he havin' a bad day or is he always this cranky? » She can't remember. Her excitement continues to radiate; this probably doesn't help Savroveth's focus any. Quinlys was so looking forward to having brand new weyrlings, too, and now... an expression of distaste crosses her face, quickly dispatched, and she turns; « Hush, » says Olveraeth, speaking for the first time. « Sit quietly and listen, young ones. If you do not let them feed you, you will never grow big and strong. You must be patient with them. » There's a nasal quality to his voice, but reverence, too, as though his thoughts hold answers to all the mysteries in all the worlds. « Teisyth? Calm. » "Shells, I don't know," mutters his rider, eyeing G'laer. "You could keep your dragon from disrupting them, for a start." When Telavi reenters, she's got two pails instead of one, by way of balance; she sets one down on her way to V'ros and his dragon-- where it shouldn't be knocked over unless, say, someone like Savroveth happens to flail off in that particular direction-- and isn't in a particular hurry herself to get there. When she does, it's definitely with an eye to not having Zmeyth spill it while it's still in her custody. She doesn't ask the weyrling if he's okay; she does reach to clap him on the back with her free hand for breathing's sake. Brightly, "Still being able to swear, that's a good sign." That door which, so tightly sealed, creaks open and allows the inky, slick, serpentine tendrils of black smoke out. « What good are you? » directed towards Teisyth, no hint of humor or remorse, just roiling intolerance. V'ros looks pale, groaning and grasping his head in his hands. "No. No. You can't say those things.. you can't." He seems adamant, pleading almost, his eyes suspiciously shiny. But then Telavi is there and he immediately straightens after she claps him on the back, his posture rigid and unwelcoming all of a sudden. "Got it." Gruff, so unlike himself, but it's hardly any surprise, given his dragon's temperament. « Sitting is boring, » complains Savroveth, though he pauses in his horribly awkward attempt to keep all of his feet under control to look back at Jadzia, who is practically glaring at him with a chunk of meat held out in her hand. The brown glances back at Teisyth, talons digging into the ground indecisively. Then, for the green but not just to the green, « Hey, watch this! » Savroveth spins and leaps to run back toward Jadzia with all the grace of a baby runner taking its first steps. Unfortunately that grace also comes with a lack of brakes and he overshoots his mark to fall face first just short of barreling into Zmeyth and V'ros. « Right! » Teisyth answers the instruction entirely too brightly for a dragon who's going to succeed. But she tries. Oh, Teisyth. Zmeyth receives her first attempt. « I'm an awful good time. » Which is just what Olveraeth needs in one of his assistants, right? It's still too excited, too bright. Her rider frowns, deeply. If Quinlys were easy to scare, this might be terrifying because it's some of the most obvious emotion he's ever expressed in her presence. It's quickly cleared and-- Teisyth's presence is fading with physical distance. "Done." It comes through gritted teeth. "Ma'am." Then. "And now?" This lacks the grit. Maybe it was just difficult to get Teisyth to go away when Savroveth was wanting her to watch. « Next time, » comes the oh-so-sad apology to the energetic brown. "You look ill," Tela tells V'ros frankly. While setting down the second pail in easy reach, "Wash up, would you? Then you can wash him out there, and then oil afterward." If all that practicality might also be intended to be distracting for his dragon... no doubt Savroveth s even more distracting. At least to Telavi, who hastily darts backward with her own muffled curse. "Oh for--" Quinlys has no compunctions in throwing up her hands and looking, well, murderous. "Just make yourself useful." It's all very useful. Really. Zmeyth stands his ground. This is his spot, you see? He looks down at his brother, quite like someone looks down their nose, the only sign of displeasure being the low rumble that starts in his throat - it's likely meant in warning. V'ros has no reaction except to step closer Zmeyth, his attention gravitating between the brown on the floor and Telavi. There's only so many "fine"s he can say before he gives in, if only because his dragon is otherwise occupied. His shoulders are drooping as he shuffles to the water pail and dunks his hands in, bringing the water up to wash his face. Jadzia doesn't look very worried about her dragon's nose dive. Not even while Zmeyth gets all territorial. He can take care of himself, evidently. She throws the chunk of meat she was holding onto the rest that are waiting on Savroveth before she's squatting down and shoving her hands into her hair, eyes closed tight. Fortunately most of the blood on them is dry and tacky now. Savroveth has a cordial puff of smoke for his brother as he regathers himself back up to rights. « Nice place here. I like what you've done with it. » Is he being sarcastic? It's hard to tell. But his rider hasn't been throwing up. And, yup, he's just going to wander back toward her now. What? He did it. Just like she asked. He even wiped the frown off. G'laer doesn't waste time making drama with Quinlys and her throwing up hands; instead, he turns toward Jadzia, because that's going to go better, right? Well, she's nearby and Savroveth has taken a tumble. So he's moving to them, letting Telavi handle the less(?) pleasant pair. "Any scrapes?" He asks without fanfare. Telavi keeps an eye on the trio but, notably, doesn't move to intervene as the still-tiny browns work things out. If she's also smiling as Savroveth starts to wander off again... well, she must not have seen Jadzia's poor hair. Jadzia's poor still-uncut hair. "Getting clean helps," she mentions like it's true. "You haven't felt any crawlies or stray itches, have you? One of the others said another candidate brought some in, and I certainly hope they haven't gotten to these barracks." The smoke crackles - the smoke crackles! « Keep to yours. » Verbal warning this time, a low rolling sound before the door swings shut again, Zmeyth turning towards V'ros by the water bucket. He doesn't need to turn around to know his dragon has reconnected - it simply is. "Ok," he mumbles as he scrubs his face with the water, somewhat too roughly so that his skin is reddened when he looks up at the greenrider, water dripping from his chin. "No. I haven't." Blase, even. Then he's lugging the pail closer to Zmeyth. Quinlys, having thrown her weight around and put her assistants to work, vanishes temporarily to wash her own hands; by the time she's back, her shoulders are rolled back, her chin held high. Was she tetchy, a few moments ago? Surely not. Now she's all smiles. Savroveth's progress is slow, definitely not worried about Zmeyth's grumpiness, so he can move one paw and then another with deliberate care. He'll stay on them this time, dammit. "He's fine. He falls over all the time," Jadzia snaps at G'laer, not moving out of her squat until Savroveth has come close enough that she can offer him meat again. Which he finally eats. Her waspishness is apparently not even personal right now, though, because she's glaring in Telavi's direction, too, before her attention is drawn back to her dragon. "Just eat." No commentary! Another day, G'laer might say something Jadzia. It might even be something helpful, but just now, he nods, and is provided distraction by one of the blue pairs saying, "Sir?" and needing help with getting the hang of cutting meat. Look, Quinlys, he's being useful! Yes, but how does Quinlys' breath smell? Telavi gives V'ros a curious sort of look; then, "Good. Let us know if you do." With that-- and a glance to Zmeyth that means missing Jadzia's glare entirely-- she wanders off in a focused-looking sort of way... even if it does lead to a sigh as she settles down by another little green whose rider is engaged in scratching flecks of dried hide off her belly. V'ros gets down to the business of washing off his dragon, from the dirty bits to the bloody bits and everything in between. He pours the water careful, reverently even, and makes sure to scratch any itchy spots that need tending to. Zmeyth bears it all like someone accepting his due, flaring his wings out when V'ros gets the spot that's been killing him. Then, they move onto the oiling, mindless of what anyone else is doing, completely quiet and content in their own whirlwind of motion. As her assistants busy themselves with other weyrlings, Quinlys meanders back towards the pair of brown weyrlings... or at least into their general vicinity. With V'ros apparently settled, her attention falls towards Jadzia. "Hair cuts," she says, brightly enough. "You'll need one. It'll make things much, much easier, I promise." Once Savroveth gets started, Jadzia leaves him to work on eating on his own. She keeps a close eye on him, still sort of glaring, but that might just be a case of resting bitch face at this point. "I don't need my hair cut. I can just braid it. It's fine." Everything's fine! V'ros already has short hair, so this isn't his issue, but he's aware enough to look up and watch Quinlys. His hands are full of oil, messy messy oil, that's dripping down Zmeyth's sides and running all over the floor. Still, his exhausted-blank expression holds as he observes the hair conversation, his interest clearly piqued by.. something. "Everyone gets their hair cut," lies Quinlys, blithely. It's a test, at this point; it must be a test. How many simply comply; how many fight the point, do their research, simply refuse. She digs her hands into the pockets of her trousers, blue-eyed gaze shifting from Jadzia to V'ros, then back again. "Frankly, it'd be easier for everyone if we just shaved your heads." Voice lowered, "Lice, you know. It's happened before. Besides, who has time for vanity?" Quinlys does. "V'ros, have you had any sleep?" Surely Jadzia hasn't had the time, nor the wherewithal, to go researching weyrling rules. But she still says, "No." It's firm. And more than a little challenging. "I'm keeping it." She's serious enough even for Savroveth to look up and watch Quinlys, mid chewing. Girl fight? Never miss girls fighting. "No." Before he realizes what he's saying, then a quickly said, "Yes." V'ros turns his back to the Weyrlingmaster, obviously not interested in talking about his sleeplessness. Zmeyth chuffs as he stretches a wing, redirecting V'ros's ministrations to that particular spot. Quinlys's good humour is beginning to sour again as first Jadzia, and then V'ros, effectively defies her. Her shoulders stiffen. "No," she says to Jadzia. "You're not. You've got three days to find someone to give you a proper hair-cut, or you get me and my knife. Do you understand?" Her tone edges towards dangerous, though... well. It's not like Quinlys ever looks more than adorably fierce. She scowls at the back of V'ros' head, not arguing, but clearly not abandoning her train of thought there: watch out. Jadzia could argue more reasonably. But she's far too edgy for reason right now. "You come at me with a knife and you'd better be prepared to have it turned back on you. Ma'am." Threatening the Weyrlingmaster is probably against the rules, too, but there you go. Jadzia glares at the woman before she's moving to encourage Savroveth to eat faster. So they can get this over with and maybe she can have some peace after he falls asleep. Despite himself, V'ros peeks back at the two women, a look over his shoulder to confirm what he's hearing - did Jadzia just threaten the Weyrlingmaster? Well.. that's not unexpected. He shakes his head and resumes oiling Zmeyth, working it into the dry patches on his long limbs. "Sometimes," he murmurs, supplying an answer to an unspoken question from his lifemate. "As your superior officer," Quinlys reminds Jadzia, oh-so-sweetly, "I can discipline you for even suggesting that. Perhaps you haven't realised it yet, but here it is: I own you. Until you graduate, I can, and will, do what I like. That goes for all of you." The addition is aimed, vaguely, in V'ros' direction. "So I suggest you think things through before you say them, mmm?" Chin held high, she begins to turn. "Carry on, weyrlings. I'll talk to you later." Savroveth looks vaguely disappointed that it mostly de-escalates. Jadzia probably has other things to say, judging by the look sent Quinlys' way. But she, wisely, keeps them to herself for the moments. "Hurry up," she says to the brown while she kneels down to start washing further back where his eating is unlikely to make pointless. She'll just work her way forward. The suggestion is a tangible one, and it sticks. V'ros finishes oiling Zmeyth and wipes off his hands, mumbling under his breath about "tired" and "nap" and some other incoherent words that fade off as he moves towards the inner sanctum of the barracks, Zmeyth in tow. |
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