Logs:Storm Watch T27
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| RL Date: 26 January, 2012 |
| Who: Avaryk, E'dre, Norov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: E'dre has questions about Avaryk's standing out in the rain; new candidate Norov's just tracking down an archery teacher. |
| Where: Bowl Falls, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 19, Month 11, Turn 27 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Ebeny/Mentions, Hattie/Mentions, N'muir/Mentions |
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| Despite the ache the changes in air pressure cause to his injured shoulder, stormy days tend to find Avaryk outside at some point or other. Late morning on this particular day finds him out at the bowl falls, as is typical as close to the edge as he can safely stand; it's become his 'thinking spot' within the Weyr. The season has made the view a little less majestic and a bit more bleak, deciduous trees having lost all but the most stubborn of brown leaves, leaving only the evergreens to provide patches of dark colour amidst the gray of stone and brown of bark. The storeskeeper is protected from the light rain currently falling by his worn old jacket, and a wide-brimmed leather hat jammed down on his head. Hands stuffed in pockets, he looks out at the heavily clouded sky, watching the next in the day's series of storms roll ponderously closer, lightning flickering far off against the horizon. Lightening, no matter its distance, gray clouds and storming weather always bring Wroth out to watch. This morning he would not be left alone to his musings and so his rider is equally bundled against the cold and drizzle. No hat is on his head, so he has to brush water droplets from his eyes as he and Wroth meander along the lake shore. It is the brown that alerts E'dre to Avaryk's position up by the falls, much to the brownrider's surprise. "Have you gone soft on me?" he queries of the brown, slapping a shoulder before he strides forward and makes his way up towards the place Avaryk has settled for. "Why are you out here in the rain?" he asks, by way of greeting, a confused smile on his face as he pushes damp hair out of his eyes. "You don't have a cranky brown demanding you stand in it!" So lost in his own thoughts, Avaryk fails to hear any footfalls, turning with a start of surprise only at the sound of E'dre's voice. A smile is quick to form, and he frees his hands from his pockets for extra balance as he steps down from his precarious perch and moves to meet the brownrider. "I've always enjoyed storm watching," he replies as he reaches to pull E'dre into a hug, dismissive of mutual damp states. "Why don't you have a hat or a hood?" Taking his own off so that the brim won't get in the way when he leans down to offer a light kiss, and then moving to settle it onto E'dre's head instead of back on his own. "Or does he actually sometimes provide a wing for you to shelter under?" E'dre returns the hug, damp or not, with as much warmth as he can put through his arms. He laughs as the hat descends on his head and shakes his head, moving to take it off and return it to the taller man. "I'm fine, honest. And usually he'll offer out a wing to let me stand under. If I ask. Sometimes even if I don't ask. He's in a good mood, I suppose. He's the one that let me know you were lurking up here." A step or two leads him to lean against a tree's trunk, it's sparse foliage and limbs lessening the light rain that is trickling down from the sky. He beckons to Avaryk to join him. "Though I probably won't stay out too long in the rain. No need to get a cold. That'd only irritate Wroth and N'muir." He winks, smile staying warm on his face. "What do you have planned for your day besides watching lightening flash in the distance and the storm clouds roam around the sky?" The falls seem to only be hosting these two gentlemen in the light rain, with a brown dragon further down the shore settled down to watch the skies above. It's late morning and with the weather as it is, it's unlikely that many will be venturing down to the lake. So why is Norov doing exactly that, a standard-issue rain slicker pulled over his tall frame with its hood well over his dark hair? Maybe it has to do with how he's got a small slate sheltered under one arm, and with the other jots notes now and again as he looks around. Brown dragon, check. Brown dragon also gets a longer, interested look before he turns away, searching... there. Men. Evidently he's hunting for men, because he's now started their way. Unless it's just trees? "Why does it not surprise me that he'd be in a good mood today?" Avaryk teases, resettling his hat back on his head. He does look a little surprised at the news that it was Wroth who gave a way his location, however. "Really? I thought you'd just done your usual trick of having him get Squeak to tattle on me." Not that he was hiding, or anything, his quiet laugh lending a joking quality to his words. He moves to lean a shoulder against the tree, angled slightly towards E'dre. A soft snort precedes the dry, "And we can't have that now, can we?" Though whether it's an annoyed Wroth or an annoyed N'muir he means, he doesn't clarify. "Not much beyond the usual drudgery in stores, really. Though if the storms get much worse today I'll probably wind up hiding in the galleries or the baths just for the heat, and try to work out a plan for setting up an indoor archery range. The weyrling complex hasn't really got suitable space for even a temporary one, unless I go into the barracks themselves." He makes a face, shaking his head. "What about you? Going to escape for a while or has Old Ironjaw got you scheduled this afternoon?" It's possible he's noticed the approach, but without any immediate recognition of the individual, he offers no hail. E'dre lifts a hand to brush his hair behind his ears before crossing his arms in front of him. One leg kicks up to balance against the tree, while the other stays planted on the ground that is slowly dissolving into sticky mud. "If you need heat and the cold from the weather gets to be too much, just ask. Wroth and I can escape for the afternoon. We had dawn sweeps again and morning drills, so no, Old 'Ironjaw'," he can't help the snort of a laugh that comes out at N'muir's nickname, "is not likely to be looking for us. He's been remarkably civil lately. We went to Boll together, after all. And we didn't fight!" Such a shocker, right? A glance is tossed out towards where Wroth is settling and the brownrider notices the approaching figure. He lifts a hand in a casual wave to be friendly, though he's turning to refocus the conversation and his gaze on Avaryk. "I think Wroth likes you," he announces, "Which is a rare thing. Beyond rare. I don't think he's ever liked anyone. He doesn't even really like me." It's mud that Norov's traversing without apparent pleasure, his footfalls angled to minimize the sucking sound of its clinging to his walking boots. He does return the rider's wave, briefly, and his route cuts that much more sharply towards the private space they made for themselves. Only when he's fairly close, so his voice isn't even raised: "Good morning." His accent's pure Boll, unvarying right down to the, "Storeskeeper Avaryk. I'm guessing." That worthy gets a long look, but it's E'dre who gets the half-apologetic smile. Avaryk grins, amusement causing murky eyes to shine, though the shadow from the brim of his hat might make that difficult to see. "Maybe he's worried you'll punch him again, and muss up his 'rugged good looks.' Not that I think Hattie'll be fawning over him any time soon after his latest stunt." Sigh. Bark scrapes against leather as he shifts his weight slightly, resettling his feet more firmly on the ground. "If I can get the time, I might take you up on that offer regardless of how my shoulder feels. There's not even any snow on the ground and I'm already starting to go a bit stir-crazy." Since he's been holding to his promise and not disappearing on a regular basis since it was made. He pauses, eyeing E'dre for a long moment before lifting his gaze to consider Wroth, lifting his hand to tip his hat back slightly to clear his field of vision. "Well... I guess that's a good thing? IT would make things rather difficult if your dragon hated me." He smiles, a bit crookedly as he looks back to the brownrider, "And I'm sure that's not true. How could he have picked you, otherwise? I--" Thought cut off as he shifts too look in surprise at Norov, a muscle jumping in his jaw at the young man's accent. However, his own Southern drawl is polite when he responds, "You guess correctly, though you have me at a disadvantage. You are...?" "She really told me in no uncertain terms that I shouldn't punch our dear Weyrleader again," E'dre replies with a drawl and a smirk. He shakes his head, arms once more moving to fold in front of him. His shoulders hunch a little as he tries to draw more warmth from his riding jacket. The rain is persistent at moving down through the tree's minimal shelter. Pitter-patter, drop, drip, drop. A sigh and a nod at the mention of going stir-crazy, "It can happen quite easily. It took me turns and turns to adjust to Reachian weather. When poor weather hit Igen or Boll at least the rain was often warm." Norov's approach and hailing draw a friendly smile from the brownrider though it stalls as the accent registers and he names Avaryk. "Ah, well. A new face. Must be a candidate?" he queries, trying to regain his composure as he shifts a little closer to Avaryk. "They've started bringing them in by dragon-loads," he quips to Avaryk, trying to gauge the situation a little better between the two. It's a reaction, such as it is, that sharp gray eyes don't miss. "Would that all such disadvantages were so readily overcome. Call me Norov." He has a slow, sunny smile that only hints at apology, now: "I'm afraid I am seeking you in your... professional capacity. But if you like," he glances to E'dre, to how they're closer now, "I can wait." Indeed, he moves past them without looking back, though not far: just towards a nearby tree, his own sparse shelter. It's the way E'dre's huddled into his jacket that prompts Avaryk to straighten out of lean and move to curl an arm about the shorter man's shoulders when he moves closer, though the action isn't likely to provide much in the way of physical warmth. He slants a rather confused look down at the brownrider after Norov has said his piece, shoulders lifting in a shrug, the silent message shared with expression and body language: I have no clue. Verbally, "Aye, and I've been tasked with teaching them all archery." Lifting his gaze again, he turns his head to find where Norov has parked himself, frowning. "I'm not sure what you could need that requires my specific attention, unless you are a Candidate?" Voice a little sharp there, meaning to call attention to the failure to answer E'dre's query. E'dre doesn't seem overly bothered by the failure to answer his question, especially not when an arm is looped around his shoulders and he's tucking against Avaryk. He watches Norov out of curiousity, but answers Avaryk's earlier statement. "Oh? Archery? I don't get it. That doesn't seem a useful skill for future riders." He holds up a hand, "Do not say I said that in N'muir's hearing. He'll have my hide." Pause, then with a hitched grin and a glance up at Avaryk. "Or Ben. I'm sure she's already eying the potentials with trepidation. Weyrlings always wear her out." He finally stops his rambling chatter and refocuses on Norov. "Did someone send you to find Avaryk then?" Had E'dre's question been directed to him? Norov's got a bemused expression when he turns around at last, adopting a casual lean against his own tree that's in such easy earshot. He pushes back his hood slightly then, but with some deliberation, lengthening the time it takes before he really notices the two men's closeness. At that point, though, his expression doesn't particularly change, any censure only in the way he keeps... looking. "I have that honor," he says finally, and still with some slight distraction. "And yes, rider, it was Storeskeeper Avaryk whom I was told to seek. I was told to seek these archery lessons from him, or else," and here that smile of his momentarily escapes safekeeping. "However, apparently there is a notice that said lessons are to be suspended. Now, as collaring the Weyrleader and asking him to clarify seems... inappropriate, I must ask our good storeskeeper. Am I to abide by your decision, Avaryk, or his? Forgive me for being unacquainted with your customs." "Don't worry," Avaryk chuckles, giving E'dre a fond glance. "I like your hide right where it is. It wouldn't look nearly as handsome stretched out on Ironjaw's wall. Besides, I tend to agree with you. Most of the situations which an ordinary person could benefit from knowledge in wielding a bow will never apply to a dragonrider. I have taught several this turn, but they all chose to learn for their own reasons; my lessons weren't mandatory." Which E'dre knows, otherwise he'd have been ordered to attend them. But Aryk has a tendency to ramble, as well. Adding in a suggestion, "Maybe you should whisk her away, before the eggs're on the Sands and she's required to stay near for the Hatching? The summer Gathers will be starting down South in a few more sevens; might even be some early ones. You can pick out presents for her little ones while her weyrmate babysits." He doesn't seem to be particularly bothered by the way his closeness with E'dre is studied, nor does he appear to be engaging in such just for the sake of causing any discomfort. He's just quite casual and at ease, censure -- particular when stood in the middle of a Weyr -- far from his mind. "Ah, that." Realization dawns, but the enlightenment is only short lived, disappearing beneath a grimace. "Yes, that notice was posted before the Weyrleader chose to make his... request... that I provide Candidate lessons. My apologies, the situation is a bit... unclear. Hence why there's not been a new notice posted. Yet. Tell me, do you truly have an interest in learning, or would you simply be attending such lessons because of that 'or else?'" "I can't see myself taking Hattie off on an escapade. I leave such things to your inspiration," E'dre answers part of that rambling with a laugh. The laugh is short for soon Wroth is tired of sitting on the lake shore and from the pained expression that flashes across the brownrider's face - demanding they move on. It's with a resigned sigh that he pushes off from the tree and untangles himself from Avaryk's arm. "I've got to move on. He wants to go to the feeding grounds. Then after I'm for a bath to warm up. See you later?" he asks of Avark, lifting up to plant a small kiss on the Storekeeper's cheek. He gives Norov a passing glance and a friendly smile, "Good luck with all of it. Avaryk is a good teacher, he'll have you up to speed on archery in no time." There goes another grimace. "Sorry, Wroth's really impatient." And off the brownrider trots. Hides, walls, weyrmates, presents, Gathers, someone with the same name as Fort's Weyrwoman at the very least: Norov waits through it, wades through it, with a general impression of patience that lightens at the mention of Southern, of travel, and the eggs that go along with it. When Avaryk poses his question, though, rather than reply immediately, he gives the other man a nod in favor of not interrupting E'dre's leavetaking. To E'dre: "Thank you, rider! A very good day to you." And that earlier kiss? It's so convenient how he 'd gotten to looking over at that brown dragon instead. But. Now E'dre's gone, and Norov returns his attention to the storeskeeper once again. "As to these lessons: it does sound like an interesting position that he's put you in, to be sure. Do such things happen often?" His smile reappears, full of easy warmth, and never mind the misty rain that lingers about them. "And as to my taking these lessons, let it never be said that I shy from learning something worthwhile. Count me in." Amused, "Not Hattie, I meant--" Avaryk starts to clarify before the change in E'dre's expression cuts him off. The storeskeeper casts an irritated glance down towards the lake and Wroth, but is quick to smooth his expression and instead offer a smile to the brownrider. "Of course, love," he answers before the elder is having to hustle off to keep his dragon appeased. Shaking his head, the Southerner 'humphs' quietly, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he sidesteps to re-prop himself against the tree trunk. Attention refocusing solely on Norov, he chuckles a little and decides to provide a small amount of background, "I was a hunter at Southern Weyr before I moved up here. I think getting me to teach others archery was prompted by the recent dependence upon the dragons hunting due to the sickness the herdbeasts in the region suffered from recently. Dragons can't really fit in forests, after all." Shoulder bounces in a one-sided shrug, before he offers a carefully neutral, "As for the Weyrleader's reasons in requiring Candidates be taught, you'd have to ask him. Have you any experience with the long- or shortbow?" Norov listens with flatteringly close interest, saying afterward, "I see. And it's a problem that the dragons had to do the hunting? I might have imagined that they would be... efficient." He tucks his slate away to better mime dragon claws, one hand jerking forward in a grab and then the other. "Forests aside. I'd go with the shortbow, more flexibility. You could say we've been introduced. There's always more to learn." Avaryk shakes his head, freeing a hand from his pocket to rub it over his face. "No, no, not a problem. They were just having to do more of it these past few turns than normal. So more... in the eventuality that such a situation ever happened again, there wouldn't be quite such pressure upon dragonriders to be the sole providers of the Weyr's meat. Or... something like that. I don't explain these things very well, and I've not even lived here a full turn. You'd be better off speaking to someone else about the whys and wherefores." Nodding then, his grin settles easily into place. "I'm a longbowman, myself, but I think the short is better suited to the denser forests up here. Since you've got experience, you probably won't have to endure too many sessions with me. The Weyrleader hasn't asked me to turn you all into expert shots, just make sure no one's going to put an arrow through their own foot." Norov nods right back, only then he says with a chuckle, "That's very well and all, but has he concerned himself with people putting arrows through our feet? Because if it's all the same to you, I'd like to skip that part, unless someone gives me warning to swap out shoes." He glances briefly, bemusedly at his. "As for Southern, I've heard all sorts of stories about it. Some might even be true. Did you even know about the plague, when you came?" "That's my concern," Avaryk says, voice dropping slightly lower as this is no joking matter to him. "None of you, even if you're experienced, will be using tipped arrows. I've got special blunted ones that all of my beginner students are required to use. At the worst, an accident will result in a pretty bruise. And I do not tolerate any goofing around. The same will hold true with anyone I ask to assist me." Or else, implies the tone of his voice. Woe betide the hypothetical assistant who forgets to enforce the storeskeeper's rules! He gives himself a visible shake, and takes a couple steps away from the tree in search of a slightly drier -- or at least, stonier -- patch of ground to stomp some feeling back into chilled feet. "Some might, but I'd bet in finding exaggeration in all of them, of some stripe or another. After all, that's part of what makes a good story, eh?" Quiet laughter. "I knew of it, vaguely. There was a concern for a while that any dragons visiting up here might bring it back with them, particularly if they'd participated in a mating flight and blooded. But I didn't learn the full scope of it until after I moved." As Avaryk explains, Norov tips his hood a noncommittal fraction further back, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he observes the other man. "Are you saying that even works for eyes, your blunted tips? Although if someone gets to that point, any old stick would do, or a thumb." He rolls his shoulders loosely, even brings back a smile for the other man's laughter. "I'll agree with you when it comes to stories, all right. At least you had some warning. Some don't. But I hadn't thought that this clutch might be... contaminated," and that's why that smile was so short-lived. Avaryk flicks a finger against the underside of his hat-brim, causing a small waterfall of collected rainwater to spill down over his shoulder. "If anyone gets to that point," he begins darkly, "they'll find themselves face-first in the dirt with my bootprint on their ass. The first thing I expect my students to learn, before they're even allowed to pick up an unstrung bow, is that you don't point at anything you don't intend to kill. Blunted arrows or not." He pauses, eyeing Norov concideringly for a few moments. "I take the safety of my students quite seriously, I assure you. While I'm not so arrogant as to claim there is no possible way anyone can get hurt, I do everything I am capable of to reduce such risks to an absolute minimum." Confusion begins to take over, brows pulling together in a frown. "Huh? Where did you get that idea from?" Right after Avaryk's first few words: "That'll be a sight," Norov says, his voice dry where the storeskeeper's hat, and Norov's own rain slicker, are not. "Don't worry on my account. I plan to follow the rules." As for the rest, "From you: what you just said about these... flights, the blooding, it seems to be called. Even I know that it's supposed to be done where they live, in seclusion. Correct me if I am wrong. I'd like to be." Wouldn't it be? Dry tones are met with a bland look from the storeskeeper, but Avaryk chooses not to remark upon any perceived skepticism. Probably a good thing, if there was none intended to be relayed! "You'll be one among at least thirty, if not more," he points out. And the odds favour there being at least one idiot in the group. "Oh! Sorry. There's no actual risk of the dragons carrying the illness that struck the herdbeasts, even if they did blood from an infected animal. In the early stages of the plague, however, before that was discovered, it had been a concern," he's swift to, hopefully, reassure. He tilts his head, and doesn't quite manage to stop himself from the query, "You really know nothing about Weyrs, do you?" He turns slightly, waving his hand in what would only be recognisable as the direction of the feeding pens to someone familiar with the layout of the bowl. As it is, it may just appear to be a random gesture. Cue teacher-mode: "Typically, when a green- or goldrider recognises that his or her dragon is proddy, they keep them confined to the Weyr. In the case of golds, this is as much for the safety of everyone as it is their dragon, given the, ah... spillover. Nor does anyone wish to have their dragon call a pack of others down on some poor cotholder's herd. So yes, when a female rises to mate, if everything goes the way is ought, she'll do so from her home Weyr and she and the males who chase her will blood in the feeding pens. But some of those males might be visiting from out-Weyr. The bronze who caught our Isyath is from High Reaches, for example. Make sense now?" 'So you're one-thirtieth along," Norov comments with more cheer than the dragons and their blooding get, and keeps it up for an even more cheerful, "Nothing at all. You could tell me that everyone eats babies for breakfast and I'd ask, well, what do the babies eat?" Speaking of stories and exaggeration. At least he shuts up long enough for Avaryk to go into that teacher-mode with minimal disruption, though somewhere in there he pulls his hood further forward again. Spillover, packs, visitors, what he winds up with is just the important things: "So dragons, and those dragons still in shell, won't be hurt. All right." And then he tilts an assessing look at Avaryk. "So. You've got a lot to say about all this. Do you also Stand as a candidate for the dragons, or are your skills... more valued elsewhere?" That first question earned Norov a snort of laughter, swiftly turned into a cough. Avaryk's long-winded spiel was probably given through a grin thanks to it. "No, they won't be hurt. You might hear some other things while you're here, concerning Isyath and how long she took to rise, and what her clutch might be like because of it. I'd ignore it, if I were you. It'll either be someone trying to pull your leg, or fishing for more marks for the betting pool." Spoken in the manner of friendly, if unsolicited, advice. Rather than giving a direct answer, he simply shrugs and says, "I'm Weyrbred. Both my parents are dragonriders. So...." He sort of grew up with it all. A growl of thunder in the distance makes him look up, frowning slightly as he gauges how close the storm has gotten during the time they've been stood around talking. "Looks like we're about to get hit again. I'm going to head back in; I need to get back to work anyway. It was good to meet you, Norov. I should have a new notice up about the archery soon, just as soon as I hear... a final word on it." With that cryptic comment, he turns and trots off, tossing a casual wave behind himself. |
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