Logs:Decorum
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| RL Date: 6 November, 2014 |
| Who: V'ros, H'kon, Zmeyth, Arekoth |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: How to welcome newcomers. |
| Where: West Bowl, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 12, Month 3, Turn 36 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Cold, snowy. |
| Mentions: Klous/Mentions, Tomic/Mentions |
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| Western Bowl, High Reaches Weyr The bowl's vast dirt floor extends in a rough oval from west to east, only sparse clumps of grass surviving between the crisscrossed pathways of daily traffic. To the northwest stand massive gates to the world beyond, allowing people, livestock, and tithes to pass beneath some of the seven jagged spires that stand sentinel over that area of the bowl. In late afternoons, their spindly, fingerlike shadows stretch over that end of the bowl all the way to the living cavern's hulking brass doors in the far north. Eastward, the bowl sprawls on toward the lake, sloping slightly downward to allow runoff from rain and snowmelt, but to the south it's caged by more cliffs of dark, rough-cut granite. Rocks poke up from the ground here, a few large boulders and many smaller outcroppings worn smooth in spots by time and use. A few ground weyr entrances dot the wall, the most frequented ledge set up like a patio while the largest ledge services the Weyrleaders' complex, directly beside the huge entrance to the hatching sands. A more human-sized entrance, left of that, leads to the galleries.
Nebulous gray clouds sit nearly unmoving over the High Reaches spires, the latter of which that stands out stark and black against the leaden sky. Icy flurries fall in sparse patches, building white dunes throughout the weyrbowl and creating thin layers of frost on any unattended surface they find. Activity levels are the same - man and dragon going about their daily duties, even the weyrlings, who have found themselves handling more elevator shifts and deliveries than workouts and flying lessons these days. Of those out in the snow, Zmeyth and V'ros are a pair, the former touching down on the white-covered ground, laden with boxes and other riffraff. His rider is quick to untangle himself from his riding straps and slide to the ground, where he meets a red-faced man that shakes his hand, thanking him effusively. "Uh, yeah, it's.. you're welcome," V'ros says, trying to hide his grimace behind a weak smile. He sets about untying the burdens they've delivered, aside another hulking youth taking orders from ruddy-cheeked man. "Ahhh, be careful with what you do, yes yes, nooo.. you idiot," this last one flung out to V'ros' helper. Arekoth announces his arrival to the watchdragon with a burst of sound when he arrives from between, taking his time - despite the blasts of dry snow - in his descent, circling slowly, steadily, around his Weyr, his rider crouched low between the brown's neckridges, but seemingly unbothered. Eventually, they get near the ground, near enough that some of the activities threaten to be interrupted. Or at the very least, to receive comment. « Moving day? » goes out to Zmeyth before Arekoth has even come in low enough to backwing. When he does land, just as that man is critiquing, it's at a fairly respectable distance. From which he can watch. H'kon busies himself clearing icicles from his scarf and the stubble around his lips, for now. One large box hits the ground loudly and both men wince, looking towards their supervisor with wide eyes; that man looks redder than before, if possible, like steam might come out of his ears. He grabs his face and stares at the box, then, when his face screws up with rage, he looks at the other two. "Sorry," V'ros mumbles, turning back to the remaining boxes, which he tries to gently leverage down to the snowy ground. « Smart guy here thinks it's a good idea in the middle of winter. Looks like a (red) fruit, » Zmeyth interjects back, rustling his wings in a manner that alarms the reddened one. It's V'ros' stern stare that stops the young brown's antics, enough that they can get the last thing off and onto the bowl floor. H'kon gives a final wipe to his eyebrows, and sets to working the buckles of his straps. They've been out a while, and the descent into the bowl was less than heart-racing action; it's slow and meticulous work to make fingertips that are starting to go numb do their part. « The ripest fruit I've seen in some winters, » Arekoth observes, voice roundly amused, almost jovial, and certainly warm in the cold bowl. « Where are you moving him? » H'kon drops to the ground, and Arekoth crouches, that the rider might open one of those bags attached to his straps. The muscled guy, it's his business now where the boxes go, because V'ros is busy taking the extra rigging down from Zmeyth. More insults and cursing ensues from Red Face as he demands his things be taken better care of. One eye roll constitutes the weyrling's feelings on that topic and then-- he leans back, around his brown's hind leg and under a wing, to stare at H'kon and Arekoth some distance away; there's no emotion on his face, it's fairly blank save the eyes narrowed against the blustery wind. Multiple chuckles - likely sounds he's heard recently, if not hours before - patched together do the work of imitating amusement. « I wish I had better news. It's here. » Here. Their here. Home. H'kon only glances to the younger brownrider peering at him, green eyes falling instead to the man, and his brawny assistant. « Who is he? » Arekoth asks, more simply, less jovially, in time to H'kon's slightest raise of his chin. That older, shorter brownrider has started making his way toward either Zmeyth or the new arrival, slow, steady steps that leave vague prints in the snow. Well, until the wind will blow them away. « Someone less important than he thinks he is, » Zmeyth answers, his amusement not as obvious this time, but his rider's bug-eyed stare is evidence enough of his mischief. V'ros is clutching the lapels of his riding jacket, mouth thin, as he watches the approaching wingsecond with what can only be described as terror; without a doubt he's scared of what his dragon said, or some slight of his own. He's just going to stand there until the other man meets him or otherwise, standing as still as a statue, planted right there in the snow. « But who is he? » repeats Arekoth, with a bit more of the wingsecond's dragon behind his tones, and a more proud angle to his head. In time with this repeated query, H'kon looks squarely to V'ros, leaving the newcomer to his progress. For now. Intolerance- a mental sigh. « He claims his name is Klous, from somewhere cold. » Zmeyth gives in enough for that, and it's up to his rider to divulge the rest. "H-hi, sir. He's.. a baker, from somewhere around Benden Hold, I think," V'ros says, managing to not drop his eyes or fidget in his normal awkward posture; could be to make up for his dragon's deviance. "I was just.. helping him, with his.. things." "Journeyman?" asks H'kon next, willing to turn his gaze now , now he's had an answer, to consider more the youth with the big man than the big man himself. "Who is with him?" Now that they're more easily in vocal range. Arekoth, he lowers his head, heaves a sigh that blossoms into a cloud, and shuffles his wings. « Colder than here? » Dubious, but with that amusement lacing into his tones again. "Yeah," V'ros says, ducking his chin down below the collar of his jacket. "I don't know. They came together with another.. a blue from Telgar." He rubs his nose, raw and pink from the cold wind, and directs his own gaze to the baker and his accomplice, who are still struggling to get the boxes to the caverns' entrance. « Very, » accompanied by a vast wintry landscape, nary a building in sight, everything covered in white, « Want me to take him back? » This, this could be done, or do the brown's mind voice projects. "Ahah. And that blue's rider has no interest in assisting them?" The words bring a grimace onto cold muscles, and lower frosty eyebrows a degree or two. "We might think to offer them a trolly." The eyebrows drop a little bit more. « Him and all his things, too? Or are you going to call those contributions to the stores? » Next comes the shifting of Arekoth's front legs, notably the left. Another steam cloud issues forth. "I.. uh, he.. well, he dropped them off and left, he didn't even.. maybe Zmeyth did.." But one look at the brown, and probably a short exchange, and V'ros shakes his head. "I didn't know he had so many things." He sounds down about it, but bows his head, letting his eyes drop to the ground, at the reference to the trolley. "I didn't.. think about that." « It would be a shame to waste our time and those additions. I heard him boasting about spices. They like those, right? » They being humans, since raw meat is waaay better.. raw. "Hm," says H'kon. "Then, if you've no other duties to attend to-" and he gestures, with a sharp nod of his head, toward the caverns. He's already started striding up to the crafter, looking grudging only for the first step, before his shoulders square up, and he assumes a more wingsecondly demeanour in general. « You're a pirate! » declares Arekoth, sounding absolutely thrilled. So much for rank, on this side of the pair. "I.." And he doesn't have any duties, for this minute, so V'ros has no choice except to follow the older brownrider with his glum expression still well-worn. He walks silently, without the squared-shoulder posture of H'kon, but with his shoulders sagged. With a head start, just not as much strength and stamina as the two dragonriders, the crafter and his minion are out of breath and arguing over who should be carrying what as the brownriders approach them. « I've been called worse, » Zmeyth recollects, somewhat unsure, but with a mental shrug, « What do pirates do? » « Like I'm going to give you any ideas, » all but clucks the older brown. This time, the rustle of his wings is righteous. Or, mockingly so. H'kon has got to the crafter by now, and is in the midst of dealing with introductions. It's a conversation that will end with offering up V'ros to show that hulk of a lad to where dollies and such are kept in the store rooms. After all they're still dragonriders, and this is still their home. Some decorum must be maintained. |
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