Naven is here.
Stalking into the Great Hall, M'lan looks less than happy. Much, much less. The man's bootheels echo briefly as he stops in the entry, his gaze sweeping the hall more thoroughly than might a broom. Or some other pun in that fashion. His gaze falls upon Naven, and he states in a deep baritone, "You, there...know where the assistant steward is?" He pauses, adding under his breath, "I can't believe he told /me/ to ask.../me/..." He's Not Pleased(tm).
Perched on the corner of a tabletop, Naven's pretty stuffing his mouth with a bubbly when he's addressed, and the look of surprise is softened by his puffed cheeks and his attempt to swallow the piece before speaking. He chokes as he does so, and after a fit of coughing and a beet-red face, he looks at M'lan again with a crooked grin. "Assistant steward? No, I have no clue... uh.. sir."
Watching this display with a touch of amusement, M'lan shakes his head, "More's the pity." He leans casually against a table, hip leaning against the wood. He mutters a moment, a few words carrying, "Sharding...tell /me/ to..." At any rate, after a moment, his gaze focuses on Naven, and he shrugs a shoulder, "Sorry for my rudeness. The bartender in the tavern was being less than polite." He offers a hand to the ... gluttonous young fellow. "Name's M'lan."
Hey, Naven had to eat it before he got caught and had his purloined stash returned to the kitchens. Pushing the plate of bubblies away as if they personally offended him, he wipes his hand clean on his trousers. He grins, clasping M'lan's hand in a firm shake. "I'm Naven," he greets, before curiosity gets the better of him. "Which bartender was that? I'd like to know who to avoid next time I make it to the tavern."
"Big. Stout." M'lan's rather terse this evening-- perhaps due to the errand he finds himself on. Perhaps due to the less than stellar welcome. At any rate, he shrugs, "Anyway. Not a big deal. Pleasure to meet you, Naven," the man states, gaze flickering to the bubblies, then back to Naven again. "Ah, that's an idea. Do you happen to know where the wine is stored, here at the Hold?"
"In the back of the pantry," comes the ever-ready reply from Naven. Too quick for someone who will admit to never going there. "But that's the regular stuff. I think the really good vintage is under key and lock by the Head Steward or cook." He tilts his head, watching M'lan's mood with a wary eye. "I take it you're none too happy to be here. Anything else I might help you with other than locating the assistant steward?"
"I don't mind being here; I didn't like the reception, but then, it happens." M'lan leans back on the heels of his feet, frowning, then settles again, his boots grinding into the floor of the hall, "Ah. That's an idea." He gestures with a hand towards Naven. "I'll drag you along. If nothing else, if he's rude in front of witnesses, I can speak to the head steward." This bodes poorly for the poor bartender. "Come along."
Naven tries to be welcoming to most people he meets, but occasionally some people grate his nerves and he become less than gracious. But that's rare. "Drag me along? Where? To the Tavern again?" Well, it'd be his first time, but maybe the bartender really didn't know anything. He sighs, the idea of work as unappealing as choking on another piece of pie. "I suppose.." he offers grudgingly, hopping off the table to the floor in a fluid motion and grabbing a bubbly before he follows. Waste not, want not.
"Good," M'lan murmurs. "If things work out, I'll buy you a drink," he adds solicitously. Turning on his heel, he begins to make his way out of the hall, his footsteps brisk. He's on a mission. Granted, it's a rather simple one, to be sure, but nevertheless. M'lan's like that-- too serious by half, sometimes.
Fort Hold Courtyard
Cobbled stone breaks the monotony of blue veined grass, the former bringing beauty through its mica-flecked darkness while the later is kept well maintained due to prudency or old teaching. Well tended, the grounds have an immaculate appearance, indicating constant upkeep along the lush area. The stones themselves make a pattern of their own, one wide, even path rushing to the iron door's dais, another ambling toward the musty smell of the Hold's stables. Others dance toward a stolid guards barracks, while a more traveled length heads to the inviting doors of the local tavern.
The morn was fair, the skies were clear, no breath came o'er the sea. Or to put it another way, summer arrives with the ending of the nightly spring storms and warms the planet with its radiance.
You see Pwylth here.
A man with a mission. Right. Never interrupt one of those, especially when they take it as seriously as M'lan seems to be taking it. Naven follows doggedly at the bronze rider's heels, nibbling at the crust of the bubbly as he does so.
Of course. M'lan is serious. Well. Ok. Not always, but when someone gets his back up, M'lan can be downright vicious. One of those things not many people say. He turns and says over his shoulder, "Right this way," as he turns to head towards the Tavern. A brief rumble catches the man's attention, and he turns towards the large bronze who rests within the courtyard itself, "No, I'm not getting you anything to eat, Pwylth," the man says, pausing.
Naven can hold his own -- well, ignoring the usual dragons stationed in the courtyard, that is -- but having one of Pwylth's size rumbling that it's hungry tends to be slightly disconcerting. So the young lad, who was making his way to the Tavern, pauses unceremoniously to stare at M'lan, then the rumbling bronze, then back to the Tavern entrance. "Ah, I'll let you two discuss food while I wait inside." Okay? Okay.
Pwylth rumbles again; he's watching Naven with something that -might- make the young man think of hunger. M'lan chuckles, and then turns towards Naven. "I don't know. He's awfully scrawny," the man says. "You sure? He'd not even be a mouthful, after all." The bronze rider's gaze is amused. "If you're hungry, we can find a herdbeast..." There's a louder rumble, as the bronze rises, looking towards Naven as he rises to his feet from his curled up position.
Naven would lock gaze with the menacing bronze if he had the guts to do so, but instead all he can do is watch it get up and shake his head. "Ah.. me? I _am_ scrawny. All bone and no meat. A heardbeast would be so much better," he squeaks piteously before turning a pleading gaze to M'lan. "I'm all sweaty from work. I'd taste funny, tell him that." He takes a few backward steps closer to the tavern entrance, not losing the dragon from his sight and ready to run if it decides to pounce. Then, a question, "They don't really eat people, do they?" He would've heard about that.
"Yes, yes, I know you've always been curious," M'lan says, playing it up for all it's worth, even as the bronze rumbles again, and moves closer to Naven. Creep. Creep. Claws scratch the surface of the
courtyard. Finally, though, even M'lan has to relent. Bad mood or not, he's not one for playing cruel jokes. "No, they don't eat people. Actually, he's telling me you'd do well with the clutch on the
sands," M'lan says rather nonchalantly. "I suggest you accept, or he's liable to hit you over the head and drag you over to the weyr. Pwylth doesn't take 'no' for an answer."
Naven backtracks as slowly as Pwylth's creeping, pausing to hold his ground as M'lan answers him. The gleam of sweat is promptly wiped off his brow theatrically as he takes a deep breath. "Not dragon food, good..." he says to himself, before stiffening again. "Clutch? Shards, there's a clutch on the sands again?" For a gossip-monger, he's not as well informed as he thought he was. He then shakes his head as he realizes what the rider just said, giving M'lan one last wary look "How much work is this going to be?" Then again, the idea of being hit over the head by a giant dragon isn't his idea of fun either.
"Work? Quite a bit. You cook, you clean, and you basically act as our
drudges for a time," M'lan says candidly. He points to the bronze, "Of course, it's better than Pwylth there finding out how humans
taste." Another rumble from the bronze. You might look at it as his way of saying 'Stop that!' to his rider. Anyway. M'lan chuckles, "So, are you willing, or should I go find something to wash his teeth after he finishes with you?" Another loud rumble from the bronze.
Naven contemplates the choices carefully, his gaze not drifting from M'lan instead of the bronze who had intimidated him earlier. It's the people you have to be cautious about. "Drudges, hmm? I get too cook?" A bright expression crosses his features, and the last rumble from Pwylth causes him to wince once more and nod readily at M'lan. "Deal. I'll go, as long as I get to stay inside the Weyr until he feeds, that is." One can never be too safe.
The bronze rider laughs, and nods, "Deal." He pauses, and leans into the tavern, calling, "As you wouldn't give me some wine, I'm taking a resident instead." Leaving this for the man, M'lan turns to the dragon, "Up you go then." He gestures, offering a hand. "I'll return and tell the stewards, so they're aware that we didn't kidnap you." With this, the man waits for Naven to mount up as the bronze dragon kneels.
Kidnap. Ha! Like Naven really had a choice in the matter. Either go
willingly or with a concussion makes decisions a whole lot easier. He'll keep that in mind for future reference. With a brisk nod at M'lan, he then looks at the kneeling bronze and climbs up.
Naven clambers up upon Pwylth's back.
Hey. M'lan has to give a brief impression of being fair. It's in the
rules. He has to maintain some semblance of neutrality. All politics and diplomacy, you understand. Chuckling, M'lan says, "There, that's
done." Once Naven's on the dragon's back, he mounts as well and fastens straps, making sure everyone's secure. "All right, we'll be going up and then popping between, got it?" he asks the young man. "Ever been between before?"
Naven looks at the straps, then the ground and then back to M'lan. "Between? No, can't say I have. I've never really been on a
dragon before, to tell you the truth." He looks back down at the ground, "I take it these straps are secure. I won't be falling off anytime after he lifts off, right?" Hey, at least he's trying to sound brave.
"No. Can't have that. You'll have a chance at getting hurt on the Sands. Have to keep you whole till the dragonets decide whether they want to run over you," M'lan says with a touch of gallows humor. "All right then. We're going to fly. Be ready to go between, Pwylth likes to do it when we hit the air, he has the visual from me..."
Pwylth slips out of existence as his bronze bulk slides **Between**.
** Between **
You hang senseless, in the dark nothingness of ::between::... absolute
darkness surrounds you, and the profound cold stings you...you wait, and count...
Breathe. Remember to /breathe/. Naven exhales deeply as they come out of between, blinking against the light. He takes a look around, frowning. "We're here. I heard that it gets you to places fast, but I
never thought.." he shudders off the memory of going between. "How can you do this on a regular basis?" His tone is only slightly incredulous, and he sounds more than ready to get back on solid ground.
"You get used to it," M'lan says to Naven with a chuckle. "Just like you do anything else." He shrugs as he rubs his lifemate's back, before saying, "Just relax. I'll take you to the barracks, and leave you in capable hands there," he says with a slow shrug. "Come on, it's not /that/ bad." With this, the bronze rider lets his lifemate wing towards the caverns.
Outside the Living Caverns
The jagged rock face continues in its endless quest around the great oval bowl. Lava-pocked and mineral-rich, the walls climb ever up in their attempt to touch the sky. The black maws of dragon weyrs dot the curved wall at odd intervals, where brilliant flashes of draconic color brighten the sober backdrop of granite and mica. Below stands the entrance into the living caverns, its archway honed to perfect symmetry and smoothness by ancient techniques long since lost.
Naven shakes his head, frowning. "Not /that/ bad for you, who got 'used to it'," he mutters, holding onto what he can as Pwylth makes his way to the caverns.
M'lan laughs lightly; he begins to unstrap and slides down easily, "Come on. Let's get you settled," he says to Naven.
He couldn't have said it sooner; as soon as M'lan finishes his sentence Naven unstraps and slides to the floor. He taps the ground tentatively before looking back up at the bronze rider for guidance. "Lead on."
"Good, good," M'lan says with a grin. "Just this way," he quips as he
turns, heading into the caverns again, moving briskly.
Candidate Barracks
This vaguely rectangular room contains cots, cots, and more cots, which
either stand in neat, pristine rows, a clothespress at each foot, or in
jumbled confusion, depending on the current residents. Metal brackets mark the smooth walls every four cotlengths, hosting shieldable glows that, when open, shine gentle circles on the low ceiling and worn floor. A desk holds a prominent place at the back of the room, opposite the lower caverns' exit and below the large slateboard that lists the room's 'occupants' and their assigned chores. Beside the slate hangs a wide 'tackboard', pinned full of important notices for the candidates to read.
Leading Naven in, M'lan gestures, "As one of the first ones, you get your pick of cots. Take one. The rules are overthere, be sure you follow them, or else," the man says with a chuckle. "I might let Pwylth eat you," he reminds.
"But you said that dragons don't eat people!" Naven whines, turning his
back to the cots to face M'lan. That's mean. He does, however, shut up about the matter. One is never sure enough. His attention retracts from the matter of being lunch to a much-needed nap, and he inspects the room. "So I just take my pick?" he asks, already making his way over to one of the further cots.
"Yes, that's so. Look at the rules, and you be sure to follow them," the man says. He doesn't comment on dragons-- if the boy even worries, he'll do well to find out for himself. M'lan chuckles, "Settle in, I'll send someone to give you chores." With this, the bronzerider slips out of the room.
