Stalking into the Weaver Hall, M'lan looks over his shoulder, speaking to himself rather than anyone who is apparently there, "Just relax, I'll get /to/ it," he states, voice descending into a low, rather quick muttering. "Sharding dragon." Shaking his head, the man's gaze scans the entry hall, as he digs into a pocket, pulling out a small, folded piece of paper. "Ah. You, do you have a moment?"
Taeri stands by one of the entry hall's walls, staring up at a tapestry with what could only be described as a bored expression. Jumping as M'lan speaks, Taeri looks over her shoulder. "I beg your pardon?" She turns slightly and glances around the room. Hugging the slate in her hand against her chest, Taeri looks mildly curious as she watches M'lan.
Myvanwyghin walks in from the main hall.
"I'm looking for one of the Masters?" The bronze rider states, as he pulls off his riding gloves, already feeling warm within the Xanadian heat. Clasping the leather garment into his belt, M'lan adds, "I need to speak to her about a commission or two, from the Brownrider Nest and Weyrwoman Sanna." He's running an errand. He's far too nice. But they _are_ stuck on the sands.
Taeri nods and points over her shoulder towards the main hall. "Yes sir, there's a Master in the Workroom at the moment. That's right off of the Main Hall. Would you like me to take you there?" She lets the slate fall to her side and uses one hand to brush the chalk off of her shirt. That's what you get from not paying attention.
"What do you mean, 'just tack it on with pins and hope no one notices?' Do that, apprentice, and I'll ..." Myvanwyghin's threat trails away as she makes her way down the corridor, exasperation in her expression. "Youth these days. No pride, no pride at all ..." She pauses, arching a brow. "Good day, aprentice, rider."
"Sometimes, people don't know how to do real work," the bronze rider observes, before chuckling. He responds to Taeri, lightly, "Looks like I've found someone, thank you," he says, before turning towards Myvanwyghin. "I need some outfits for the Hatching when it occurs in a few months. Someone to design for Sanna and Nest, as they'll be on the sands and busy." It's actually a surprise and he doesn't trust that Arawn to not let it slip. Cheeky little fellow. At any rate, the man shrugs. "Here's their measurements," he says, offering the slip of paper. "I'll speak to whoever is told about specific styles...I've the cloth I want used in my bags, I'll bring that in, if you like?"
Taeri bites back a sigh as Myvanwyghin walks into the room. There goes her excuse to leave the tapestry work. "Good day, Ma'am." She nods to M'lan and turns back to the tapestry, looking down at her smeared slate. Mumbling notes about colors, Taeri leaves the other two to continue their discussion.
Don't think Myvanwyghin didn't see that, and she casts Taeri an amused look out of the corner of her eye. "Things going well, I hope?" One eyebrow darts up in surprise. "You've ... already something in mind? I'll need to see it. Depending on what you want, it may not be feasible, not everything is suitable for every garment." She looks thoughtful, then gestures to Taeri. "Come help the fellow. You can tell me what best to make with the cloth." Pop quiz! After a fashion.
Sure, turn M'lan's commission into a lesson. Myvanwhyghin is the perfect teacher-- she can turn ANYTHING into a lesson. Shaking his head with amusement, however, all M'lan does is nod at the Weaver Master in appreciation, and state, "Come on, then." He gestures first to the Master, then Apprentice (only two there are!), and then turns to stalk out of the hall again. "He's right in the courtyard."
Taeri looks back over her shoulder, a faint smile playing over her mouth. "Yes, Ma'am." She heard the first bit of information, but as the second bit sinks in, Taeri's smile fades. Oh boy. Setting her slate down on the floor under the tapestry, she follows M'lan out to the courtyard.
Weaver Hall Courtyard
Nestled between Xanadu Hold and Xanadu Weyr, the Weavercraft Hall complex resides. The courtyard is just off of the main one, with newly inset flag stones and a carefully nurtured and maintained flower garden that always seems to be in perpetual bloom with a variety of flowers each particular to a season. Several stone benches are positioned under some of the larger trees, oft times filled with apprentices and journeymen who choose to do their handiwork outside of the Hall. A pair of carved doors lead into the main Entry Hall, over which a large banner of white with a lavender bolt of cloth emblazoned into its center that flutters with the breeze, drawing the eyes to its shimmering surface.
Strong storm winds lash Hold, Craft and Weyr, bending trees and making conversation outside impossible. High up in the sky the winds whistle by blowing the storm clouds south and causing a many difficulties for dragonriders in their flights. With the south at the height of its stormy monsoon seasons, animals take refuge where they can and even the fish have left for calmer waters.
Myvanwyghin sweeps into the courtyard, at the back of the small group more by the fact that she has rather short limbs than anything else. "But we should be able to accomodate you ..." She has the sense she has come off a little overly brusque. A glance back at Taeri. "Relax. I'm certain you know this." Ahem. The dragon gets a narrow-eyed look, then a nod. It seems only courteous.
In response, the 'dragon' rumbles softly in greeting to Myvwanwyghin the untype-able. Stretching, Pwylth rises from his supine position, his gaze regarding first Myvan, then Taeri. He rumbles again, louder, as M'lan reaches into his bags, and pulls out a large bundle, "Ah...here's one, and the second's still up there." He gestures to Taeri, "Here, you can take these if you like, I'll carry the other package," he states easily.
Taeri exits the hall, thankfully without the dreaded slate this time. Self-consiously brushing more chalk from her shirt, she just nods to the Master and waits for the first question. "Yes, sir." Taeri stops next to M'lan and reaches for the bundle. "I suppose if I don't know the answers after all, you'll have me spend more time in the library?" Not a terrible fate, really. At least the library has chairs.
"Of course," Myvanwyghin replies absently. "Doing research. Otherwise, it'd be a punishment, not a cure for a disease." She stops again. That didn't sound as encouraging as she might have liked. An irritable little gesture waves it off. "Did you get that from the weaver up at the Weyr, or ... ?" In which case, she'll half suspect to find crawlies wrapped in the packages.
"No, I bought it from a trader. It's good fabric, I think it'll suit." M'lan says before pausing, even as Pwylth rumbles more loudly; the man laughs, and says, "Of course I won't threaten to have you eat her. I was in a bad mood the other..." The man trails off, and rolls his eyes. He looks towards Taeri, asking, "You like reading a lot? Do you
like work, at all?"
Taeri nods, finding Mev's words /very/ reassuring. "Of course, that makes sense." She shifts her grip on the bundles and nods at M'lan. "Yes, sir. I enjoy work. At least when there's a purpose to it I do." Like she'd say otherwise in front of a Master? "And I don't mind reading. I think I learn better that way than I do when I look at examples." Is there a hint to her Master in there? Of course not.
Myvanwyghin's lips twitch. "In that case, it should be fine." That sounds to be a bit of a jab at Fort's presently stationed weaver, but one can never be sure. She clears her throat. "You might want to ask her that question, rider, when there isn't a figure of authority present ..." She looks unduly amused. A quick look shot to Taeri, but she makes no reply to the hint or lack thereof.
"Well, true. Though authority's part of the idea," M'lan says lightly. He turns towards Taeri again after a grin at Myvan, and the bronze rider asks, "All right. Here's the deal. You give that fabric to the Master, and you come with me. Pwylth here seems to think you'd make a good candidate for Teyrth's clutch. He's rarely wrong," the man notes with
a touch of pride, before winking. "You'll have to do a lot of that 'useless' work for a time, though." The man parts his hands, "Up for it?" Yes, he says this in front of Myvan, who's probably not pleased at the question. Pwylth rumbles, and slowly twines a tail outwards, blocking Myvan from Taeri. *His*. Or she will be. He's a stubborn fellow, that bronze.
Taeri blushes slightly and looks down at the bundles she carries. She looks back up as M'lan starts to speak, her mouth falling open. Taeri looks from the bundle to Myvan to Pwylth. "Come with you? But...I have to take a quiz." She glances back at the Apprentice Master. "I mean, I'm I /allowed/ to just...leave?" She frowns down at Pwylth's tail, before looking back up at Myvan. "I can't, can I?" Would she want to?
Myvanwyghin's brows dart upwards, lips pursing into a delicate and restrained line. All this considered, she doesn't look pleased, though it's the sort of displeasure that doesn't deign to display itself in outbursts. "You can tell your dragon," she says, "that I'm not going to force her to stay." She faces Taeri for a moment. "Of course you can, if it's as you please," she continues with no rancor. "That's the way it works. I might wonder, however, if there's some compensation for stealing our people?" *Now* she sounds annoyed.
"That's your choice. Pwylth is rather firm about it though. He wants you to stand." M'lan turns and says to the dragon, "No, we aren't dragging her off-- you stop that, or I'll start talking about you eating people again." This, of course, elicits a rumble of displeasure from the large bronze, before the man chuckles at Myvanwyghin. "You will be afforded good seats at the hatching," the man murmurs. "And you're sure to get a surge of commissions as the Hatching approaches." With this, he turns back to Taeri, not seeming phased in the least by Myvan's question. "Now, are you up for it, or shall I drag my lifemate off before he tries to carry you off himself?"
Taeri pauses to think about it for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. "Well, I suppose I could. If it's not going to cause problems here at the hall." She won't even have to take that quiz. Thing's are looking up. Her eyes do widen a bit at the talk of dragging her off or eating her, but Taeri nods anyway. "Sure. And I could come back if I don't impress, right?"
"Very generous," Myvanwyghin says drily. "I'm overwhelmed. This is something we don't get anyway how?" She shakes her head. "No, it shan't cause problems, though I can hardly say the Hall doesn't get the worse end of the bargain here. Then again, I suppose there's nothing new in that." She speaks airily, no apparent rancor in her voice. "Of course you may. There'd quite be a lynching if Weyr policy was to automatically make candidates permanent residents." There's a hint of amusement there.
"We wouldn't do that," M'lan assures both the apprentice and the master. His voice is wryly amused, though, at the woman's rancor, before gesturing as Pwylth rumbles and settles down. "Come, I'll help you up. We'll take you now, while the hall prepares your things. I'll send someone over to pick them up." Get her out when the iron's hot-- and her acceptance is fresh, as it were.
Taeri's nod grows even more confident as that last bit is confirmed by both. She sets the bundle down and steps forward. "Ok, thank you sir." She lets M'lan help her up onto Pwylth and settles her skirts around her. Myvanwyghin gets a nod and a slight smile in the way of a goodbye.
Myvanwyghin shakes her head, turning to retreat to the entranceway, though she remains to watch the apprentice's departure. "Best of luck," she calls, and even means it. "And as to you, rider ..." No, she'll save the tirade. For now.
For now. M'lan's used to tirades, though: he's searched at Herder. Including Lasarah's favorite apprentice. Now *that* was a tirade. He nods to Myvan, and slips up easily onto his dragon's back. "Now, be ready. Pwylth's got his visual, he likes to go Between
soon as he's got enough height..." The 'rider trails off after this, as he pulls the straps into place, securing Taeri. "You ready?"
Pwylth
Fine, brush-stroked bronze paints this curious dragon from his rounded head to his busy tail. Creamy spots and patches of deeper, less reflective brown combine to create an impression of shifting light along his soft back, white the velvet underside of his neck and belly are smoothly dappled with silver. Large, strong wingsails are threaded with prominent bones that speak of strength held within. Plush haunches, more powerful than
they look, complete his solid foundation and meet their rounded ends in big, long paws tipped with brassy talons.
Pwylth is 19 turns 6 months and 0 days old.
Taeri nods as she's strapped in. "Yes, Sir." She's back to chewing on her lip again, and smoothing her skirts down. She doesn't know quite what she's agreed to yet, but she braces herself.
"I'll speak to you later, Master," M'lan says to Myvwany. Chuckling, he makes sure Taeri's settled, before saying, "Off we go." With this statement, he pats his lifemate's flank, and the bronze leaps into the air.
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...
High Above the Central Bowl
The winds here pound, ever flowing, carrying limited amounts of oxygen that works to steal away what breath is left from the spectacular view. Though the sight here is not as grand as the one higher up, it is nonetheless a vision to behold. Sapphire gleams upward from the lake's rippling waters, the jewel of the Weyr. Light reflects, adding to the aquatic glitter: in daylight, the sun's rays glint, while night brings pale moons to cast their luminous glow on the waters beneath.
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.
"And here we are," continues M'lan as they appear out of Between. "Fort Weyr. I'll take you to the barracks to get you settled, and then send someone to give you chore detail, all right?" Even as he speaks, M'lan's lifemate turns to head towards the caverns themselves, banking.
Taeri gasps, not having been ready for that even if she had been warned. Taeri takes a deep breath and looks down at the Weyr. "Okay." She forgets the title, but she's still a bit stunned.
That's all right. M'lan's not one to want titles. "Good. We'll be there in a few moments."
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.
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.
Taeri is still looking around the bowl, trying to take everything in at once. She glances towards the ground as they land and looks down at the straps. "Uhm..." She manages to get them undone, but worries about how exactly she's supposed to get off of the bronze in a skirt. "Hrm..."
Landing finally, M'lan turns to look at Taeri, examining the girl for lost toes, digits, or brains. The man chuckles lightly, and unstraps her, sliding down, and offers a hand to help, "Come on. I've seen worse, before," he quips ironically, as he looks up towards her.
From Pwylth's back, Taeri smiles and manages, with M'lan's help, to get off of Pwylth without tripping over her skirts. "Thank you. You said something about chores I believe? Am I to be assigned the same chore for as long as I am here or do we switch up?"
"No, that varies. They'll assign you them daily. Doing kitchen duties, mucking stables," the bronze rider explains, "Sewing, there's a host of duties that you'll be obliged to fulfill." Pausing, M'lan nods, "I'll send someone down to give you your chores for this evening, once I get you to the barracks." Gesturing with a hand, he says, "Come on."
Living Cavern
Flawlessly carved archways highlight the uniform walls that extend upwards into the cavern's near total darkness above. The night hearth abides beside the largest egress, while along the northern span a handcarved staircase ascends into the kitchens. To the east a dais supports the long Weyrleaders' table; smaller table-boards align the walls nearby. The heart of the room is distinguished by gray flagstone flooring, whose skillfully interlocking slabs have been worn level by the passage of countless bootheels through the ages.
Taeri nods as she follows M'lan. Switching is good. Mucking stables, though? At least sewing is something she can do. Taeri just mumbles another 'yes sir' and looks around the living cavern.
That's right. Yes sir. Not. M'lan is just not into the formalities. Chuckling, the man nods to Narene, before saying to Taeri, "Right this way, it's just down this cavern, and to the left..." He trails off as he leads her into the lower caverns themselves.
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.
Stalking into the barracks, M'lan's gaze scans the cots, "Ah...we're getting some people in. Good." He points with a finger, "Choose any cot that's not taken. The rules are there," he gestures, "And the uniforms are in the press at the bottom of the cot. If it doesn't fit you, ask the headwomen, they'll find one that does." With this, he stretches, "I'll send someone to give you your chores for the day," he adds, before turning, and with this, chipperly walks out of the barracks again.
