| Characters | Katailea, F'yr |
| Synopsis | Katailea receives a visitor from Xanadu. They talk about what to share with the eggs (and what not to). |
| Out-of-Character Date | February 6, 2020 |
South Bowl
The orange hued sandstone layers comprising the bowl walls curve gently, but ever presently in your view. Fine sand shifts underfoot, a slightly paler version of what is found upon the walls. It gives way along the eastern edge to a section of contrasting green grass where a series of cleverly engineered pipes provide water to the fenced off area of the feeding grounds, and keeps the shimmer of the shallow lake beyond from dissapearing during the dryest periods of the turn. A distinctly squared entrance farther south is the tunnel leading out to the lands beyond. Traders and tithes arrive here at regular intervals and it is not uncommon for part of the bowl to be set up with a series of tents and wagons as wares are displayed and sold. To the west, the bowl wall has been eroded by the desert winds into strange shapes. At their base are found the weyrling barracks and training fields.
Hot. That is what Igen is, at least during the day, regardless of season. As evening draws nearer and Rukbat sinks in the sky there's little respite, but at least its not quite as glaring on the eyes. With chores completed for the day and the hour to be settled back in the barracks not yet arrived Katailea is found in the bowl amongst the small number of traders camped there at present. While not the ones she likely knows well there's still some familiarity there. Hair tied up in a messy bun, the tan of skin perhaps a bit darker than before, but dress the same as usual.
Theoretically, it's possible to miss Glorioth's arrival into the bowl. Surely, someone was engrossed in examining the enamel on a tiny ceramic bowl or the hand painted designs on a scarf and missed the so loud, « AHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAHAHA HAHAHAHA, » that is beginning to count as some kind of bizarre and terrible fixture at Xanadu while the small-for-a-bronze beast drops with obnoxious grace out of the sky and into a damn near perfect landing in the bowl. « WE HAVE ARRIVED, MY F'YRSOME FRIEND. TO THE LAND OF SANDS AND SUNSETS. HERE, WHERE RUKBAT TURNS ALL TO GOLD AND TREASURES. » Maybe a person could keep their concentration on the trade item in hand with that still much too loud, much too heroic timbre rolling through all and sundry, heedless of the discomfort some feel at being touched directly by a dragon that isn't theirs. F'yr might've hoped he'd grow out of that, but. Well, F'yr does have wild dreams sometimes. The man is much more quiet by contrast, of course, and efficient in getting down from the straps. He gives the dragon some instructions that have the bronze leaping right back into the air (with F'yr hurrying to cover his face with an elbow to protect from the worst of what he kicks up being so near to launch) and up and up while the rider pulls his goggles up onto his helmet and turns on the spot to take in the current state of the bowl and lift a hand in what might be greeting or apology to the traders on the whole as he scans faces and eventually latches on the familiar one with a grin.
Plenty could miss a dragon in the sky above a Weyr, even a bronze one landing. They could take little to no notice of that, they could even ignore, if they so chose, the mental interruption the Glorioth provides. But that's a dragonic voice that one particular blonde actually recognizes and despite how anyone else might react it finds Katailea turning, through the initial flinch at the intrusion, to find the source. Whatever she might have been discussing is left with a distracted note of catching up later as sea green eyes find who they're looking for and that grin is met with a smile. "He's doing fine," she comments on the bronze, feet bringing her to meet his rider part way.
F'yr's fingers work through the buckle under his chin to get his helmet off properly, tugging the goggles into the inside in a fluid motion that speaks of the months of practice they've now been at this. His gloves come next and the whole thing is tucked under one of his jacketed arms. He's doing more than seeking to meet the familiar blonde half way, he's scooping right in for a one-armed hug of greeting if she'll have it, though it's brief. "He's not destroying Igen's herds, so I'll call it a win." F'yr isn't joking, he only wishes he were. "But look at you," he is, blue eyes scanning over the tan of her skin, her familiar dress and messy bun. "How are you? You look well," there's that, but he lifts his brows in case she'd like to naysay his assessment. "You decided to Stand for another," which had to be the burning question that brought him here. Or maybe that was question that comes last but draws a serious look from his face, "Are you happy?"
Katailea will take that hug, thanks, returning it in its brevity. Joking or no the comment earns a laugh from the young woman along with her agreement, "There's that." It is among the possibilities of things to come with Glorioth in the Weyr, even she knows that. "I'm alright," she assures, a playful lilt creeping into her voice with the smile that follows, "And look at you. A real rider." Gear and all. Those more serious questions that follow bring a nod in response, "Yeah…" she said yes when asked to stand at any rate. "I'm…" not quite sure of that answer, "Still miss the ocean, but it's good to see you too."
"Nearly, very nearly." F'yr replies with a laugh, a laugh that's only half humor and half quiet terror. Adulthood: right around the corner, y'all. That'd be enough to scare anyone let alone a farmer-cum-bronzerider. "We're nearly to the end of this month's training with Asteroid. I haven't had as much to do as some of the others," the actual crafters, he probably means, given it's the crafters' wing in question, "so I've been nosing back around the office some in my free time. They might be getting sick of me, though I'm almost convinced I nearly have the filing system figured out." The filing system that does not exist. "Next month is search and rescue. I can only hope that Glorioth doesn't take to it too well." Those in need of rescue might end up needing it more if Glorioth is involved. None of that distracts F'yr from his most important questions though. That's all just surface noise. Blue eyes focus on Katailea's face, of those silences where there might be words instead. "I'm not sure there are any Weyrs floating on the ocean." He observes quietly, some measure of apology in his voice. "Some near it, though." Igen's not really one of them, but. "And dragons… everywhere is sort of relative." So there's that before the sudden subject change that comes with an almost too-brightness of tone, "Want to show me the eggs? I've not seen them yet." Besides, it would be a place to sit, a place to talk, like they've done before. Almost familiar. Almost the same. And yet…
A nod at the explanation of what he's been doing with the time in their training. "You always seemed to like it there," when he was working in the office. "You never know, he might do good with it." Who is she kidding? Glorioth is far from the best candidate for search and rescue despite his great attempts at valor. There's optimism there though. "Pretty sure there's not," Katailea agrees with the comment of floating Weyrs, "But like you said," with dragons close is relative, though Igen's sand is still quite the opposite of ocean. Of the eggs she nods again, "Absolutely," agreement to that comes easily and she's leading the way across the bowl to where the hatching grounds are found. "Cooler there too," relatively speaking. Almost the same, and yet not.
"I'd rather he do poorly at it. It makes my argument to go back to Quasar stronger." F'yr points out. Then again, Quasar also does diplomacy and putting Glorioth in a sentence with diplomacy might be laughable. Really, is there anything Glorioth can do that justifies his keep? (Well, fairly, there is, but it's not in this conversation.) "It's where I want to be, though… I don't know. We'll see what the Weyrleader thinks is best. I might need more time in the wings." That's a little distracting to the big bronzerider, but something he doesn't presently want to linger on, so he grasps the ready distraction. This time, it's Katailea's hand if she'll give it to him, something familiar in this foreign place that isn't the same as the home he knows, in so many ways. "At least you expect the hatching grounds to make you sweat. Instead of just… everywhere. Do you like the eggs? I mean, all eggs are perfect, of course… Even that one that tried to suffocate us." Good job, F'yr, remind Kate of the good times back in Xanadu. "Anyway, I'm sure these are lovely. Do you have a favorite?" Is he nervous? He's talking a little quickly if he's not.
"Well then I hope he's terrible at it," Katailea offers teasing in those words too as she shoots a smile in his direction, though its certainly that accompanies her next thought. "You'll end up where you're supposed to be," her hand slipping comfortably into his even if it comes with a flicker of question in her glance. "True," the blonde agrees, at least the hatching grounds are expected to be sweltering. "Of course," is said with a semblance of amusement - even that one egg back in Xanadu. Right F'yr, whatever you say. "They're eggs, F'yr. But no, no favorites yet. Across the bowl and into cavern towards the gallery, there they can have their pick of seats. At least here the sun isn't beating down.
Katailea's glance might have a question, but F'yr's obliviousness offers no answers, only a smile. "They're not just eggs, Katailea," the blonde protests as he shortens his stride to better match hers. He releases her hand for the climb up into the hatching galleries, the movement arresting conversation until they're settled in seats closer to the rail than farther away. "Eggs have dragons in them." The big man informs the smaller woman as though he's just said something revolutionary. But wait, "Think about it." Mustn't she have before, F'yr? "They're like babies in the womb. The healers say they can hear us. The eggs reach for you, you know? Some want to hear your thoughts. All that." A pause, and a small, very tender sort of smile slips across his lips. "Glorioth was the first one I wanted to talk to. It wasn't… I didn't even mean to, really." He shrugs. "Maybe one of these will make you want to share yourself." Then, of course, he must ask, "What will you tell them? Who is the Katailea you want them to know?"
"I know," Katailea replies, with words said with a sigh, a hint of exasperation. Yes, they have dragons in them. Yes, they're more than just eggs and yet they're just eggs. "They're can whether the healers say so or not." They reach out, they respond when you reach back. Or at least it seems like and that's all that matters. Settling into a seat beside F'yr at a distance for friendly conversation to continue. A smile touching her lips for his sentiment on his own experience. "Maybe," she returns. Maybe one of them will, but its the question that pulls her eyes from the man next to her towards the eggs. What she'd tell them, "I don't know. How I found my way through everything here. Just me."
The big blond shifts in his seat, leaning back and slouching out. "I think they'd like that story. It's a good one." F'yr's eyes search over the eggs, expression turning thoughtful. "I like eggs," the man says as if it's a culminating decision of the moment. "I'm a little terrified that Glorioth may one day father eggs." WHO WOULDN'T THAT TERRIFY? "But these seem nice." He rolls his head to let blue eyes take in the candidate instead of the eggs for a long moment. "Are there any parts of your story you're going to leave out for the young and impressionable?" One hand moves to vaguely gesture toward the babies inside the eggs. "Maybe you should be careful what you tell them. I told Glorioth about the time I met Risali and Rhodelia for the first time, and that… well, it may have given him some of his stranger notions about quests." His lips twitch slightly, as if he might be more amused by this notion than really regretful. After all, no one else might love Glorioth, but F'yr does.
"How would you know?" a sharp question of his knowledge of that particular story comes with a glance in his direction, but green eyes turn soon enough back to those eggs and she can't help but laugh, just a little. "Of course you do," like eggs, "But you might have a point there." Glorioth as clutch sire could be… interesting to say the least. "If he does we'll just all hope they aren't all like him." Pern couldn't take more than one Glorioth. As to her own story however, a shrug of shoulders accompanies her answer, "I don't know. Maybe, maybe not. If its the one for me they'll know it all sooner or later anyway. Suppose it depends on what comes up?" Speaking of things coming up, "I don't know that I've heard that story…" of his meeting Risali and Rhodelia.
The sharp question draw blonde brows up and eyes widening just a touch. "Well," awkward, this is awkward. F'yr shifts, sitting straighter, "it sounded like you mean the story of how Katailea became Katailea and I- -" he gestures a little helplessly in the air. Whatever he was going to say next is replaced by, "I don't see how a dragon could not like the story of that." Friends are supposed to like their friends, right? It's possible F'yr feels a little like he's stepped in quicksand despite being on the very sturdy balcony. He redirects, "I had hoped Glorioth just… you know, wouldn't. Chase. Anything. He was always so grumbly about my touching people and the distractions of perversions and all," wait, what? But F'yr is not stopping there, thank Faranth, he's going right on, "and he seemed like he wasn't interested when some of the greens were going up, and then- - well. He was." That brings a hand up to rub across his face. "And then I'd sort of hoped that he was so obnoxious that he'd never win anything and I wouldn't have to worry about what fatherless Glorioth would look like as a father." Fatherless? Well, Xermiltoth is alive and well so… Listen, things just don't make sense in F'yr's world, unless one hangs upside down and squints hard. Even then… "Well… the highlights of how I met them is that Leirith got her head stuck in an archway in the garden and Risali went after her with my shovel. And Rhody's firelizard was missing. And…. well, there was rumor of a swan attack. I'm given to understand they're fearsome at Xanadu." He manages to keep his expression deadpan, although he does clear his throat. "Anyway. I think it may have influenced him, so if you want a calm dragon, a nice, pleasant dragon, maybe start with the nice pleasant things, even if they'll know everything eventually. Even if only one of these is for you, the rest will be your dragons' siblings, which really does end up counting for a lot in those early turns. The other candidates, too. You'd end up spending an awful lot of time with them."
Katailea shakes her head, "I did." That's exactly what she meant, but not so much what she meant to mean in that question. "Just, I don't know that its as good a story as you make it sound like." Friends are supposed to like their friends, but friends don't always know that whole story either. "It'll work out, whatever happens," after making it awkward the least she can do is offer her reassurance on that point. Whether Glorioth chases or not, fathers a clutch or not, it will work out even if chaos ensues in the meantime. His story earns a little laugh at least, a smile, "Leirith, shovels, and attacking swans, sounds like Xanadu." How you manage to get into such situations though F'yr she may never understand. "Pleasant…" the word repeated when the suggestion is offered brings a pause, but a nod follows a moment later. "Suppose you're right about that," spending alot of time with the others.
F'yr has a number of very special, very useless talents in life. Finding himself in strange or awkward situations where he just doesn't say no or doesn't run when he really ought to are just some of them. "Maybe it's not, but you've never told me the story." The man's voice is fairly quiet in the delivery, but there is a little lift of his brows. "But our stories are what make us, us. If we like us… don't we have to … sort of like the story we came from?" Maybe he's not entirely sure on that point. He looks a little like he's confused himself, but per usual, his herdbeast brain doesn't linger on what's perplexing, not in the moment; doubtless, it will circle back eventually. "Pleasant… I mean, it doesn't have to be pleasant. Some of those eggs back at Xanadu wanted to know about unpleasant things. That one that wanted to know all about who you were, who you would be, what you'd be remembered for…" He shakes his head and the shudder he gives isn't quite entirely feigned. "But maybe just think what information you'd want a young mind to have, to start out with." Maybe it doesn't work like that, but the bronzerider is earnest in his suggestion.
"Maybe some day," Katailea will at least offer that of her story. Maybe someday he'll hear more of the part he wasn't a part of. "But suppose you're right on some of that. Or maybe we're us despite everything else." She's not about to dwell on it much further than that, shifting to prop her hands out beside her on the bench. "I'm sure I'll come up with something." Pleasant or otherwise. The reminder of those times before on the sands pulls her gaze from the eggs back to the man beside her and she offers up a slight smile. "Thank you."
"It helps to remember sometimes… even those eggs that were unnerving, they turned into perfectly fine dragons." Unless one counts his. Because of course, now that he's released that thought into the universe, there's a penetrating, « ONWAAAAaaaAAAAARRRD! » and F'yr's on his feet. "That's my cue," TO RUN TOWARD WHAT HE SHOULD RUN FROM. "I'd better get him gone before he gets us uninvited from Igen." Banned, they call that banned, F'yr. He reaches to quickly touch Katailea's shoulder. "We'll come again," is a promise over his shoulder as he dashes for the exit. Whatever it is that's caught Glorioth's interest is evidently something he needs to actually run for.
