Spiriting Away

Western Weyr - East Bowl
The eastern end of the crater that forms the Weyr. The cliffs rise to the east, north and south of you, small openings in the face are individual weyrs of dragons and their riders. To the north is the large ledge and cave mouth of the Queen's weyr, with a wide ramp and stairs made by skilled stone masons providing access to the bowl floor. To the east is the Weyrling training area and the barracks, where young riders and dragons learn to work together.


It's the dead of winter here at Half Moon Bay, which of course means the weather is balmy, the sun is shining, and the tank is clean! Yes, somebody is still taking care of the squidlets in their watery barracks domicile, despite their relative silence on the whole 'in Half Moon Bay, squid steals YOU' hijinks from earlier in the turn. In fact, they are the reason a certain weyrling is currently overdressed for the weather, long, fitted leathers clinging to legs before they disappear into buckled rider boots, jacket discarded to reveal a tank top his only admittance of the weather. Otherwise, a worn and clearly-not-his pair of goggles pushes R'hyn's floppy hair up into fantastically jagged angles as he ducks and moves around Xermiltoth's person, checking and double-checking straps as he goes. The dragon himself hums a song of cheer and glory under his mental breath, which means he only half-deafens everyone in a twenty meter radius, but shhh. Who's counting.

OH NO, it's a monster! Ru — oh, wait. No. The kids running may or may not be a coincidence, given Citayzleat's eye twitching and the fact that her hair. It's. Standing up in all sorts of directions, wild and possibly drool-y. Wearing a robe and no shoes, Cita storms through the bowl on a mission. It's not exactly a long one, though, as she thumps a pointer finger into Xermi's chest as soon as she's close. Eyes the massive dragon with eyes only a tiny bit crazy. "I was sleeping." She informs him, twitching. Where was she sleeping? Shells and shards. We'll hope it was in the infirmary. The healer half-turns, mouth opening to — greet, scold, cajole? — say something, but she pauses. Squints. Gives another twitchy kind of shrug and huffs. "What time is it."

Warmth and radiance and light makes Xermiltoth's mind light up like a beacon. Completely heedless of Cita's appearance the dragon weaves a bright, « CITAYZLEAT, HELLO, » into his song, somehow making it work. Amusement doubles, then quadruples by the time the woman gets close enough to poke his chest, eyes whirling green and blue so rapidly one might get hypnotized if they stare too long. « AND NOW YOU ARE NOT. » Cheeky. And only then does R'hyn take pity on her, jerking a last strap into place before he emerges from around the great bronze's side, a bright smile hitched up on his face that fades somewhat as he takes Cita's appearance in. Mouth opens. Mouth closes. No. No tact today. Mouth opens again. "Fuck, but you look terrible." Not even going to try to beat around the bush about it, are we, R'hyn? Chrissakes. "And what in Faranth's name are you wearing?" A nanny from the lower caverns called, she wants her robe back. A beat, and then a thoughtful squint of his eyes as he tries to figure out why she's asking. "Noon, or close to it, I'd guess. Why?" And yet, he's asking only out of politeness's sake - his gaze has already gone distant, calculating, and even Xermiltoth goes suspiciously quiet, though hopefully the overtired Healer won't notice.

"Hello, Xermiltoth." Dry as old bone, amused in spite of herself, Cita huffs, shakes her head slowly. "You're right. You've a lovely singing tone." If, you know, loud enough to wake half-dead healers from sleepcoma. That also. The woman doesn't even have the energy to work up being affronted, but she does square up, chin lifting. "You look like a thief." An eyebrow hitches, but she hasn't got the energy to maintain, snorting instead. Yeah, no, she knows she looks like something the angry wher dragged home. "Habit." One she's kept for a turn or two? "Supposed to be cold." Riiiiight. The robe would totally help with that. Upon the delivery of the bad news — her lack of sleep — Cita deflates, slumping dramatically against Xermi's leg. "Two hours. That's all I got." She groans, distraught, too caught up in her own dramatic misery to notice the quiet. ALAS, CITA.

«R'HYN SAYS I AM THE MOST MUSICALLY-INCLINED DRAGON HE KNOWS, » Xermiltoth confides, equally sotto voce, « THOUGH HE SAYS IT IN THE SAME TONE OF VOICE AS HE SAYS HE LOVES BATHING ME AFTER A KILL, SO. I THINK HE MIGHT BE BEING SARCASTIC. » Just maybe, huh? Just maybe. R'hyn's head tilts to one side for the Healer's accusation though, likely having totally forgotten that he's wearing stolen goggles around like it's a spoil of war. "Thief? What'd I do?" Blue-grey eyes narrow, as though trying to imagine what he's stolen from Cita before the woman goes on, and his attention shifts. "Cold," he repeats deadpan, one brow tweaking towards his altered hairline. "You do know where we are, right." Arms lift, tan under tattoos despite the fact that it's supposed to be winter. Still,while R'hyn is full of sass, he's also sympathetic, wincing slightly when she reveals just how little she's slept. "Citayzleat," the man murmurs, vaguely aghast as his eyes flick over her person again. "Why in the world did you only just get to sleep at ten?" A darting look back at the infirmary before glancing back at her, lips pursing as though if she says one damn thing about her craft, he'll— well, he's not entirely sure what yet, but he'll do something!

To her credit, Cita doesn't even flinch at the shouting any more, just blinks slowly like she's fighting to stay awake, leaning here. "Well," Tact. Tact. Heryn can't find his, can Cita? "I don't know of many musically-inclined dragons." BOOM. She's still got it. The next does get a little snicker, but the healer doesn't respond, except to waggle head and shoulders lazily. So not going there. She's not going there, either, instead huffing under her breath and making a face. And as for where they are? Cita glances around the bowl and smiles like she's won something, nodding. "Warm." That's where they are. That's all that really matters, right? At least to the sun-loving Citayzleat, anyways. And oh, the full name! Snorting like an old mule, the healer tosses her head, which…just. Doesn't help the hair-situation any. Ignoring the fact that she's managed to cover one of her eyes, Cita sniffs with supreme dignity. "Bedpans don't clean themsselves." Right. Dignity. "What are you doing, anyhow?" DISTRACT. QUICK.

Still got it for sure, though alas, Xermiltoth sees through her lies! Amused laughter scatters through her mind with a wash of diamonds, wholly unbothered even as his mind recedes (as much as it ever can), the bronze's thoughts going elsewhere as he shakes himself to settle his straps comfortably on himself and stretches out is wings, visibly readying for flight, even as R'hyn shrugs and moves on, totally and utterly oblivious. Bless his pea-pickin' heart. "Right. Warm. So why, one wonders, is that a thing, and please don't take this out of context, but what can I do to get you out of it?" If only so he can BURN IT. WITH FIRE. He moves on quickly - there are flat faces to be made, sarcastic words to be dispensed, after all! "Cita. Bedpans do not take that long to clean." Well. I mean. They might. But we're not gonna explore that now. "Me? I'm getting you outta this damn weyr, that's what I'm doing. You have ten minutes. Go put on something other than a granny robe." A beat. A glance her way as he stuffs multiple bottles of squid-water into a satchel and hefts it over one shoulder. "And a hairbrush." Beam! And he won't take no for an answer, either, so don't even try!

Cita pats at Xermi's shoulder absently, squinting as he shifts and readies for flight. The healer turns the squint on R'hyn, eyes narrowing further. It looks for a moment like she'd like to riff on that; instead, she sniffs, flicking a robe-belt at the weyrling. "Buy me at least twenty drinks." Okay, maybe a tiny one. Protectively patting the arms of her ratty old Auntie Robe, Cita brings back the twitch, visibly swallowing. Swallowing back everything she's eaten in the last sevenday, if the green cast is anything. "You don't want me to correct you." Nope. Nope nope nope. Definitely not going to explore that, and — what. Blinking, the apprentice cants her head a little, eyebrows drifting up into the wherry-nest hair. Is that squid water? What. "Heryn, if we're smuggling things illegally, you could at least give me warning." Heaving a put-upon sigh, Cita shrugs, and minces off with Extra Supreme Dignity. It takes a few for her to return, but she does — the best clothes she can dig up for flying are, apparently, a ratty old sweater and wool trousers. Her hair might not have been brushed, but it is up in a bun, and her expression says she'll shove any hairbrush brandished at her up uncomfortable places. Arms crossed, the healer waits. WELL.

"Done," R'hyn says as though he isn't even joking, though he does crack a grin that about splits his face in twain when she flicks one end of the robe-belt at him. He flinches away as though she'd gone after him with a mallet instead, hands raising in a 'peace, peace' gesture. There's a wince, then, and then a laughed, "You're absolutely right. I don't." His imagination does enough, thanks, wrinkling his nose over a grin that doesn't diminish as her brows raise over at him. "Smuggling? Illegally? Faranth, no. I'd have a whole crate, were that the case," he trills with a wink. "We've been practicing between-ing by visiting other weyrs, and a couple of people asked. I figured it couldn't hurt to spread some interweyr goodwill by taking some along. We're supposed to be visiting weyrs on our own, anyways, and I hear High Reaches has an excellent library." Beam, beam! And, reasoning dispensed, he watches her leave with a huff and a low, "I worry about her," said for Xermiltoth, who can only grumble a reply aloud lest Cita hear his mindvoice. By the time Citayzleat returns, they're both recovered and ready to go, R'hyn looking almost presentable, really, with his jacket zipped up and his purloined eyewear pulled down so his hair can flop back into its usual rakish swoop over one eyebrow, ready to be buried under the helmet tucked under one arm. The weyrling eyes the Healer's attire with a laugh before rummaging in a sack at Xermiltoth's side and drawing out a pair of goggles - his, judging by the color that actually matches his riding gear -and a long woolen scarf that he drops his helmet to tuck over her head and ears before looping around her neck with a sarcastic, "Cold" before he flashes a grin and steps onto Xermiltoth's proferred paw, offering her a hand up if she wants it. All too soon, buckles buckled and images imaged, they are skyborne, Xermiltoth beaming golden farewells to the watch dragon before they vanish between for snowier climes.


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