Butchery

Candidate's Barracks
This large, rectangular room has seen much usage and more excitement in its time, and the evidence of it is clearly visible in the well-worn floor and the battered cots that line its walls. Covering the cold stone surfaces of arches and windowless vaults are a series of tapestries, simplistic in nature but comforting nonetheless: each depicts the daily life of the Weyr, whether through the antics of Weyrlings bathing their dragons, or the majestic wheelings of full-grown dragons overhead. One massive tapestry even shows the stumbling white-robed Candidates on the glittering black sands of the Ista Hatching Grounds, gathered around a mound of eggs with watchful queen in anxious attendance.
(If you wish, you may type 'candidates' in this room, and see who has been Searched so far.)
You see Candidate Bulletin Board, Dymphna, Bedeviere, Emera, Kreen, Basil, Ariesca, Rhoegain, Sassafras, and Death here.
Obvious exits:
Out

Rhoegain's laying asleep on his cot, snoring like there's no tomorrow. After a moment, he rolls onto his side while his snoring pauses briefly for him to do so. A stream of drool escapes from the corner of his mouth and onto his pillow. Atractive, right?

Azarin is bent over two pieces of cloth, which he's attempting to stitch together with white thread. A looong piece of white thread. Being longer than his arm's reach, he pulls it as far as possible, then uses his other hand to pull the rest through the cloth. "Maybe I shoulda just gotten one of those used ones," he mutters, speaking to no one in particular, though he does glance at Rhoegain in the next cot over. Putting aside the robe-sewing the candidate gropes under his cot, coming up with one of his boots. "Stop snoring! You're disturbing me," he yells, tossing the boot at the snoring/drooling candidate.

Azarin
At a height of nearly 5'10 this young man is hardly one of the shortest people on Pern. His cool gray eyes look out from underneath dark, straight eyebrows. A fairly straight narrow nose lies right in the middle of his face, a minute scar on one side only perceivable because it is lighter than his tanned skin. High cheekbones make his cheeks look hallow, giving him an almost gaunt appearance, which his sharp chin does nothing to amend. Wiry muscles of arm and leg, and a slim overall figure gives him an rather menacing look, though the light in his eyes is quick to turn warm. Dark hair, growing longer again after a brief encounter with shortness, falls limply around his ears and across his eyes, a constant annoyance that he will not admit to.
A simple knot of three cords twisted together hangs from his left shoulder. Orange, black and white announces him to be a Candidate at Ista Weyr.
The sleeves have been ruthlessly ripped off Aza's maroon tunic, to account for the heat of the Istan summer. Open at the neck, it shows a bit of a nearly hairless chest, tanned from hours spent in the sun (without a shirt). His trousers are in no better shape. Black-dyed canvas has been cut off just above the knees, the loose strands of thread caressing his bronzed thighs. Held tightly to his long feet by black leather straps are thick-soled sandals, well worn and scratched several places.
Azarin is 19 Turns, 9 months, and 20 days old.
He is awake and looks alert.

Rhoegain gasps as the boot hits him, startling him so much that he falls out of bed, the boot having won. He blinks a few times before glaring up at Azarin, "What was that for?!" He slowly gets up and tosses the boot back to Azarin, it is his after all. "Can't even sleep around here anymore without getting the boot." And he lays back down on his cot before he realizes Azarin's robe in the making, "You measured yourself first, right?"

Azarin chuckles as he ducks, the boot flying straight over his head to land on an empty cot on the other side. Grinning at Rhoegain, he stands up in his own cot, holding the 'robe' up to his shoulders, showing the candidate that it matches his length and body-shape. At least to some extent. No matter that the odd angle might be crooked, and the stitches crude and uneven. "See," he says, beaming with pride. "It'll work just fine. And I haven't had /any/ help." Although there had been no shortage of offers.

Rhoegain eyes the cloth a bit, his face wrinkling up a bit at the sight, that's why Rhoegain got a used one. "Well... Are you wanting some help?" Not does he *need* some because from the looks of it, some help wouldn't hurt at all. "There're some 'riders that've offered to help candidates that need it." Rhoegain couldn't sew cloth together and make a robe if his life depended on it.

"Not you too," Azarin sighs, assuming that the candidate was /offering/ to help. Folding his legs under him as he sits, he looks over at Rhoegain with a dismayed look on his face. "Y'know, everyone's offering to help, but so far no one's actually /done/ it!" Carefully sliding the needle through the cloth to make the next stitch, he looks up again offering a slight smile. "Thanks anyway, but I might as well finish it myself now..." He'd already gotten half of it done now, and it was only, what, two sevendays since he'd started it?

Rhoegain sighs as well, shaking his head at Azarin, "Of course they haven't done it." Then he moves around to get a bit more comfortable, "You have to go to them. Do you honestly think that any 'rider in the right state of mind is going to go to each candidate one by one and ask if they need help? Do you know how long that would take?" Sure, some 'riders might have that kind of time but why would they want to waste it doing that? "Shards. I went to one 'rider for help and he let me have his old robe."

"Not /riders/!" Frowning over at Rhoegain, Azarin looking a little puzzled. "A couple of the other candidates said they'd help," he explains, shaking his head as he pulls the exsessively long thread through the cloth. "There was one rider, though..." Pausing, the candidate tilts his head slightly, trying to remember his name. "But that was before I'd even /started/ sewing my robe. He was showing Avi how to sew." Grinning, he pushes the needle through again, pricking a finger and winching at the pain. "D'you think the Hatching'll be soon? I hope I get this finished before then..."

Rhoegain raises a brow at Azarin, "Why not riders?" He shakes his head though, yawning before he speaks, "No. I don't think it'll be too soon, you should have time to finish... If you keep working at it like you are now." Which is actually doing it. And as for the rider that helped Avi, "That chubby little squat Wingleader? Yeah... I forget his name, but I know who you're talking about."

Azarin nods, holding up the robe a little to measure just how much was left to sew on that seam he was doing now. "Yeah, that him. Bluerider.. Something with.. K," he says, looking over at Rhoegain, "I'm not too good at remembering names. My father used to say that I have a memory like a dragon." Grinning, he decides that the seam has been sewn down the side far enough and ties it off with a clumsy knot. Who cares if the robe ended up with slits up the sides. "Where'd you come from anyway? I forgot?" Or maybe he'd just never asked.

"'Reaches... But I was visiting relatives in Boll." And Rhoegain is *not* enjoying the weather but neither is he complaining. "What about you?" Then he's silent for a moment before speaking again, "It wasn't... Kr'ling or something like that, was it?"

Maralia comes home.

Caoimhe has arrived.

Azarin's widens, nodding as he looks over at the other candidate, "Yeah, that's it, I think, Kr'ling..." Sounded right to Aza anyway. Shrugging, he begins the stitching of the other seam by tying the thread to the cloth after shoving the needle through. "I'm from Fort.. But I was born a Benden. I grew up with one of the weyrwomen here, y'know?" he brags, grinning widely as he looks over at Rhoegain. "Her dragon is one of the clutchmothers." Isn't /he/ just the lucky one, having been picked to stand for his childhood friend's dragon's clutch.

Maralia stomps into the barracks, oh boy does it look like the usually mild tmepered young woman is rayally ticked.

Caoimhe wafts along in Maralia's stormy wake. "Anyone being lazy?" she asks without looking, peering up at the bulletin board.

Maralia
She is a fairly tall, athleticly thin and leggy blonde. Her blonde hair falls to just above her waist in a tightly woven braide bound with a strip of leather at the end. She has eyes that are an unusual blend of blue and green, and they sparkle like the waters of the lakes on a sunny day.
On her shoulder is a neatly tied knot, of a single white cord twisted with cords of black and orange, showing that she is a current candidate at Ista Weyr.
Black work pants encase her long legs, before the hems disappear into the tops of her boots. A, somewhat faded blue, mid-weight shirt hugs her upper body and is tucked into the waistband of her pants. On her dainty feet are heavy well cared for leather boots. Over the top of her clothing, she wears a somewhat bulky leather work coat, the hood of which she keeps drawn about her head and face when out of doors. The whole outfit is very warm for such weather, but the coat gives her a bit of a childish look. What she wears may be faded and worn looking, but is well mended and cared for.
Maralia is 18 Turns, 8 months, and 18 days old.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.

Caoimhe
Brilliant locks cascade about slender shoulders, reflecting effulgent ruby light onto the pale skin that smoothly covers impudently high, rosy cheekbones. Wide-set, slate-laden eyes crystallize on either side of a pert nose softly brushed with rusty freckles; large in her small face, they encompass the cutting wit only heightened by expressive sweep of eyebrows. The sardonic play of saucy lips only adds to the cunning somehow inherent in her demeanor; all archness, all chaos, all penchant for disorder packaged in far less than five foot of fey curves and sassy strut.
In with the new: clean tassel and too-stiff silver bedeck the ragged orange and black, the chill green twice twining her shoulder--she's a greenrider, assistant to Ista's Weyrlingmaster, and her patch's spitting volcano places her in the Chimera wing.
Buttery-rich cream sleeks down her legs, belling over thick-soled boots with well-aged comfort. A short jacket of the same mellow hue flaps carelessly open over a clinging shirt with squared-off neckline and sea-depth's hue. With her hair tucked behind her ears and eyes startlingly large, she seems more like a child dressed as a rider than an actual adult.
Caoimhe is 27 Turns, 4 months, and 20 days old.
She is awake and looks alert.
Welcome to the emotional wasteland.

Maralia turns to look at Caoimhe, her look softening a bit, but not much. "Not I Caoimhe, I've been working in the storage caverns."

Rhoegain isn't being lazy, just resting is all. Can't have candidates being overly tired, can we? "I'm guessing Zureile, right?" There is a bit more of an age difference between Azarin and Katarra to have grown up together, after all. Rhoegain sits up and glances over to Caoimhe, "No, ma'am." There just aren't enough chores to go around.

"If you're here, you're not working," Caoimhe states positively, twisting a bit to sweep a glance over her shoulder. "Unless you're scrubbing floors, making beds, or passing out laundry."

Tamyka uncurls herself from her ball of slumber.
Tamyka has connected.

Maralia turns a blistering gaze on Rhoegain and says "Not enough chores, /Not Enough Chores/. If you'd just take you resting little self over to the storage caverns, theres plenty of chores to be had there." now that was the wrong thing to say with in Mara's ear shot. "I've been working but rump off with several others trying to get everything put away, and we always need more /help!/"

"Just finishing my robe, ma'am," Azarin notes to Caoimhe, though perhaps that statement is a bit optimistic. Lifting the white cloth to show the rider, he glances over at Rhoegain, nodding. "Aye, but I moved to Tillek when I was thirteen..." Swallowing a lump in his throat he looks back at the rider, getting ready to jump out of his cot, if necessary. "I've finished the baths already..."

"I don't care," Caoimhe shrugs, turning back to a notice on the board and craning her head sideways to read it better. "Do what you want."

Rhoegain glares at Maralia. It's not like Rhoegain's the only one without chores. "There can't be *that* much work. There are enough candidates for the double clutching, after all. If you have that much work, you're putting the work on yourself." But he gets up anyway and stretches, "Good luck with the robe, Azarin." And nods to Caoimhe as he makes his way out. Maybe he'll go find work or maybe he's just escaping the wrath of women. Either way, he's gone.

Finchley has arrived.

Azarin stares at Rhoegain as the candidate leaves, abandoning him to deal with the wrath of women. "Thanks," he mumbles, looking down to carefully make another stitch, pulling the long thread through the fabric. Better to have a long thread in the needle, than having to get it through that little hole too many times, right?

Klari has arrived.

Maralia turns to grace Azarin with a warm smile "Good day Azarin, How are you? I hope this day is finding you well." wow talk about total turn around, one moment she's mad as a wet cat then next she her usual self again.

"Careful--she's a dangerous one," Caiomhe comments as she passes by Azarin and Maralia on the way towards a candidate in the back of the room, who appears to be actually doing something.

Azarin blinks at Maralia, eyes darting around to glance at the others, then back at his fellow candidate. "I'm fine, thank you, Maralia," he says, bowing his head slightly at her. Smiling, he nods at the robe in his lap, "almost done with my robe too. And how're you?" Giving up on sewing anything more today, he bends to stow the robe, needle and thread in a box underneath his cot. Glancing at Caoimhe, he lifts an eyebrow at the rider. What'd she mean by dangerous? Maralia was perfectly nice if you asked Aza..

Finchley saunters in, hands customarily jammed deep in his pockets and a jaunty expression on his sun-bronzed face. No prizes for guessing what he's been up to. Evading chores and sunbathing; same old, same old. Grey eyes flit from Azarin and Maralia, who are given a raised chin in greeting, to Caoimhe. "What's up?" he inquires, in the general direction of Aza and Maralia, "Sewing lesson.. again?" Hooray for already having a robe.

Tamyka might be one of those candidates that you could consider 'doing nothing.' Entering at a rather brisk pace, the young woman clenches her jaw and sends her wild, angry gaze to scan the barracks, "It's been nearly three weeks and they're /still/ missing!" Resting her eyes upon Caiomhe, and then on Klari, the candidate swallows rather obviously, "Oh. Oops," greeting each of them with a rather swift bow, the girl goes to sulk on her cot while she works on her robe. Perhaps it'll pass for actually being productive.

Klari makes her way in from the lower caverns and slowly scans the barracks. She's not going to do an inspection... Is she? Nah, no one looks too suspicious for one so she just leans against the doorway before moving into the room more to take action. "*Why* are so many of you in *here*?!" Said loud enough to get attention for sure, an emphasis put on words here and there to make more than just a statement. Just when all seems to be settling down, a Wingleader has to come in and see so many candidates in one place. She crosses her arms in a strict mannor before she gazes over to Caoimhe, as if looking for an answer.

Klari
Silky blonde reaches close to the bottom of her shoulder blades, catching just the slightest breeze. It seems to suit her perfectly, flirting with her facial features. Like her icy blue eyes that sparkle as she stands tall, prob'ly about 5'10, a good bit of her height going to long, toned legs. Perfect for poking, a small and cute nose might seem to make her lips seem fuller yet go so well with one another. Her arms look of a definite strength yet still end in delicate fingers, all covered in creamy skin like the rest of her. Well-defined muscles are visible all over the young woman's rich Istan-tanned body along with eye-catching curves of the hips that sway in her walk, and a bosom worthy of making quite a few jealous.
Twisted strips of black and orange, with a strip of blue mingling into the loop to represent Klari of Ista Weyr and a bit added to show her as the Siren Wingleader.
Her black top of sisal hugs her chest, stomach, and back while its thin, orange straps are the only sleeves to it, revealing her well-defined arms that still have an over-all feminine appearance. The black top ends just touching the top of her leather pants. These, of course, are black as that of her top, fitting snug on her hips, thighs, and bottom before flaring out slightly around mid-calf and drag on the ground behind her boots.
Klari is 24 Turns, 4 months, and 6 days old.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 5 minutes.

Maralia turns to look at Klari "I was sent back here to rest, as I've been in the barracks since before creakfast." but with a sigh and a shrug of her shoulders she goes on to say "Though I'm sure that I can head back there and work some more. I'm well rested from my last night sleep."

"Just what I said!" Caoimhe calls back just as loudly. "You know what? I think we should /do/ something about it!" A pause for dramatic effect as she saunters slowly towards the front of the room. "We should practice something you'll not have time to learn after the Hatching." She carefully stifles a somewhat gleeful smirk. "Butchering."

Jumping at Klari's exclamation Azarin turns to look at her with a befuddled look on his face, then turns to look at Caoimhe as she announces butchering. "Well, that's easy enough," he says, kneeling to pull the box out from under his bed, digging though it for a moment before coming up with a rather large hunter's knife. "I already have a good knife for it." Beam.

Tamyka rolls herself into a cute ball of slumber.
Tamyka has disconnected.

Maralia shrugs and says "Just point the way, I can do it. It's not like I haven't delt with that type of thing before." after speaking she quickly rebraids her hair making sure that it's well out of her face. Turning back to the riders she says "Okay point the way." she's not giving into the fact that she's just about ready to rant and rave, no she'll just take out her frustrations no the dead animal.
"Butchering. Great," replies Finchley, tone flat but still managing to pass off as ironic as he lounges against the wall. He does peer over with interest as Azarin unveils his hunting knife; there's something about boys and sharp objects. Whistling appreciative he grins over at him, "So where do you hide the bodies, Azarin?" His.. unique.. attempt at humour.

Klari takes a moment to think about the suggestion. "Butchering... Not a bad idea, Caoimhe." Klari nods and actually grins, though she'll be standing a good ways away from the butchering, that's for sure. "Sometimes every candidate should know how to do." Her last few words hurried and a bit cut off before she clears her throat to get louder once more, "Alright, Candidates. If you'll all follow Caoimhe and myself, we'll get started."

Maralia looks at Klari and Caoimhe and nods, ready to follow them.

Caoimhe ambles out almost before Klari's done speaking. Yeah, let's get this over with.
Caoimhe slips out through the drape covered doorway.

Klari slips out through the drape covered doorway.

Azarin drops his jaw at Finchley's suggestion, not catching onto the joke immediately. "W-what..?" So call him dense. It might even be true. "I don't... /hide/ any bodies.." he says, blinking at the other candidate, then looks down at the mountrous knife in his hand. Sheathing it, he tugs it into the waistband of his shorts, turning to follow the riders. "I'll even kill the animal if you need me to," he offers, waving at the box which holds his bow and arrows.

Maralia slips out through the drape covered doorway.

You leave the candidates barracks.

[** Travel Spam **]

You head towards the west bowl.

Feeding Grounds
Three thousand feet of bowl open to cup blood: towering, ledge-laden cliffs from which to watch the taking of heart's liquor, to listen to death-rattles, to taste the cupric tang of the air. A shelter permits the denizens protection from the elements, if not from dragonkind, and a waterhole is but scant reflection of the vast expanse of ocean.
Westwards lies the plateau, and the waters below it -- scant freedom from the stony shackles of the Weyr that waits, so stoically, to the east.
You see Poppin, Satine, Daemith, and Gwynhwyvath here.
Caoimhe, Klari, and Maralia are here.
Obvious exits:
Central Bowl Beaches

Finchley appears from the direction of the central bowl.

Caoimhe lays a hand on Gwyn's leg as they amble along. "Pick a beast, any beast," she observes dryly, indicating the pens with a sweeping gesture of one hand. "Azarin, I think we'll let the dragons kill it."

Azarin shrugs, leaning against the fence, looking over the herd of animals contained there. He'd been so busy following the riders that he'd forgotten his bow and arrows anyway. And really, it was far too easy to catch something that couldn't run anywhere. Right? Suuureeee..

Maralia stands with the others, eyes watching the milling beasts.

Klari glances back to Azarin as the group reaches the pens, then over to Caoimhe and shrugs. "The pens *are* for the dragons." Though Daemith, himself, prefers the forest over canned 'beast any day. "As Weyrlings, you don't have *time* to go hunting in the forest to feed your dragon so other dragons kill 'beasts for you and leave you to do the butchering and hand feed your lifemates yourself." Klari then glances over to Caoimhe, "So... Want Gwyn to do the honors or Daemith?" It doesn't make a bit of difference to Daemith, honest.

Gwynhwyvath answers by pushing lightly into the air and gliding low over the pens with a discriminate eye. Caoimhe leans against the fence and mutters under her breath, "Just /pick/ one already."

Finchley looks distracted.
Finchley has disconnected.

Maralia moves closer to the fence to watch the hunting dragon, eyes open wide with facination.

Azarin nods slowly at Klari's explanation, leaning his chin on crosses arms as he watches the animals, glancing sideways to catch a glimse of the dragons. This should be interesting. "So someone else will do the work /for/ us?" Watching the green glide in over the flock, Aza stands up straight, hands clutching the top rail of the fence.

OOC: Klari acks and has to go!
Klari yawns deeply.
Klari has disconnected.

Gwynhwyvath's all grace, all demure performance, since she's being watched. Hovering for what's meant to be a breath-holding moment, she suddenly plunges into the midst of a tangle of beasts and delicately catches just one. "No, it means that you just don't have to kill the damn thing and drag it over to the rail," Caoimhe tells Azarin. "That's all."

Maralia nods at what Caoimhe says "How long do the hatchlings require daily feedings?" she asks trying to figure everything out.

"They eat once a day when they're a few weeks old," Caoimhe dryly corrects Maralia. "As hatchlings, they eat four or five times of day and night."

Azarin starts as Gwynhwyvath gets her catch and doesn't hear what Caoimhe and Maralia says as he only has eyes for the dragon and her catch. "Woah..." he whispers. "That... Was amazing." He /does/ appreciate a good catch, after all. Even when it's the dragon doing the catching. Maybe /especially/ when it's a dragon doing the catching.

Maralia turns her eyes back to the hunting dragon, watching intently as she makes her first kill.

"That'll do, Gwyn," Caoimhe calls over to the dragon, who obediently begins to pull the carcass over. "All right. There should be some knives around here...there they are." She indicates a nearby wooden box of cleavers, apparently left for this very purpose. "Just learn as you go." Gwynhwyvath bends her head yearningly towards the beast, but a sharp glare from Caoimhe sends her curling up into a ball nearby.

Maralia grabs a shapr looking skinning knife and a cleaver. Moving over to the carcas she sets to work skinning the animal, or should I say trying to sking it.

Azarin takes out his own knife, shifting it in his hand, letting the light glint off the blade. Standing next to the dead animal, he lets Maralia do her thing, since this was something he'd done before. 'Too many cook..', after all. "Do they eat a lot?" he asks Caoimhe, having not hear what she'd said earlier. "The dragonets?"

"Tons," Caoimhe replies cheerily. "And /you/ get to do all the work, in the middle of the night, etc, etc." And oh, she loves the prospect of their pain.

Maralia slips her hands andthe knife under the sin on the animal, using her knife she carefully cuts at the connective tissues that hold the skin to the carcas.

Azarin grins crookedly, glancing away from Maralia's butching. Not that it bothers him at all. "I s'pose it's not so bad, when it's one's own lifemate?" he asks, the rider, sheathing his knife again and crossing his arms over his chest. Some gentleman he is today, letting the female candidate do all the work.

Caoimhe pointedly pushes the box of knives closer to him with her toe. "Even more when it's not. Get to work."

Maralia looks up at Azarin with a smirk. Flipping the beast onti its back she makes a swift cut down it's center.

Azarin looks down at the box of knives with a close-to-disgusted look on his face, then pulls out his own again, kneeling besides Maralia. "Need some help? Just tell me where to start," he says, letting a smile play on his lips as he turns to look at her.

Maralia says, "I'll give you the pleasure of disembowling it." is allshe says."

Caoimhe beams companionably down at both of them and lounges against the fence. "It needs to be in nice pieces," she tells them. "Intestines are good. Just don't get bone in there or we'll have a double clutch of choking dragonets, and it'll be /your/ fault."

Azarin twirls his knife between his fingers, then sheathes it again with a sigh. How many times did he have to sheathe and un-sheathe his knife anyway? Flipping back a stray hair, he widens the gap cut by Maralia, then digs his hands in there, pulling the steaming guts of the animal out. "Would your lifemate like to have these?" he asks the rider, indicating the guts with a nod of his head.

Maralia nods ans she listens, the girl has blod up to her elbows. Reaching inside the carcas she feels around and makes sure that no innerds are still there.

"Nah," Caoimhe answers distractedly, and she now bends a thoughtful gaze upon the sleeping Gwynhwyvath, brows drawn together as one hand fingers her lower lip.

Maralia finishes striping the hide off one side of the beast, ans begins cutting chunks of meat carefully off the bones. She more intent on the work before her then on whats being said around her.

Azarin sits back on his haunches, looking from the dead animal to the sleeping dragon, then up at the rider. "Then... What do we do with this?" he asks, frowing at Caoimhe. "I mean, we're not just gonna leave it /here/, are we?"

…
…

** Insert the sound of RP dying **

*** Disconnected ***

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