A rug, a Tree and a Few Tubers Thrown in for Taste

You walk out of the Living Caverns into the bowl.

Eastern Bowl
This is the far eastern curve of Ista Weyr's bowl, from where the breathtaking, jagged peaks of the caldera pierce the sky like the points of a rocky crown. Very distantly to the west you can see the gleam of deep blue water, and the rising cloud of the waterfall's mist. The huge, aerial opening to the hatching grounds yawns in the northeastern wall and the looming precognitors of Thread, the Star Stones, pierce the sky above it. In the southern bowl, the gaped opening of the infirmary and ground weyr frame the snoozing bodies of injured dragons, or the occasional replete pair twined about in the aftermath of their flight.
It is a spring afternoon. Partly cloudy skies allow for a gentle, if breezy day.
You see Rojoth, Gwynhwyvath, Ahzraelth, and Death here.
Avi is here.
Obvious exits:
NorthEast Bowl Central Bowl Living Cavern Storage

Avi has taken her chores outside, apparently with the permission of the kitchen staff. Although, one should probably keep an eye out for any rampaging, angry cooks, because she could easily have done it on her own initiative. Avi sits outside the cavern, sack of tubers on one side, bucket for the peeled product on the other, and a knife in her hand. At the moment, however, she's a preoccupied with carving one tuber into a likeness of someone, presumably a rider, judging from the general shape. Avi holds her sculpture at arm's length, examining it critically. "No... not finished!" she murmurs.

Azarin comes out, dragging a heavy carpet after him. Pausing for a moment, he heaves if up over his shoulder, trying his best to keep it from dragging along the ground. No need to get it even more dirty. Clenched between his teeth is a carpet beater, the heavy end tilting his head to the side. "Ffwere's de frwrack?" he asks someone behind him, getting no answer from the drudge who's already disappeared back inside.

Oooh, noises. Avi glances up, waving a hand with a paring knife clutched in it. "Shards!" a passing rider exclaims, "Watch my shins, girl!" Avi shrugs, not particularly worried about chopping peoples' shins, she's got her hands -all- under control. Yep. Eyeing the guy with the carpet, Avi calls out, "'Lo, Azarin!" The potato, somewhat lumpy, but in a basically human form, is held up for him to examine. "D' you like my sculpture? It's supposed to be Kyla, but it isn't working very well." It's strongly debatable whether the Weyrlingmaster will be flattered by the comparison.

Nearly keeling over now, by the weight of the carpet, poor Aza turns carefully to blink at Avi. "Apfi..? Dfo youf fwnow whefe tfwere de frack if?" Eyes pleading, he balances the weight on his shoulder with some trouble. Won't /someone/ give him a hand?!

Avi
Muddy brown, an indiscriminate chocolate shade mixed with khaki green and ending in a tenuous compromise between the two. Dark lashes fringe carefully around them and arched, almost sarcastic brows shoot upward in perpetual surprise or excitement. Her face is round; her thin-lipped mouth quirked at the edges. A short, button nose, a feature that seems too cute and personable for the contrary face, rests squarely in the center of her features. Flyaway brown hair hangs around her face to the shoulders, going every which way in proof that she doesn't take thorough care of it. Avi's body is boyish: she's not slender but bony, constructed out of elbows and knees and extra joints. She lacks any sort of womanly grace. Avi is, at best, in the awkward stage of her life.
Avi wears a white knot on her shoulder -- oh, god -- she's an Istan Candidate.
Avi has finally managed to find some clothes that fit her. Leaving her arms unhindered is a cap-sleeved light-green shirt, which in turn tucks into dark-brown short pants, which end at the knee, leaving lanky, skinny legs exposed to the warm air. On her feet are a pair of light, comfortable sandals.
Avi is 14 Turns, 6 months, and 7 days old.

Avi sighs, and puts the Kyla-potato onto the pile of already peeled ones. She leaves the knife there, too, 'cos, you know, stabbing Azarin in the stomach by accident probably wouldn't help much, either. She hurries over, holding out her hands. "I have no idea where you can put that ugly thing," the girl says, "But can I at least hold onto the other end? It'd probably be a little more comfortable 'till you can figure out... What are you saying, anyway? At least give me the beater." She's all brisk and no nonsense, now. Hah. It's almost amusing.

Azarin lets Avi take that pesky beater out of his mouth, working his jaws for a moment, then smiling gratefully at his fellow candidate. "Thanks, Avi," he says, breathing a sigh of relief. "They want me to get the dust out of this thing, but I've no idea where the rack is..." Looking from side to side and over his shoulder, he gives a shrug with his free shoulder, frowning at the other as he glances down at the tubers. "Shouldn't that be done in the kitchen?"

She frowns, blinking as she searches around. "I don't see a rack, but I'm sure a short tree will do nicely?" Whoever the carpet belongs to is in for some trouble. She waves the beater around cheerfully, again, almost hitting a passing rider. "I can help!" At the tuber-comments, though... "Well," Avi hedges, "If you want to split hairs..." The girl looks over at the tubers as well, hating them strongly. "But it was so warm in the kitchen, and no one noticed when I hauled the sack outside, so... I'll bring 'em in when I'm done."

"It's just... " Aza starts, tearing his eyes away from the tubers. He'll just stay away from any food containing tubers today. "Well, I really /would/ appreciate some help. This carpet is heavy!" he readily admits, starting towards a sickly looking tree over there in the shadows. No leaves. That'll do, right? So what if it looks like the limbs will break under any weight? "I think this'll do, don't you? I'll climb up and you can hand me up the carpet?" Something like that. At least Aza knew how to climb trees.

Avoiding tubers today is probably a good idea. And probably tomorrow, too. Avi's managed to rack up an impressive amount of KP-duty hours. Poor kid. "Wonderful!" she exclaims, "That one looks fine, I think--" Hey, she's not a good judge of trees -- Avi's better with -wagons-. "Here, give me the carpet, and you can climb right up." She leans the beater against the tree, and holds out her arms to take the heavy object -- she may be skinny, but she's stronger than she looks! Really. No, really. "Go on," she encourages.

Azarin doesn't wait a moment longer, but shoves the carpet into Avi's arms. He may present himself as a gentleman at most times, but she /did/ offer, didn't she? "There," he states, clapping his hands and turning back to the frail tree. "Hmm... " Bending, he quickly undoes the straps of his sandals, leaving them standing neatly next to each other by the tree's trunk. "Right.. I'm ready," he continues, walking right up to the tree, moving around it once to find a good hold. Not that the limb he's aiming for is very high up.. A little jump and his fingers take hold of the sought out limb. *kcrrra-ack!* And Aza is flat on his back in the dust.

Ooof. Avi misjudged a bit, but manages to adjust to the extra weight readily enough. She staggers over to the tree, following the other candie, managing to keep from tripping over her own feet, and--- Eeek! "Oh, this is -not- good," Avi says, unsure of what to do with the carpet. It's heavy and she wants to see if he's okay, but dropping it in the dust probably isn't a good idea, either. In the end, Avi trips over to where he's fallen, and looks down on him uncertainly, large ends of the carpet drooping comically over her arms. "Are you hurt?" Avi demands.

Azarin sit up, gaze swirving up to lock with Avi's and nods. "I'm okay," he says, brushing his hands against his thighs, then gets up. "It wasn't a long drop." Chuckling, he looks up at the tree, giving it a kick, "ou!" he screams, forgetting that his feet were bare. Dancing around on one foot, the candidate lifts his injured toe to cradle it in his hands. "That hurt!" More so than falling from the silly tree.

Avi watches all this silently, brown eyes crinkling in a smile, even as she snorts softly; disdain. "And they all say that -I'm- clumsy..." Well, she is. "Look, I'm going to try and find a better spot for this carpet." This said, Avi treks seven or eight feet to the left, finding a stronger looking tree with a low branch. "Don't know why we didn't just try this one in the first place." She glances over her shoulder, giggling at Azarin's hopping (ignore the fact that it hurts, eh?) "Can you help? I can't really reach with this lump of cloth in my hands."

"I'm not.. " Clumsy. Of course, kicking a tree-trunk with bare feet might fall under that category. Or it could just be pure stupidity. Limping after Avi, Aza mutter under his breath berating himself for what he'd done. "The other one was closer," he offers in response to her quiestion, eyeing the much more sturdy looking tree. "Looks safer, at least." Hands grab the low branch and the candidate lifts himself into place, leaning his back against the trunk. "Just hand up the carpet and I'll try'n drape it over.."

Avi sends an impish smile in Azarin's direction. "D' you want me to climb up this time? I'm a little lighter than you, I think," Avi comments. The girl shoots a worried gaze at the pile of tubers and -- oh, no! There's a green dragon sniffing at them! "Here, take this," Avi says, shoving the carpet at Azarin, running over to her chore. "No!" she says, shaking her finger at the green, "Don't you -dare- touch those! That's for a dinner!" The green gives her a -look-, and leans in closer. "Stop it!"

Azarin nearly tips over by the weight of the carpet being thrust at him. "Aviii!" he shouts, his legs locking around the branch to keep him sitting on it. No need to fall off. Again. Dragging and heaving, he finally manages to get the carpet up over the branch, leaning forward breathing hard. Thank you so much, fellow candie. Now for unrolling it too. And then beating the dust out. Rolling it back up. Getting it off the branch. And back inside without getting more dust into it. Who knew a chore like this demanded so much /work/?!

Oh? What? You almost fell off? Avi's got more important things to worry about. The green's rider has entered, and Avi is scolding him like a fishwife, finishing with, "You keep her away from my tubers!" Amused, despite himself, the rider complies, and Avi returns. "You've got the carpet all right?" she wants to know. Seeing the predicament poor Aza is in, Avi blinks, and apologizes. "Sorry!" It's certainly heartfelt, if a little belated. "Um, I guess you can roll the carpet down and I'll straighten it out?" If she doesn't end up killing him by accident, that is. Avi picks up the carpet beater, wielding it like a sword.

Azarin can't help but smiling at the girl as he carefully rolls out the carpet. He's got help, right? "I don't think I coulda done this alone," he tells her, struggling with keeping the carpet straight on the branch. Just don't fall down now! Not after all this trouble they've had. The carpet in place, Aza takes a moment to relax against the trunk, his eyes travelling across the Bowl. "Oh, no," he whispers, pointing. "The rack is over there..." Looking down at Avi with a look of defeat in his face, he shakes his head, fingers grabbing at the edge of the carpet.

Avi blinks. She blinks, and stares. Her mouth trembles for a moment, and then she starts to giggle. Not giggle -- laugh. Loud, loud laughs. Avi's getting some stares from passing Weyrfolk, and eventually her snickers die down enough for her to gasp, "Well, that's irony for you, isn't it?" She grins up at him, and waves the carpet-beater. "Here, if you come down from the tree, you can take out your agression on the rug. " She tugs at the carpet, straightening it out. There's no use moving it now, really, too late for -that-. Whoever it belongs to will have to be satisfied with twigs and bits of bark on the bottom.

[GlitzyCandies] Avi is leaving. :P She's in trouble. :P
[GlitzyCandies] Avi: Sorry, guys.

Avi looks distracted.
Avi has disconnected.

Finchley walks out of the Living Caverns.

Azarin leans against the trunk for another moment or two, closing his eyes while muttering something about a certain drudge. ".. Coulda /showed/ me where the rack was!" Sighing, he opens his eyes again, looking down. To find Avi gone. "Avi..? Are you hiding?" Looking this way and that, the candie sees no sign of his helper, and her tubers over by the entrance are gone too. "How'm I gonna get this back inside?" he continues, speaking to the wind. And a dragon sunning itself nearby.

But as Avi mysteriously disappears, so Finchley appears. Strolling up, hands deep in pockets and face set in thought the boy apparently doesn't see Azarin until he practically bumps into the tree trunk, whereupon he tilts his head and squints up. "Hey, Azarin, what in Pern are you doing up-- oh," and he sees the carpet. "More chores, eh? They like to keep candidates busy here. But at least it's warm here, not like mouldy old Fort Weyr." And he fans himself in a prima donna-esque fashion.

Climping down, Aza frowns at Finchley as he picks up the carpet beater. "Almost too hot, if you ask me," he says, waving the beater in the air. "I can hardly breathe sometime. Y'know, when there's no wind at all. And it's damp! I musta gone through six tunics in a sevenday already." And this from a boy who hardly ever changed his clothes back at Fort. Swinging the beater it connects with the carpet with a muted *thud*, a cloud of dust rising from the impact site. Coughing, Aza turns back to the other candidate. "This musta been lying around for /years/ to get this dirty.."

Finchley
Sleek bronzen hair shot through with honeyed auburn tops the head of the young lad, fringe pushed carelessly back from his forehead to provide a comical ridge of spikes. Tanned face sports a fairly broad forehead, solid cheekbones and a firm jaw, even if his chin is a little pointy. Elven ears peek from beneath his mane of hair which is cropped at the nape of his neck. Mouth and nose are petit and slightly effeminate for it, but within his eyes rage tempests of various greys, deep and spirited. His build is quite slight--delicate almost. He's of middling height for his age--somewhere in the mid-teens--slender with a grace that's apparent when he moves. Refined limbs are held with poise, branching off into lithe digits.
Beige short trousers of a thick yet worn, torn and faded material reach down to just past the boy's knees. A short-sleeved shirt in dark green is fairly loose about his form and open at the collar. His feet are capped in dusty, scuffed brown wherhide ankleboots, sturdy and well-used.
Finchley is 18 Turns, 2 months, and 27 days old.

Finchley jumps back as a cloud of dust rises from the carpet, wrinkling his nose as he watches on. "I'd have to agree with you there, my friend. I mean, don't they have candidates on the go all the time? This should have been cleaned in the last, oh, fifty Turns say. But, noo.." It's a conspiracy, you know! Tentatively circling the tree again he picks up a spare beater leaning against the trunk to prod experimentally at it. "Ugh, this needs to be either burnt or thrown in the lake," he comments, "At least the Istan sun would dry it soon enough.. or not, as the case may be, what with the humidity."

Thrown in the lake. Now /there's/ an idea! But, of course, Aza is far to conscientious to do a thing like that and he proceeds with beating the carpet again and again. "I'd much rather be back at Fort.. Out in the forest.. Hunting." Words coming between each beat, the candidate lets out some of that pent-up energy for having been 'locked' inside for a couple of sevendays. After continuing this practice for a good many minutes, he suddenly sags against the trunk, blinking at Finchley. Waving at the carpet he grins at his fellow candidate. "Your turn."

Gwynhwyvath primly picks up and scoots out of range of flying dust. It's an /elegant/ scoot, but still a scoot.

Finchley wrinkles his oh-so-pretty nose once again, but does step forward to take a shot at the carpet, which spits out a remarkable amount of dust. "At least this will give us enviable muscles," he says wistfully, squinting against the barrage of dust as he beats again. "Why'd you accept the offer of Search if you'd rather be back at Fort hunting and whatnot?" he inquires of his fellow candidate, pausing a moment to watch Gwynhwyvath move away from them. Any excuse to stop work is taken, it seems.

Azarin blinks, first at Finchley's comments on enviable muscles, then at the question of search. "I s'pose.. I mean. I used to live at Benden, y'know.. And one of my friends is a rider here now. So, I mean. Y'know, when the rider's came and they were from Ista. No one says no to Search do they?" he rambles, glancing at the dragon moving away. Well, at least /she's/ got some sense. "The question is more why I said yes to this chore..." As if he had a choice in /that/.

Finchley shrugs in a gesture of concedence, "I certainly don't know anyone who said no to Search. Or if they did, they ended up getting dragged to the weyr anyway." Insert wry grin. He jabs a thumb in Gwynhwyvath's direction, "She was the one who Searched me, anyway, and before that it was S'naid's Modrath. I don't quite know what it is about me that makes dragons feel the need to drag me up to the weyr to give me lots of chores. They must sense my innate idleness and want to correct it." At least he's frank. And he's conveniently paused in his beating of the carpet again. Can't talk /and/ beat.. no breath.

Frank? Aza thought he was Finchley.. Looking again at the dragon, his eyes travel to look around at the other creatures lying around the bowl. "He's not here.. The one who wanted me. His rider said he wanted a pet," he mumbles, looking back at the other candidate, his chore having been handed over. Leaning against the trunk, he draws up a foot, placing his bare foot against the bark. Expression a little more serious, he looks the other one up and down, a hint of worry mixed into the look. "You were searched before? Howcome you didn't impress? If you don't mind me asking?"

Finchley snorts lightly, "Faranth, but I don't know the answer to /that/. Dragons are picky things. None of 'em came my way on the sands. My lifemate obviously just wasn't there." That's what he's trying to believe, anyway, not that he just isn't suitable. Beginning to beat on the carpet again to get out the last of the dust he ponders, "Maybe he'll be here this time. Or she," he adds, shooting a wry look in Gwyn's direction. "What about you? I remember seeing you around Fort a few times.. this your first time as a candidate?"

Looking down at the ground, Aza begins biting his nails a knot of worry spreading in his guts. Nodding, he looks up at Finchley, he attempts a smile, but only manages a half-grin. "Aye. First time. I hope it's not a rule that you have to be left standing once," he says, grasping at his optimism. "Cuz, I really do think I'm gonna Impress, y'know." The tone of his voice isn't very convincing, though and he shifts feet, letting one bear the weight of his body, while the other rests on the trunk. "I mean, I didn't think so when I was Searched, but now..." Although that conviction is slowly being turned around once more. "I don't really remember /you/, though. Not at Fort anyway. From here, of course, but not back home. Of course, I /did/ spend a lot of time out of the Hold and all, so.." ramble, ramble, ramble. Poor Aza is nervous again, and it has nothing to do with that dragon over there showing curiousity and coming closer.

M'gael has arrived.

Caoimhe walks out of the Living Caverns.

M'gael
His hairline's slowly receding to leave an even broader forehead; brown hair's darkened, though, and now that he's grown it out a little bit, it's even wavier. His crooked nose and thin lips suit him well in his middle ages, as well as his suntanned skin. Crinkles have formed around his beaded olive eyes; eyebrows are still bushy and dramatic. As he's grown older, his body seems softer, less defined by musculature; he's developed a little bit of a belly.
Brown and black twine and bind to bronze thread: it identifies M'gael as bronzerider of Fort. He also wears the Sentinel pin on his clothing; and on his leathers, the Sentinel patch.
His button-up shirt is white, thin, with sleeves rolled-up to his elbows; he wears shorts, which are a bland tan, that are cut-off and frayed at the ends. On his feet: his old, trusty pair of brown, worn sandals.
M'gael is 31 Turns, 3 months, and 25 days old.
He's managed to pick up a little of a tan.

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, 1 month, and 20 days old.
Welcome to the emotional wasteland.

Caoimhe has been sent, however unwillingly, to coerce the Candidates into some illusion of activity. "Hard at work, I see," she observes without preamble, looking about at the dust settled about the two lads' carpet.

The Fortian rider comes from the west, from the hatching grounds, at a very aimless, unpurposeful pace: without destination, direction, he's simply wandering around, hands shoved in pockets. M'gael slows a bit, as he draws closer to the candidates and greenrider.

Jestine walks over from the central area of the bowl.

Jestine
After staying out of the sun for a couple of months, Jestine's appearance has changed. Her skin is now a creamy white, which makes the conrast to her black hair even more pronounced. Her silver eyes seem to glow with contained emotions and sparkle with hints of her current mood. A black scarf with silver embroidery aids in holding her waist-length, black hair back and away from her face. As a result, it cascades down her back in lazy waves.
On her shoulder is the simple white knot of an Istan Candidate.
She is garbed in a light, dark blue, cotton tank top. The material is light enough to allow the skin to breathe but gathered enough to form to her figure. A skirt of the same plain material sways gently with her hips as she moves. Slits along the sides of her legs are up to herupper thigh and allow her to ride in the skirt. Her feet are clad in dark brown sandals that allw (allow) her to walk silently on all surfaces. Kelsey peeks at you from his precarious perch on Jestine's shoulder. Ijarjuk regards you, perched atop Jestine's shoulder. Daenerys regards you, perched atop Jestine's shoulder. Mallory regards you, perched atop Jestine's shoulder. Rhaego regards you, perched atop Jestine's shoulder.
Jestine is 22 Turns and 13 days old.
Carrying:
Rhaego
Mallory
Daenerys
Ijarjuk
Kelsey
Jestine watches all with a face that rarely shows emotion in front of others.

Jestine stumbles across the bowl from the direction of the lake, crinkly, freshly laundered clothing in her arms, almost obscuring her view. Halfway to the caverns she trips, falls, and does an amazing semi-somersault that might have saved the clothing had she turned the other way. Instead, she lands face first into the clean clothes, which land flat out into the dirt. She takes a second to look up and realize she isn't alone. Shards! Bad enough she got the laundry dirty again, but now people have /seen/ her at it!

Caoimhe half-turns to run an assessing eye over M'gael. With an inclination of her head, she indicates acknowledgement, recognition, and greeting all at once--isn't /she/ the multi-tasker?--and then tilts an amused glance at Jestine. "That's a real--er, that's unfortunate." She's been told to tone down her language as well.

M'gael just gapes at Jestine for the moment, unsure of whether to gasp or laugh; he takes a few steps forward and inquires, "Need, uh, help there?" His eyes lift, for the moment, to Caoimhe, and he nods, before redirecting his attention to the candidate.

Azarin is off the tree, no longer lounging as the greenrider comes toward them. "Uh, yes, ma'am. This here carpet was in awful need of a cleaning," he says, waving his hand at the dust still flowing around the carpet, then blinks at Jestine falling face down. Leaving Finchley behind with the carpet, he runs to help out the girl. "Are you alright?" he asks, offering a hand to her. "I think we can save some of this.. Y'know, the ones on top. Don't need to wash those again." Isn't he helpful?

Jestine proceeds to pull herself into a cross-legged position, sullenly dusting off this shirt and that pair of trous, and trying to fold them neatly in her lap. "No, no, I'm fine, thank you..." she gives M'gael a weak, embarrased sort of grin, and Azarin gets a friendly, if hesitant, pat on the hand. "I can get it. You've got a rug to clean." Wink wink. Caoimhe's comment isn't even noted. Stine knows what the greenrider would /really/ like to be doing, and it doesn't involve toning down her language one inch.

"You could just shake the dust off," Caoimhe suggests blandly. "No one would ever know." She's not fulfilling her job description as Candidate Role Model here.

"Except people might notice the bits of dust that always seem to stick," M'gael comments, casting a glance to Caoimhe. "But maybe not."

Frowning at Jestine, Aza shrugs and instead return to the carpet beating taking over from Finchley. After all, it /was/ him who'd been assigned the job. And the carpet was near to clean now, anyway. Very clever Aza. Let others do the work for him. But then he'd done the really hard work getting the carpet out of the caverns and up into the tree. "I dunno how we'll get it down again," he muses, tossing the beater from one hand to the other, looking the carpet up and down and glancing over his shoulder at the riders and the other candidates.

Jestine glares up at Caoimhe, dusting off a blue tunic. "Aren't you supposed to be an /authority/ figure?" she chuckles slightly at the thought, and gets back to folding and dusting, dusting and folding. Ah, the life of a candidate. so fraught with hardships and let downs. And dirt. Glancing over to the hanging rug, she stifles a smile. "Grand idea, that one..."

"Gwyn might help you," Caoimhe volunteers lazily. As long as the rider doesn't have to do anything. "She might also accidentally rip it into a thousand shreds, too." And guess who'd be blamed for that? "As to authority...yes." A vague smile. She's got the power.

Azarin decides to just drag the carpet off the tree branch, letting it fall to the ground, then rolls it up again, ignoring Caoimhe in the process. This rug couldn't get any dirtier than it was before he began, after all. "That's it. I'm taking this back inside," he informs them all, leaving behind the beater. His hands are occupied, see? Lets just hope the owner of the carpet doesn't notice that it's not /quite/ clean.

You go into the Living Caverns.

*** Disconnected ***

Aza's History

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