Horrified Hunter

You leave the candidates barracks.

Living Cavern (#2070J)
This is the vaulted, high-ceilinged main gathering area of Ista Weyr, where riders, residents and drudges congregate to socialize and make merry. Or even just to eat. Long, sturdy tables fill most of the cavern in neat rows, two of them hemming about the hearths that line the northeastern curve of the cavern. Sideboards by the kitchen entrance groan beneath a constant burden of food and drinks, kept fresh by the cooks and lower caverns staff.
Kr'lin and Avi are here.
Obvious exits:
Bowl Kitchen Lower Caverns

Kr'lin finds himself at the receiving end of an invasion of Candidates.. "Sheesh.. Do you guys always walk in packs?" Really.. Just because there is dozens of them, doesn't mean they have to keep moving around together. "Finished your chores?"

"Not packs," Avi informs Kr'lin, "We're /swarms/." She turns serious brown eyes on the dragonrider, only a slight crinkling at the edge of her mouth an indication of the bizarre sense of humor being unleashed on the Cavern; "Or possibly, maybe, a plague." At the last comment, though, her tone is somewhat jaundiced. "A candie's work is never done," she says sourly, and holds up a torn shirt and a needle and thread -- unfortunately, Avi is hopeless at sewing. The people giving her chores just don't know it yet.

Azarin meanders in from the kitchens a small bowl in one hand and a cloth in the other. Tucked into the waistband of his shorts is a piece of wood resembling a runner. "What...?" he asks, looking up from his slow movement toward the nearest table. Don't wanna spill what's in the bowl, does he? "Chores? Yes, all done." At least for now. Setting the bowl down on a table top, he gives Kr'lin a friendly nod and a smile, then glances at Avi, grinning crookedly. She might have chores to do now, but Aza is taking a break to finish up a present for a friend.

Kr'lin
A short, squat man, Kr'lin tops off with a wild shock of brown hair and it doesn't improve much from there. Amber eyes that gaze blankly over a pronounced hawk nose is perhaps explained by a rider conversing with his lifemate, perhaps, or perhaps not. Rounded cheeks and jaw line hint at his weight control issues, issues kept somewhat in check by the work regimen forced upon him during Weyrlinghood. His body has definitely been a beneficiary of this regimen. While not anywhere near chiseled, his musculature is apparent, but masked by a stubborn layer of fat that refuses to release its grip. This meld of muscle and fat forcing a barrel chest outline, firmly enforcing his squatness.
Firmly fasted to his shoulder is the black and orange knot of a Ista Weyr Wingleader. Apparently lacking is the strand denoting his lifemate's color, but upon closer inspection, one of the strands of black, glistens with the soft touch of blue.
On homage to his lifemate bests describes this set of leathers. Either that, or Kr'lin is into blending in, either way, the leathers are a mottled adaption of his lifemate's hue. Black at first glance, but flashes of blue glint off the hide as different angles are offered to light. The only true color present on the trous is a consolation to his weyr, a burnt orange piping up the sides. The jacket itself is lined in fleece to counteract the bite of between, yet light enough to allow for the sweltering heat of Istan summers. Emblazened upon the jacket's back is the symbol of his wing, a phoenix rising over the outline of the Weyr.
Kr'lin is 30 Turns and 22 days old.
We is awake, but has been staring off into space for 3 minutes.

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 27 days old.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.

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.
Midnight's blue is the color of the sleeveless shirt, hanging limply from Aza's shoulders. Stitched into the thin fabric on the back is a large dragon, embroidered in silver thread. His tattered black pants are cut off just above the knee, loose threads, caressing the tanned skin of his thighs. Thick straps of black-dyed leather keeps well-fitting sandals in place on his long narrow feet.
Azarin is 19 Turns, 7 months, and 12 days old.
He is awake and looks alert.

Kr'lin has to agree with Avi's sentiment about Candidates, "Got that right.. Possibly even a bad rash.. No matter how hard we try, you keep coming back." He sighs heavily, "Hey, you, get me something to drink." He's looking and pointing at Azarin, "Since y'all are invading us, might as well give you something useful to do."

Of course, Avi was being sarcastic, and apparently, Kr'lin is completely serious. "Well, you were one of us, once," she informs him, "Right? You must remember the hours and hours and hours of... /chores/..." Of course, that's probably one reason why he makes fun of candies. Revenge. She nudges a chair away from a table with one foot, and settles down to try and sew the shirt... Unfortunately, the girl has no idea where to start, and jabs herself in the thumb. "Shards!" she squeaks vehemently.

"But.. " Aza starts, eyes going from the carving he's released from the waistband to the bowl to the cloth still in his hand. And back at Kr'lin. "Yes, of course, sir. What would you like?" Settling his things on the table, he darts toward the side table, grabbing up a glass to begin with, then turns toward the rider with a questioning look in his eyes. "Wine? Ale? Juice? Klah, perhaps?" He'd need a mug for that, but they were conviniently placed on the table as well. "I'll get some fresh from the kitchen." Ain't he the good little candidate?

Kr'lin waves a hand towards Azarin, "Anything will do, lad." He can say that, he's older than the candidate, "Just be snappy about it. I'm not getting any less thirsty over here." A broad smile is offered as he turns his attention from one candidate, to the next, "Oh, we've all be candidates, just some of us were better at avoiding chores." As she harpoons her thumb, he just rolls his eyes, "Come over here with that. Let me show you how to sew." Hey, no sense in having the Candidates die from bleeding to death.

Avi grins. "Last time I tried avoiding chores, Mesopha found me and made me wash Hwyllth." She looks at the shirt, and then turns mournful eyes on the rider, setting her mouth stubbornly. "Mum taught me how to sew," she informs him. Yes, Merila did, but at the time, Avi was more interested in what various people were doing or saying, and she didn't really pay attention. She doggedly returns to her work, and jabs herself in the thumb again. This time, she doesn't make a noise, and continues attempting to stitch, somewhat comically.

Considering that it's a hot day, Aza makes the choice of bringing the rider a large glass of orangefruit juice, glancing at Avi as he passes her. Good thing he hadn't been directed to do mending chores. He'd more than likely sew the neck-hole shut. "Here you are, sir. Orangefruit juice. Nice and chilled," he says, setting the glass down in front of Kr'lin. "Need anything to eat too? I reckon there's some fresh bread made in the kitchen." Having just come from there, of course, Aza knew what he was talking about. Might even have stolen a bite or two from those nice freshly baked loafs of bread.

Kr'lin rolls his eyes in Avi's general direction. She might not be making a noise, but it is rather apparent that she is still skewering herself, "Girl, when a rider tells you to do something, you better do it. We don't have to let you Stand, you know." He does offer her a smile though, hopefully softening his words a bit, "Come on, let me help. I won't bite, promise." To Azarin, there's a nod, "Thank you muchly. Not a big fan of it, but, I'll drink it anyways." He waves at a nearby seat, or any seat really, "Take a load off. I try not to order y'all around too much."

Avi eyes Kr'lin for a long second, trying to assess whether or not he's serious, and decides, eventually, that he is. And she -really- wants to stand. Holding the shirt up for inspection, Avi squirms uneasily in her chair. "But I don't -like- other people doing things for me." She's not as good a Candidate as Azarin is -- obsequities don't come easily to her mouth, only the first thing that comes to mind. The girl raises an eyebrow at Kr'lin, and asks skeptically, "-You- can sew?" The emphasis on the first syllabel is faint, but evident.

Azarin nods, eyeing the rider sideways as he goes to collect his 'project', slowly making his way back to the appointed seat. Bowl set on the table, the candidate slides into the chair, glancing from Kr'lin to Avi and back, grinning. Why not let other people do the work for you. At least when they offer? Aza is not /such/ good a candidate that he would turn down such an offer. Dipping the cloth into the bowl, he squeezes the excess oil out before beginning to rub the surface of the carved runner, making the wood stand out in a shine. "You have to make your own riding straps, don't you?" he ask, adding to Avi's question. "I heard that somewhere. That riders made their own straps."

Kr'lin pats the seat next to him, "Come over here.." He searches his mind bank for her name, but, finding it either not there, or lost in with everything else he has forgotten over the turns, "What is your name, girl?" See, she's girl, Azarin is lad. "Of course I know how to sew." He points at Azarin as he comes up with the reason, "More suited for sewing leather, but the principle is the same." To Azarin, he confirms his question, "We do. Would you trust anyone else with your life? Not to mention, if something does happen, you only have yourself to blame."

Finchley has arrived.

Avi says, "Avi," she says, "I'm Avi." She stabs the needle viciously into the shirt and scootches the chair back a few feet, until she's not trapped under the table. Avi picks up the shirt and ambles over to Kr'lin, still carrying her chores. "Um, if we're introducing..." she says, trailing off and looking expectantly at the rider. He'll fill it in, she supposes. She snorts softly, under her breath. "In my case, it'd pro'lly be safer for someone else to do it. I'm hopeless!" This is said with a bit of humor, at least."

Azarin sit back and ponders Kr'lin's statement for a moment, his eyes locked on the wooden runner in his hands, though the rubbing has ceased. "I guess not, but..." Flushing slightly, he looks up, wincing, "I'm really no good at sewing myself, y'know.." Just another notch in his optimism of becoming a rider. Now he had to /sew/ as well if it ever happened. Giving Avi a lopsided grin, he nods, "aye, prolly better if someone else did it..." Resuming the oiling of his 'runner', the candidate hangs his head, pretending to be very concentrated on his task.

Finchley ambles leisurely in, passing off the mop he was carrying onto a conveniently placed, though surprised, drudge. Hands free, he promptly sticks them into his pockets and continues his shambling walk over to Avi and co. "Alas, latrine duty is worse than sewing any day," he comments, catching a fragment on their conversation. And that assistant headwoman really is a slavedr-- oh, hello, rider." And he inclines his head politely. Weyr formality and all that. Give him lazing around the hold any day.

Kr'lin waggles a finger at Avi, "I'm not going to do your chores for you, Avi." See, he remembered her name, "I'm just going to show you how to sew so that you don't get blood all over the shirts." Which means she'd have to clean them. He holds out a hand towards her, "Hand it over. The shirt you were working on and the needle and thread." A smile is offered towards Azarin, "Don't worry about not being able to sew. You will get a lot of practice during Weyrlinghood. We have to make sure you are able to work your straps and repair them before you are sent up. Can't have you plummeting to your death on your first flight, now can we?" It's a morbid joke, but it's a joke none the less. Finchley is greeted with a smile, since he is now sitting next to Avi, he gets to hear everything the newcomer has to say, "I'll be sure to tell her you said that." Finchley should look forward to a few more days of latrine duty.

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, 3 months, and 19 days old.
He is awake, but has been staring off into space for 5 minutes.

Avi grins at Kr'lin, "Don't worry, I wouldn't've asked you to," she assures him, "The Headwoman would have my head on a pike." My, she's a bloodthirsty little kid. Fun! She shoves the shirt and needle, still stuck through the collar of said garment, towards the bluerider, ridding herself gladly of it. As she does so, Avi waves a free hand at Finchley. "Hey," she greets him cheerfully, and then makes a face. "Latrine duty? Ick. Worst I've had was cleaning Hwyllth. I got -bruises- from that." Avi sounds more amused at this last comment than annoyed. As stated before, she's a bit odd.

Azarin blinks, looking up with a half-petrified expression on his face. "Plummet..." he squeaks, unable to keep control of his voice. With each word coming from Kr'lin, the candidate becomes more and more unsure of whether he really /did/ want to Impress a dragon or not. Finchley's entry is noted, but not acknowledge by anything other than a glance as Aza's mind is now whirling with images of weyrlings splattered on the ground next to broken straps. Not always a blessing having a vivid imagination, is it? "Maybe I should start practicing now," he mutters, fingering the wooden runner in his hands. And if he didn't end up with a lifemate, he'd at least have learned to sew, right?

Finchley smiles weakly at Kr'lin, "You may, ah, give her my compliments, too, on the /excellent/ job she does of it." he adds smoothly, seating himself opposite Avi and Kr'lin. Grinning lopsidedly over at them he replies to Avi, "My knees are as stiff as anything. I walk like a lame runner! I'd sooner wash that great lump--er, Hwyllth, and my regards to his rider too." Grey gaze flicks hopefully to the rider present before turning to Azarin, who he takes is despondant due to the lack of response. "Cheer up, old fellow. Sewing's not all that hard. You'll get the hang of it, albeit later rather than sooner." he adds.. helpfully.

Kr'lin takes the shirt from Avi, "Okay, make sure you are watching now, because I'm only going to do this once, then it's your turn." Then, as Azarin shows interest in learning, he gives him an inviting look, "You are more than welcome to come over and watch as well. But, like I said, you'll be getting a lot of practice if you Impress." Although, since Azarin looks a bit mortified by his comment, well.. Kr'lin can't pass up the opportunity to mortify him some more, "Don't worry about your straps breaking, not coming out from between, or having a midair collision is much more likely than your straps breaking." He just won't say how likely. Another grin for Finchley, "Now, I won't tell Mesopha you said that... I'm afraid Mesopha isn't in the best of moods right now and you might not survive it."

Avi glances at Azarin, a bit concerned. "Don't worry," she says cheerfully, "The odds of falling to your death and squishing yourself on the ground are quite slim." She bites idly at her lip, and then looks to Finchley. "No, I don't know if you would. He wouldn't let me wash his tail -- and then -- once I managed to grab onto it -- he /lifted/ it up in the air and slapped me into the water." Her face is a comical look of dismay as she holds her arms out, so that Finchley can inspect the bruises. Not that he'd -want- to, but.. oh, wait! Here's Kr'lin. She opens her eyes very wide, and looks innocently at the 'rider. "Of course I'm watching. I always listen very carefully." Somewhere, somehow, the faint echo of frantic, disbelieving coughing can be heard.

Poor gullible Aza listens to Kr'lin, of course, and believes him too. Swallowing, he gives up on polishing the carving and tosses it onto the table, only half done, his eyes darting from one to the other. "Collision...? That actually.. Happens?" he asks, blinking as his fingers clenches around the cloth still in his hand, squeezing out tiny drops of oil. Well, he'll have soft hands if nothing else.

"Hmm.." is Finchley's noncommital reply to Avi as he stretches out over the table to, apprently, closely examine her bruises--is he a healer in the making or what? Glancing sideways at Kr'lin out of slightly hooded grey eyes he comments lightly, "Well, perhaps it's dragon like rider." But he doesn't embellish, instead clearing his throat discreetly to turn to Aza. "Only rarely I'd suppose, I mean, if it happened all that often wouldn't they devote tapestries to it? They have tapestries for everything else. Imagine sewing /that/." Or maybe he's a weaver in the making, apart from the fact that one does not sew tapestries.

Kr'lin places the shirt on the table in front of him, so Avi, and anyone else can see. He pauses to make sure Avi is looking, even going so far as aheming and tapping the shirt, "Okay, you have two rules of thumb, whichever way works best for you, go with it. The first, is the one I use." He locates a tear, overlaps the opposing edges and then pinches the fabric, across the fabric, "See, you have a nice little spot just above your fingers that you can push the needle through without skewering yourself." And he does so. "Oh, fatal midair collisions aren't that common. It's the deaths from betweening that are more common. Doesn't happen every clutch, but when it does, it comes in bunches." He rubs at his chin in though, "You know.. We haven't had a death in the last couple of clutches... We're about due."

Avi watches all of this closely -- she's actually listening, good Faranth, this is amazing. Avi's got that -look- she wears when she's concentrating; eyebrows drawn down, lips pressed together with the top two teeth pressing into the lower lip... again, like many of her expressions, it's vaguely comical. "Oh," she says, as Kr'lin demonstrates, "That -does- make sense!" And she seems a bit surprised, but then... "Deaths?" Avi asks uncertainly. "Bunches?" Eek. Oh dear.

Azarin nods silently, grimacing. Not at the thought of colliding midair, though, but at having to sew tapestries, mind you. "Yeah. I'm glad I won't have to sew /those/," he says, pushing the images of colliding dragons to the back of his mind, only to be replace with dark imaginings of getting stuck between. "Right," he croaks, blinking more rapidly now. Kr'lin'll end up scaring poor Aza away from the Weyr before the eggs even start rocking on the Sands. Glancing at the other two candidates, he forces a smile onto his lips, "well, maybe we'll get lucky...?"

"Maybe," agrees Finchley, leaning casually back in his chair and surveying the impromptu sewing lesson with what seems like wry amusement, "I got away scott free last time, after all. Could do it again." Tone is light and it's hard to fathom whether he's speaking seriously or otherwise. When bunches and getting stuck between are brought up he eyerolls slightly, "Scaremongering. That's what candidacy is for. To give all the riders a good laugh. I saw it all back at Fort Weyr."

Kr'lin continues his little lesson, "Now, if you'd like, you can just pull the needle and thread through, or since you have the needle in, you can just lift the next fold over the point of the needle and skewer it as well." He shows that as well, "Once you get going, it's quite easy." He pushes the shirt towards Avi, "Now, you give it a try." With the shirt moved away from him for now, he returns to the other conversation topic, "I wouldn't worry too much about dying during Weyrlinghood. As long as you pay attention to what the weyrlingmasters say and don't do anything stupid, you'll do fine.." Finchley gets an eye roll of his own, "It's not about scaremongering. Candidacy is the first step in your training, we're getting you used to doing chores and preparing you to be a rider. Telling you the dangers of being a rider is best done prior to you Impressing. Too late to back out then."

Avi takes the shirt back with a great show of trepidation. Ack. She's already got needle stab marks all over her fingers... At least she's got some guidance, now. "Thank you," she tells Kr'lin sincerely. Maybe it'd be better to wait until she's seen if she can sew or not? Avi takes hold of the needle with a determined air, following instructions as best she can. Over in, over in... Hey! Looks like she's got it. Avi beams widely. "Look! A stitch! And I didn't even stab myself." Avi returns to her sewing -- admittedly, it's clumsy, but better than it was -- and to the conversation. "I'd've heard if there were too many deaths." 'Cos, you know, she's a Trader and all.

Azarin gapes at Finchley, his eyes growing slightly wider as he realizes what's being said. "Seriously?" Leaning closer to the other candidate, he eyes Kr'lin sideways, whispering; "He's just saying it to scare us?" he asks, ignoring the rider's last statement for now. Any and all things about sewing and polishing forgotten, the candidate frowns back at Kr'lin, a look of disbelief crossing his face. So who was right? Rider or candidate? Hopefully the candidate.

Finchley raises eyebrows at Kr'lin, tone sceptical as he answers, "I suppose. But the riders at Fort Weyr did seem to ham it up awfully, making out that you were lucky if you got through weyrlinghood alive and all that." Gaze turns from the rider to the candidate beside him, and he lowers his tone suitably as he responds, "Oh yes. I've lots of friends at Fort Weyr who Impressed.. none of /them/ died. The riders told ridiculous stories. You've seen the way they like making us do silly chores. They absolutely love it." And he sits upright again, a half-smile tugging at his lips as he watches Avi and her sewing. At least someone is learning something new.

Kr'lin points a finger at Finchley, "Boy, once you get a dragon you can be smug. Until then, remember your position. If you do not think our assigning you chores is important." He points towards the exit to the bowl, "That is the way out. You can either take a boat, or we will provide you a dragon." He folds his arms, "You may have been on the Sands before, but remember, when all of the eggs were hatched and dragons Impressed, you were still there, without a lifemate." And, because he can, "Think back about what you were like during the last candidacy, what have you done to improve yourself?" He rolls his eyes at Finchley, then turns his attention to Avi, placing a hand on her shoulder, "If you need any more help, just ask one of the women in the lower caverns, they seem to enjoy teaching people how to sew." It means less work for them. "If you will excuse me, I'm afraid a wingleader's job is never done." Or so his dragon likes to remind him.

Kr'lin walks out of the Living Caverns into the bowl.

"Alright," Aza says, nodding as he leans back in his chair, reaching out to pick up the wooden runner again, fingering the skinny legs. Legs that look as if they could break as easily as a tooth-pick. He'll just remember not to believe the riders' stories. Too much. Kr'lin's words doesn't help much, though and Aza gives the rider a faint smile as he leaves. "I s'pose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we," he says weakly, glancing at his fellow candidates as he gets out of his chair. "I'm just gonna go sit outside with this.." Picking up the small bowl of oil, the candidate turns to walk slowly toward the exit.

"Thank y--" Avi calls belatedly after the blue rider. She eyes Finchley, quite amused. One of those wide, really wide smiles twitches the corners of her mouth upward as she eyes the boy. "Well. I guess you'll not be smug around the 'riders anymore, eh?" Or at least, he won't if they're as snappy as Kr'lin. Avi sews a few more stitches, and groans. "Oh, no... he left before I could find out what kind of knot to tie!" She settles with making a messy sort of tangled-thread-ball, and pulls the thread apart with her fingers. It does -not- look good.

You walk out of the Living Caverns into the bowl.

*** Disconnected ***

Aza's History

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