Who Ibreily, Vossrik
What Vossrik and Ibreily talk family, and…unexpected treasures.
When Spring of 2711
Where Lower Caverns, Fort Weyr


Fort Weyr - Storage Room
This room is filled with shelves, crates and boxes of dried goods, material, and other necessities of weyr life. The shelves are kept neat and tidy at all times and the floor has been swept clean recently. Occasionally a candidate or fosterling can be found in here cleaning and tidying, or checking for signs of tunnel snake or other pest infestations.

Midafternoon, and the Weyr isn't necessarily quiet, but the storage caverns kind of are. There is a distant din, voices murmuring and pans banging, but the shelves of the storage room dampen it a bit. Too bad Ibreily is bad at silence of any sort. "This was my least favorite chore, as a little." The harper grumbles from a pile of previously-folded laundry, now piled unhappily around her. Damn those rogue boxes. Wherever Vossrik has gotten off to, he can probably hear her, given the strident level and tone that Ibby's taking. "Why do towels need to be folded, anyhow? It's not like your bare behind cares any if the towel is wrinkled." Grumble grumble grumble. Dramatic toss-settle of a towel into the new pile. "It's not like it's a priceless artifact or a piece of machinery." Don't worry. She can monologue all night, given the chance. She's got a few minutes to kneel and re-fold the offending towels, at any rate, looking dramatically miffed.

"Frickin' RIGHT?" comes the muffled agreement from behind Fort Boxen. Vossrik's voice clears up somewhat as he brings out yet unwashed mass belonging to the unwashed masses and drops it rather unceremoniously on the floor. "Man did your family have 'guest towels' thatcha weren't allowed to use none if you had people coming?" Air quotes get used where applicable. "Because when we were little, mom was all emphatic-like about the ones with the embroidery at the bottom. We weren't s'posed to use them at all, as if we were gonna rub them on, Idunno, whatever and make sure whomever's over can see our human filth." As he grumbles his solidarity, he starts hucking dirty sheet after dirty sheet into the maw of one of the whatever-kind-of-washing-machinery they use here. "Heh, I wonder if I dump all this soap in there if it'll make a huge buncha bubbles. My twin brother, he put a ton of bath soap in the tub once and let the water run on it and it all spilled into the hallway. You got any brothers or whatever around?"

"RIGHT." Ibreily's cranky agreement is maybe a touch childish, but she doesn't appear to care, carefully piling the towels into a theoretically more stable tower. Is it any shorter? No. Ain't nobody got time to be making twenty trips back and forth, amirite. "Ugh." The harper huffs, flapping a towel with more force than necessary to clear the wrinkles. "Did they ever. A whole bunch, all ugly and purple. Like anybody visitin' cared. Weyrwoman herself wouldn't'a given a VTOL's fart." The terrifying washing-maw doesn't seem to garner much attention from the candidate — she's a little more wary of the noises coming out of the steaming vats of infirmary bedclothes, side-eyeing them warily. However, the vague idea of chaos draws Ib's attention back, and the harper grins, sharp and bright. "My ma would have tanned every inch of my hide, if I'd've." She laughs, delighted. "I bet it would. Bubbles everywhere. Everything gets clean today. That's what's on the roster, right?" A folded towel is abruptly unfolded, since Ibby flings her arms in a wide gesture. She sighs, re-folds it. "Tons of 'em. Heaps. None of 'em can mind their own, either. Ma and da liked the chaos, I think. Do you have any other than your brother?"

Vossrik laughs heartily as he, somewhat surprisingly, fussily measures out a large load's worth of soap flakes into a cup, going so far as to shake the cup until the contents settle and then adding a bit more before sifting it carefully over the linens. "Oh man, Reksler got in so-ooo much trouble. Got grounded for, gosh, a couple'a two-three sevenday. Then I did because we got caught switchin' places so mom started having our hair cut differently after that." His voice compresses somewhat as, leaning over the Laundro-master 2 Billion, he toggles applicable toggles and turns available knobs, then steps back, dusting his hands off on his trousers. "Nah, it's just Reks and me, so we had to learn to do laundry proper-like and separate the colors and whatnot. I mean the folding is kinda nice, sometimes, when it's not totally useless, but ugh I haaaaaate touching the wet stuff almost more than having to, eeugh, do mom's … lady stuff." A shudder ripples down his frame, his face a mask of disgust. "We WANTED another one just so we wouldn't have to be the ones to do only every chore EVER, but wasn't to be. Man though it is tempting to just fill this place with bubbles and go hide somewhere, but we'd be the ones with rank-nasty bedding. And besides, how else would we find out one of the wingriders owns THESE." Behold: he holds up a pair of boxers that, initially, appear plain, but upon turning reveal 'JUICY' embroidered on the backside. "I mean, wow."

Finished with her towels, Ibby lifts the Leaning Tower of Linens, wobbling over to a storage shelf and settling them there. She returns to the scene of the mishap, settling back down to fold the assorted washing-cloths and smaller towels. The harper makes a face for the sorting of the suds-makers — no giant messes today, woe. "Ha!" Cackling a few sharp barks, Rei levels an amused point at the other candidate, eyes scrunching up with glee. "Well, what else were you supposed ta do, huh? My older brother and sister were like that, 'til Sei grew. Out." Gesturing a vaguely giant monster chest, which Faranth willing the poor thing doesn't possess, Ibreily snorts. "Twins, too. Ah, shells. It's lots easier, with a lot of 'em to trade with. Always somebody not wanting to go run messages or muck stalls." Sympathizing woefully, the harper folds a rag, making what's probably sarcastically sure that it's neat and tidy. She makes a face that is, in fairness, only half-amused in its sympathy up at the poor guy's distaste of the chore. "Folding's nice in winter, sure. Lady-stuff — well. It could be worse." Traumatized, if the look is anything to go on, Ibreily carries on for a moment. Those washcloths are going to be the tidiest cloths on Pern. WATCH HER. The candidate sighs wistfully, making a face at the distant kitchens. "We'd be caught for sure, and have to sleep in it. Ugh. You dump enough of 'em in the lake, though, I bet the dragons could work up a real good froth." She trails, though, staring in awe at the underpants. Without words: it's a remarkable feat, and lasts a number of beats, before Ibby can't hold in the belly laughter. "Oh, shells! No. No. We have to put those on the shrine." Are they Th'ero's? THEY ARE NOW.

"We have a SHRINE? Why didn't nobody tell me this stuff! I mean, this totally, TOTALLY is a thing that needs to be framed. How do you even come to own something so dang… like I mean, JUICY? For real?" The Smith shakes his head, still snickering, and drifts over to Ibreily's side to offer assistance. There's a definite long moment, though, before he's actually able to make himself useful, since all his attention gets fixated on the large arcs she ascribes in front of her chest. "Wait, seriously? Like…?" And Vossrik mimicks the gesture. "I mean, y'know, I'm just a guy and all but that has got to suck for her 'cause of, well, GUYS. And carrying that around must make her back hurt like the worst." His expression is equal parts impressed, intrigued, sympathetic, and horrified.

Gingerly stacking the dwindling stack of cloths, Ibreily hums, glancing up with raised eyebrows. "Of course there's a shrine." Beat. "To Th'ero." Because this, of course, is absolutely a Must Know and not at all insane. Or weird. The harper stands, moves over to replace the washcloths away from the clutching void of the angry washer, and makes a wistful face back at Voss. "I wish I'd have thought of it first. I mean." She raises both eyebrows pointedly, because he should totally get the innuendo there, whether she's actually anywhere close to it or not. Mind reading, right. The assistance with the remains of the First Tower of Washthings gets a deeply grateful look as the candidate returns, throwing herself back into it dramatically. "Um," Ibby frowns, considers the size of her elder sibling's assets for a moment thoughtfully. Mimics the gesture, a little smaller, bless. "Maybe? I haven't seen her in a few turns. Think she went off to study sheep or something. I wouldn't know, all that. Probably. It's a wher and a half cartin' a pup on my back." The mixture of emotions on the poor guy's face gets a bright look from Rei, lips pressed to keep from grinning. "Don't throw those underpants back. I'll take the blame." Who's gonna admit to owning them, anyhow? She would. She definitely would.

Vossrik's already large blue eyes go positively saucer-sized. "Uh, righty-o. But… a shrine? To Th'ero? He's great and all, don't get me wrong, but is it, like, so we all get dragons or something? Or just 'cause he's a nice guy?" Uh oh. Innuendo. Flirting. There's that hunted look that's his face is getting so used to pulling on in the presence of the other candidates, and he actually whimpers. "Iiii… ah. Yeah. Here you go. Underwear. Yes." It is the perfect excuse for him to back away momentarily and use a convenient wall hook to hold the Juicy jocks. He starts to cringingly return to his post but, forgetting the NEW THREAT, turns back around and pulls them between two hooks so that they are displayed in all their groin-covering glory. THEN he slinks back to Mount Washmore. "So where'd you grow up 'round, anyway, with all your sisters and brothers and boobs and stuff?"

There is a careless shrug for the shrine's purpose, Ibreily putting on a loftily amused air rather badly. "To his behind." She supplies, promptly, like that makes any sense at all. A quick nod is given to the underpants. See? "On the spot where Leia first met him. He pinned her to a table." This is a conspirator's whisper — and like her cousins, the harper leaves out entirely the fact that it wasn't exactly a happy pinning. Bad historian. If Rei notices the poor guy's reaction, it isn't obvious, as she disappears behind a cloud of a freshly-bleached sheet. Bother to get up to fold it? Shells, no. The whimper, though, that draws her out from wrangling the thing into submission — Ib's head pops up, and she blinks owlishly, eyeing the other candidate curiously. Likely she's totally forgotten by now; or so the confusion seems to suggest. "They're clean, you know. The underpants." Probably. She's just guessing there, actually, but if it makes Voss feel better? She cackles, a little, at the prominent placement of the pants, and finally manages to fold the sheet, collapsing a little forward. "Oh, bit of everywhere. Xanadu, mostly. Ista, with family. The Hall, too. Harper. Took a few turns here and there on a ship." Rei waves a grand hand airily, but doesn't move from her slump. "Were you here, or somewhere else? Do you know the area?"

"Guh buh," offers Vossrik helpfully, then adds, "Whuh? Huh?!" His mouth opens as if to retort, but instead gets interrupted by a drudge's entrance. "Oi! You, big kid. Yeah, got a biiiiig old thinga furs needs movin'. Come help me." So there's no response for now save his sigh of resignation. "I'll be back in a bit, Ibs. Duty calls." Curse his beautiful muscles!

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