Fort Weyr - North Bowl
The northern end of the bowl can be an intimidating area, being that Fort is the largest weyr. The far north wall contains the gigantic opening to the hatching caverns, and to the west of that can be seen the sprawling ledges and carved stair cases that mark the way to the weyrleader's complex and junior queens ledges. The west cliff wall towers up, dotted here and there by darker openings that mark individual weyrs before it tapers to a point at Tooth Crag. At ground level on the western wall is the opening to the weyrling barracks, occasional glimpses can be caught of newly paired mates. On the eastern wall of the bowl is the entrance into the living cavern, the heart of the weyr.
The usual assortment of dragons are sprawled along the northern end of the bowl, and as the time for the evening meal draws near there's a flurry of activity. Breezes eddy in every direction as dragons land and take off, riders leaping clear to make their way into the living cavern in search of food. Residents weave through the crowd, unpeturbed by the activity around them. One large-ish green has found herself a spot right up against the weyr wall, leaning against the rock and stretched out to full length. A man is up on her back — not sitting, as is normal, but rather walking along the length of it as though he's strolling along an even surface, picking his way from head to tail.
Talmar is headed north, yup. He's headed for the hatching cavern, it seems. He's got a bucket in each hand, one of clay and one of water. He stops suddenly, and eyes the rider walking along the green's back. "Um, hello there, sir." he says, frowning slightly in confusion.
Z'ran leans down to inspect a spot on Omisimth's harness, pulling at the leather with both hands for a moment until it settles in a position he likes better. At the sound of a voice that doesn't draw a reply from anywhere else he looks down, dark eyes running over the crowd until Talmar is located at the source of the noise. "Evening," he offers, walking forward another couple of paces to Omisimth's hip. "They haven't got you working at this hour, have they?"
Talmar shakes his head, lifting the two buckets. "Working on a personal project in my free time, sir." he answers promptly, grinning. "I'm making clay versions of the eggs, to give to the riders after the hatching." he adds, a moment later, with obvious enthusiasm.
Z'ran pauses to think about this, one hand coming up to scratch thoughtfully at his jaw. "You'll have to forgive me for saying this — I'm not an artist, you must understand — but surely a clay version of the egg is, you know." A pause, and the search for diplomatic language is fruitless. "A bit of clay sort of made into an oval?" He props one foot up on one of Omisimth's tail ridges absently, considering the idea. "Made a bit narrower at one end?"
Talmar nods at Z'ran, "Yeah, but I can paint them with special clay paints and stuff." And really, it's also an excuse to get a look at the eggs. "And then they'll look the same." he beams. "I was an apprentice Potter before I was searched." he points out, having decided to do this also before he was searched.
"The same as each other, or the same as… Oh, I'm with you." Z'ran finally hops on board the train, white teeth flashing against his swarthy skin in a grin as he nods. "I'm sure they'll appreciate them. My class got rings, they're nice." He gestures with a hand that is, in fact, bereft of its ring. "What's your name then, apprentice potter?"
Talmar glances up at Z'ran. "My name is Talmar, sir." he says, "My parents are crafters posted to Fort." he adds, randomly. He puts the bucket of clay and the bucket of water down, because they're feeling kind of heavy now.
"My name is Z'ran, not sir," the greenrider informs the boy cheerfully, jumping down from the sprawling green's back and landing with a thud, knees bent to relieve the impact. "We save the 'sir' bit for my boss. You're right to keep up your training while you're standing, though. I did, and I always wondered why so few others seemed to. After all, you never know.'
Talmar nods at Z'ran. "Okay sir. Z'ran." he says, smiling. "I love making stuff with clay, it's so much fun! When I was real little I used to make stuff out of snow in the winter." he says, grinning.
"My family used to avoid winter as best we could," Z'ran observes, raising a hand to wave to a group passing behind the candidate. "Always on the road, and snow makes for blocked passes, extended travelling time — not to mention being cold. None of which get you where you need to go, or help with your income. And then I came here, spent the bulk of my weyrlinghood wading through the snow. Just my luck, I guess."
Talmar shrugs slightly, grimacing. "We spent last winter a bit further south, and it didn't snow. Then I discovered how much fun mud can be!" he grins widely. From mud, clay isn't that big of a step. Technically, clay /is/ mud. "When we got back, my parents apprenticed me to Master Potter Jopier."
"How much fun mud can be." Z'ran echoes the words, and not quite in the disapproving fashion his age probably requires. "That sounds like my next day off just waiting to happen. Find your passion and stick with it, I say. What'll you do if you find a dragon, then? No," and here a pause, brows drawing together. "What's the word? Potting? No making things out of clay, anyway, for a turn or two. No time."
Talmar frowns slightly, then shrugs. "I guess I'll be too busy to miss it, then." he says, "If I'm too busy to make stuff out of clay." he glances uncertainly to the hatching grounds. "I probably won't miss it all that much…" he says, uncertainly.
"You reckon you won't?" Z'ran's not so sure, leaning back absently against Omisimth absently as he considers the prospect. "There's nothing and nobody like my Omi, but the first month of weyrlinghood I was sick with being stuck in the one place, no time for what I loved to do. In the end I found ways to make time, but it strikes me your craft isn't really one you can cram into five minutes here, and five minutes there. You'd barely have the clay wet by then, I'd think?"
Talmar frowns slightly, considering this. "I… I hadn't thought of that." he admits. "Oh. Well. Maybe I won't impress, though. I'm kind of young, what if I'm /too/ young?" he asks, hopeful. Is he actually saying he'd rather not impress? He does enjoy his craft!
"Oh, you wouldn't be out there if you were too young. The dragons know, somehow." Z'ran seems content to live with this mystery, reaching up to slap at the green hide behind him. "I wouldn't worry too much. You find your 'mate out there, you'll wonder that you ever hesitated. How long have your parents been posted here?"
Talmar shrugs, and seems content to change the subject. "Since before I was born. Since before my older brother was born, too, I think." he says, nodding. "My mother is a harper and my father is a smith."
"Plenty of exposure to dragons, then," Z'ran observes with a grin. "I'm surprised you've not been impatiently waiting your turn like the rest of them seem to. I'm sure you'll survive it, if you're unlucky enough to find yourself staring at a dragon when the day comes." There's a hint of a tease in his eyes, reflected in that easy grin.
Talmar shrugs. "No-one in my family was ever searched, so I didn't really expect anything." well that's amazingly mature for a boy his age. "But I was so excited when I was searched!" ah, that's more like it, innocent enthusiasm. "My brother was so jealous when I told him. He's older than me, but dragons have never even so much as looked at him." aaaand there's the childish rivalry.
"Have they not?" That hand comes up again to scratch at Z'ran's jaw, and perhaps he's concealing a smile with the action. "Well, perhaps you can tell him that I was nineteen before I was searched. He's got time yet, if it's what he wants. One never knows. I certainly wouldn't have stood still long enough if they'd asked me any earlier."
Talmar grins at Z'ran. "Yeah, he's fifteen." he says, with a shrug. "I kind of like having this over him though. He's always been a brat, bossing me around and stuff." he adds, with a pout. Big brothers. Can't live with them, can't get a rider to drop them between.
"Siblings can be like that," the stocky greenrider agrees, pulling a relatively sympathetic face. I grew up with four of my own, and another six cousins rattling around the place as well. Never a quiet moment. I'm still not that used to having my own weyr to myself, seems like a lot of space for just one man." Omisimth finally grows restless under her rider, stirring, and twisting her head sideways to regard the humans as they talk.
Talmar nods. "I've only got the one older brother, and the one younger sister." he says, shrugging. "Tamal is my brother, he's really mean. But Latora is my sister. She's kind of nice, I guess. Even if she is an icky girl." he makes a face at that last bit. Girls are /icky/.
"Perhaps she'll grow out of that part," Z'ran suggests mildly, again lifting the hand that might conceal a smile. "You'd be surprised how well some of them turn out, if you give them a little time. Indeed, even brothers can improve. Some of them, at any rate."
Talmar shakes his head. "Nuh-uh, not my brother. He's too mean and bossy. He makes my sister cry!" he says, frowning very seriously. Tal looks at Z'ran oddly, then. "She won't grow out of being a /girl/." He might grow out of thinking that girls are icky, even though he protests the very thought.
"Does he?" Z'ran's reaction is appropriate, brows drawing together in a hint of a frown — and they're such impressive brows, too. They really do a frown justice. "I sincerely hope she wil find a way to make him cry in return, one day. Far more worthwhile than simply learning to be noble and ignore the whole thing."
Talmar nods solemnly, then grins. "Maybe I should help her make him cry." he says, then frowns. "I don't think my parents would like that much, though…" he's such a good kid, really.
Z'ran considers this, pushing out his lower lip thoughtfully. "My parents were always in favour of having us sort out our own problems. They wouldn't really weigh in for anything short of bloodshed." Which explains more about Z'ran than Talmar will understand for several turns. "Do you think he'd go running to them, and admit his little sister made him cry?"
Talmar considers this for a long moment, then laughs. "Of course not. He'd look real silly." he says, grinning. So, the parents won't be a problem. "But won't I get in trouble? What if someone sees? Or finds out?" He really doesn't want trouble.
"I'd say those are questions for you to answer, not me. Will someone see, or find out? You don't have to worry about what how they'll react unless you're foolish enough to…" A pause, and the greenrider finally pulls himself. "Just make sure you don't permanently damage anything, right? They'd probably send you to me if you did, and then where would we be?"
Talmar nods slowly, like an attentive student in class, with Z'ran as the teacher. And he certainly is learning a lot of interesting things today. "Okay. Nothing permanent." he repeats, committing this to memory. "Well, I only wanna make him cry, not hurt him bad or anything."
Oh, how Z'ran's own teachers would howl with dismay to witness this little lesson. "Sounds like you've got the hang of it," the greenrider agrees, fingers coming up to lace behind his neck as he arches his back in a bone-popping stretch. "My wisdom thus passed along, I'd better find myself something to eat. Got a late night planned."
Talmar nods, picking up the buckets of clay and water. "I gotta go start on those eggs too. Thanks for that advice, I'll go tell my sister when I have a free moment." he says, nodding. A moment that he's not using for pottery, that is.
"You do that. I'm sure I'll see you again. I've a notion they're making me talk to you lot about something." The prospect does not seem to appeal enormously to Z'ran, but he pushes away from his dragon with a grin. "Enjoy your…" That verb is still missing, isn't it? "Potting, Talmar." And so saying, he's off.
