A short ride home

North Bowl
The bowl is a mix of bare patches of darkly hued stone and grittier bits of dust and pebbles that are slowly evening out the bowl floor. This area of the bowl seems slightly higher on average. A larger shadowed archway cuts strikingly into the dark stone of the bowl wall to the northwest, the entrance to the hatching grounds. Those new pairs coming from such grounds do not have far to go to get to the barracks. The barracks are two large rectangular stone buildings. Slate roofing tiles angle steeply down from the junction of the barracks with the bowl wall, and overhang enough to offer some protection for anyone peeking out of the large doorways from the weather outside. The doorways are not nearly as big as the archway to the hatching grounds, but are passable by fully grown beasts none the less. Wooden doors are covered by a thin sheet of copper which roll open and closed as needed. Designs which may have at one time adorned these doors are faded both by weather and by the dents and scratches of overeager younglings.


Firmin arrives from the hatching grounds.

As the summer sun begins to slowly set, P'wyn, T'yle and Kl'orn can all be found waiting patiently outside the exit from the hatching grounds. Each wears their flight suit and dragons in shades bronze, blue and brown wait in the background straps on and ready for the visiting dignitaries to leave. Persons of import or just opportunity invited from all over the 'Reaches coverage area begin to trickle out of the grounds and head for rides. First T'yle and his bronze leave and not long after Kl'orn and his blue, leaving just P'wyn for the next set of stragglers to wander out.

The smile on Firmin's face as he leaves bears elation of an almost unholy nature. "A, can't wait t'get home!" he tells himself with a jump and a fist pump of glee. "I'm gonna shout out th'news t'Ma'n'Da right in front o'that wherry faced Salenzy. Watch her turn green wit'envy. She'll wish she'd been a proper mother t'Moh, then. No hatchin'- " he looks around, the silly, sly grin still making his eyes glint, but he slows, realizing P'wyn is the only one there. He gives a respectful bob of his head, trying to school his features to a little more serious nature. "Greeting Weyrlingmaster, I thought Wingleader Mr'az was here. Are you… transporting me back? I hope I am not being an inconvenience." His smile busts out again full force. "Mohria's been Searched! I'm afraid we spent longer than we realized talking about it."

P'wyn just chuckles at the enthusiasm one visitor shows. And then that visitor heads towards him and P'wyn must straighten his face. After all, the man is still young enough to think he requires dignity. "Yes, I'm aware." He says with an oh so serious expression belied by the humor in his eyes. "And it's no trouble at all. I volunteered. Enolth and I so rarely get out anymore that any excuse to fly is good. He nods towards the chocolate brown. "That's my Enolth. And you would be? from?" He questions, clearly digging for travel information.

"Oh, sorry, sir," Firmin comes to a little more attention. "Senior Apprentice Firmin of Fishercraft Hall in Tillek, at y'r service, sir." He pauses, and that grin comes out again. "O'course, that's kind o'silly t'say, since I'm th'one needin'y'r services. Enolth is quite a good lookin' fellow, an' I shouldn'keep him waitin' if he's so eager t'fly, by keepin' y'talkin' should I?"

With a negligent wave of his hand, P'wyn pushes the concern away. "Not to worry. We might as well wait a moment or two more to make sure there's no one else who looks to head back that way before we leave." He glances over towards the brown with a smile and Enolth lumbers closer to the pair in response. "Your first time seeing the eggs? I assume you've been here before if you're such good friends with Mohria." One brow lifts quizzically as P'wyn gives the young seacrafter a solid once over.

Firmin goes a little red. "Well, not so familiar. I've been up a couple times. Didn'know Moh was here until Mr'az rescued me an'brought me here awhile back after one o'those big tidal waves. Mohria's been able t'get me up here a couple times, she got me up here t'see th'eggs, so I was here when she was searched." He grins again. "But, yeah, I've known Mohria since we were kids." He watches the brown with a little smile curving his lips. He hasn't been around the weyr long enough to lose his awe of the great beasts, apparently.

Enolth lays down once it's apparently they will not be leaving right away, close enough that his head gives P'wyn a nice surface to lean against. The rider absently strokes the brown's hide next to where he's leaning. The brown makes an odd, contented croon, his eyes awhirl of slow blues and greens. "Well, you make sure and catch a ride back for the hatching so you can cheer her on, no?" His eyes glaze slightly and refocus. "Enolth has an itch just there on the tip of his muzzle. Would you mind giving it a scratch, while I get the one up here?"

Firmin nods once more, his eyes gleaming with humor again. "Mohria has promised that she'll send a dragon f'r us, and f'r Ma'n'Da. She's been like one o'th'family since her Ma died. She said she wanted us all t'be there f'r her." He startles at the invitation. "Y' mean, me? Scratch?" his voice squeaks like it hasn't since puberty. A dragonrider must be obeyed, so he steps forward and reaches out a hand to the indicated place to scratch. "Moh'll make a find dragonrider," he muses. "Don't tell her I said that, though."

P'wyn's lips purse with amusement as he promises, "No, of course not." The brown's eyes half close and he gives a deep rumbling moan of enjoyment which sets his rider to laughing. "You big fake. You just wanted more attention." He slaps the brown playfully on his neck and the brown's big eyes fly open again. Enolth huffs, sending a strong gust of dragon scented wind right into poor Firmin. "Oops! Sorry." P'wyn calls with a wince, knowing both how foul that smell can be and how sometimes it's a bit on the moist side as well. "You alright?"

So intent is he on the scritchings he is giving, that Firmin isn't prepared for the blast of air and slime. The turns of things being cast at him by suddenly changing ocean winds means he can at least shield his face with his stacked forearms from the majority of the slime, but he's not braced enough to withstand the force of the air, and ends up on his rear end. He shakes his head, and lowers his arms, and shakes his head again. "Blessin's," he tells the dragon, then looks at the rest of him, and the outside of his arms. "Ma's gonna kill me… she's gonna make me scrub this out."

P'wyn groans softly when it's clear things are not ok. "Ugh." He steps away from the brown, heading towards Firmin to offer him a hand up. As his hand extends towards Firmin, he gives a funny little start and freezes. "I see." He mutters softly. Hand still extended, P'wyn gives Firmin a oddly confused looking smile. "Not to worry. We can take you in, get that cleaned all up and give you something else to wear." He looks at the young man thoughtfully, adding, "You might just need a change of knot anyways."

Firmin takes the hand he's offered, and hauls himself up. At the mention of knot, he glances to his shoulder. "That didn' get it t'bad. I can probably clean it off." He looks up. "I would appreciate bein' able t'get cleaned up 'fore Ma sees me, though." The gratitude is genuine as he looks over to the dragonrider, the grin seemingly still irrepressible, despite his grimy condition.

P'wyn's answering grin in return is full of humor, but clearly of a different kind. Once the young man is up and stable, he releases his grip, stepping back with a casual, "Oh, it's not damaged but it might not be the right knot anymore. Candidates wear something completely different, you know." The comment is oh so very casual, sly even. His tricky brow is cocked again, almost as if he's taunting the young man so recently distressed by his dragon.

The grin is irrepressible… almost. Firmin may appear to be a dolt, but his wits are almost as fast as his reflexes. "Candidates?" He turns and looks around him, to see if someone else has crept up on them while he was preoccupied with being covered in dragon mucus. Then he does a three hundred and sixty degree turn before looking back at P'wyn. "Y'can't be talkin' about me?"

Mohria arrives from the west bowl.

P'wyn nods seriously, with both face and form for once in agreement. "I am. Enolth thinks you would do well, and I tend to agree with him. So, sailor, would you care for the honor of standing for High Reaches' latest clutch? It will mean not returning to Tillek for a while at the very least and possibly not ever. You can't stay with your craft if you impress."

Standing in front of the Assistant Werlingmaster with the front of his clothes and back of his arms dripping, or perhals more soaked, now, Firmin is actually at a loss for words. Something Mohria's probably not seen, and probably would love to learn the secret to. He blinks, and then shakes his head once more. "Ri', yes. Ah, yes! Please, I would like th'honor, sir. Very much, sir. I, thank y'sir." As suddenly as the flood gates opened to let the words tumble out, they slam closed again, and he reddens at his loss of composure,- something that is easily seen because his face is the only part of the front of him that isn't slimed.

Mohria is bustling out of the Galleries, caught looking at the eggs once again and being sent back to her chores, white knot flapping as she moves with quick, long steps. Seeing Firmin has her pausing, and then angling in his directing, giving a respectful salute to P'wyn as she approaches. "What're you still doing here?" she asks her friend, blinking at his 'outfit'.

Not far behind Mohria is yet another dignitary needing a ride home and this one of a rank to require quick service. P'wyn notes both the Holder and the candidate arrive and his face lights up. "Excellent. I see just the person to get you settled." He nods his greeting to Mohria, adding for the Holder behind her. "Just one moment, sir." Attention now back to the candidates, he continues. "Mohria, please take your fellow candidate to the headwoman get get cleaned up and assigned a bunk." His glance shifts from the girl to the boy. "You. I'll add you to the list on my return. Follow the headwoman's directions and come find me tomorrow morning for assessing and assignments. You'll have plenty to do to keep you out of mischief till the hatching." He dismisses the candidates with a vague wave and turns back to the person of rank. The two begin chatting as P'wyn mounts his brown and reaches down for the passenger.

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