No Nerbsh

Monaco Bay Weyr - Candidate and Weyrling Barracks
Huge in its own right, this series of interlinked caverns is the complex that houses both candidates and weyrlings. Fashioned out of a multitude of hollows, it serves as a central gathering area as well as classroom. A number of deep pockets have been laboriously smoothed to provide comfortable dwellings for the young dragons and their riders away from the weather of the central area, and affording them some privacy but not much. Above, the cavern opens to the sky, holding out the worst of the island's weather but allowing an aerial exit and providing natural lighting to the area. Branching off from this cavern is an opening that leads to the exercise yard, and another carved passage that leads onto the hatching sands - though this entrance is typically closed tight to prevent mischief.


It's late; not quite unreasonably late for early-rising candidates, but still some of the harder-sleeping specimens are definitely zonked out. Outside it's cold, but the barracks are nice and warm — and full of candidates feelin' a whole variety of things. With the healers predicting eggs cracking within the day, and chores done, what else is there to do but worry? Sitting on the edge of his cot meticulously repairing loose threads on an already-flawless robe, Ityrziel looks like he's leaning into that one pretty hard. He's already got a bandage on one thumb, and the way he's twitching occasionally, glancing towards the sands and then back around the barracks, isn't super promising. It doesn't help that at least one of the wherry chicks has developed a more nocturnal habit: or, perhaps, is feeling the tension in the air. It's celebrating the tension by screeching at the top of its lungs every three or four minutes, which, on a particularly healthy wail, sends Tyr yelping, then storming out of his bunk. "Where is that sharding thing?" WABBIT SEASON, BOYS.

Brohdan doesn't even look up for Tyr's nerve-ridden outburst - he just points a blaming finger towards the general direction of Neph's cot and frowns a little harder at whatever he's reading in the letter clutched in his other hand. Despite the outward appearance of calm, the purple shellac still clinging to his nails has been chipped and bitten away in places, belying underlying nerves of his own. Even now he's lifting a thumb to his lips to clip against a loose bit of polish, worrying at it with his tongue before growling and physically chucking the letter aside. "Pretty sure it hides under Neph's cot. It knows we'd be strangling it by now, otherwise," comes blander than usual. "Lord Clucklesworth knows better than to behave like that." Doesss heee? That's up for debate, but the banded wherry can be seen perched on a seat by the hearth, content to roost on some poor person's robe. Speaking of robes: "You should also consider giving it a rest, friend. At this rate, you're just going to bleed all over it." This noted as Brodie rests chin on hand, arm on knee, content to watch DUCK SEASON play out rather than join in, for now.

Tyr looks like he has half a mind to strangle Nephythys while he's at it — he doesn't dare approach the cot, though. No, he circles, instead, grumbling ferociously to himself and clutching the HORRIBLY MANGLED (not) remnants of his index finger. "See no reason I shouldn't have some wherry for a late snack. Terribly easy." The candidate grumbles at Neph's theoretically-sleeping back, squinting under the cot like the beast might come sprinting out right into his open arms. It doesn't. Defeated, Tyr takes to the hearth, fishing for the tin of herbal tea and glaring viciously across the barracks. Not at Lord Clucklesworth, though, of course. Well. Mostly. The wherry still gets the stink eye, but Tyr's distracted, sighing mournfully — dramatically — Brodie-wards. "I picked at the hems terribly, last time. The seam's all tatty." It's really, really not. There might be a thread or two loose. LOOK. At least he hasn't snuck in any liquor for the nerves. "…blood wouldn't help, though, truly. Other than, perhaps, to incite some sort of blood fury." Probably not. Who's Tyr to say, though?

"Mhm," Brohdan agrees, tilting cheek against hand, the better to watch Tyr circle. "I'll enjoy watching her whip that flip-flop across the dorms and still catch you on the back of your head while you try." He offers a faint smirk to show he means no rudeness by that, not really. "Where's that feline of yours? Surely she's down for a snack." Lord Clucklesworth, meanwhile, is unimpressed by Ityrziel's huffy ire, peeking one pebbled eyelid open to watch him approach, the second soon to follow as he FLUFFS ALL HIS FEATHERS and makes a grand show about how perfectly comfortable he is right now, thank. "Ah. I don't even think mine has hems," Brohdan notes. "Considering this might be the last one, I guess I ought to make an effort, but…" Shrug, and a thump back against the wall behind his cot, as though to say it's somehow not worth it. He at least has the good grace to pale at the idea of a blood fury, blue eyes snapping to catch and hold on the former harper with a faintly-concerned, "Is that… likely?"

Tea successfully found, Tyr sniffs — makes a face, because, you know, calming doesn't necessarily have to mean tasty — and sets to work. The fire's hard at work, warming up the immediate vicinity at least, and now the kettle that the candidate sticks on the swingy metal arm. "Some things," The harper huffs with great dignity, turning to glare just as beadily at Clucklestonworth. "Are worth a little injury. I'm uncertain if you value your sleep, but I…" Should maybe express your ire a little quieter, if you don't want everybody ELSE to start throwing sandals at you, too? Ityrziel doesn't seem to register that, favoring Brodie with a stern look. "Just because they say it's nonessential to make them smarter doesn't mean you shouldn't." Tyr sighs, like now's the time to be making that point. Also, y'know, there's the fact that he's completely in the wrong here, and is probably going to be sent out in a potato sack, rather than his carefully-tailored getup. We'll just let that be a surprise. "I don't know," Tyr admits, after a beat, settling on the hearth as far away from Clucky as he can manage. "…no, probably not."

Clucky isn't glaring, per se, he's merely very smug and incredibly warm over here. Where Brodie seems to be relaxed by the general cold, not even bothering to don further layers though he does have them, Clucklesworth is a more heat-seeking sort. It doesn't take him long to settle, once it becomes clear Ityrziel isn't there to chase him off the purloined garment, fluffing feathers outwards again and slowly blinking orange eyes closed. "I grew up on a farm. It barely registers as noise to me," Brohdan admits, though he's amused by the level of Tyr's botherment, judging by the crook of his lips. "It was significantly more difficult to get used to the firelizards." One thumb hooks towards Iddi, presently chewing on the piece of paper he's discarded. "Want to hem mine, then? You can make it as smart as you like, as long as there's no blood. I don't think so either, but no sense testing it, yeah?" He leans down to fish his own robe from beneath his cot, smoothing down creases and staring at it with renewed solemnity. "Does your family attend events like these?"

Clucky is also quiet — so he gets a free pass in spite of his convenient proximity to the proverbial frying pan. Until Tyr gets particularly hungry. The harper candidate doesn't look particularly ruffled by the cold, at least; not least because it's nice and toasty over here, waiting for the kettle to sing. "No such luck for me. The closest we had was the avians out in the jungle. Loads of firelizards in the rafters, too. I don't think they even belonged to mom and dad. Dad was a soft touch. Fed 'em." Tyr relays, voice drifting out of the more violently inclined range as he goes. "They're noisy, though, aren't they? Baby ones, at least." Look. It's not like Tyr put the basket full of them in the barracks, at least. Not that he for sure didn't already have three other tiny itty bitty baby ones; all of whom are sleeping like logs, even in the general unease. "Sure. I've got to have something to keep me busy, or I'll go insane. Aren't you nervous? You don't look nervous." The harper accuses, vaguely; the accusatory expression slips, after a moment, replaced by rue and chagrin. "Oh, they do. I'm terrified to know how many will come. Have yours, ah, have they written?" Tyr wonders, delicately. If by 'delicate' we mean 'good dear Faranth man you're literally trained in law how is your mouth so bad at words'.

That earns some laughter, blues lifting to fix Tyr with an amused look. "That doesn't surprise me at all. Every one I've had the fortune to meet is a bit of an opportunist. I'm as like to wake up to Iddi in my face as I am Cassie's green. It doesn't seem like it would take much to amass a small army of them." Throwing light shade Ityrziel's way with that? NEVER. Okay, maybe just a little. "Nothing wrong with a soft touch, anyways." There's a nod for the ruckus the baby flits made, but his gaze has already returned to his own, watching her tear a hunk out of that letter with mingled disappointment and satisfaction. The former wins over in slow increments, big shoulders dropping the more Tyr speaks, faint smile dimming until it's either go back to biting at his nails or give up the ghost. "Nerbush? No." Liar. "No nerbsh here." Clearly he's chosen the nails, words garbled coming out from behind one, another tear in the polish started and followed through by digging is thumbnail beneath the lacquer. He seems content to pursue this for some time, long enough it might seem as though he's just not going to answer that question when: "They seem to think it'd be a waste of a trip, and that they're eager to have us home." Brodie extends his fingers to squint at the poor progress he's made, or maybe just distract himself for a moment, making quite the face before he flicks Tyr an attempted smile and a wry, "Sounds like we're both in for a time."

Does Tyr notice the shade? NOPE. Brodie's not the only one with a monopoly on obliviousness, and Tyr has it in spades enough, at least, that it goes right over his head. "It certainly isn't difficult, no. They come out of the woodwork to the first sucker with a snack." The harper mutters in a pretty good self-burn, mournful, as the kettle starts to whistle and screech. He's distracted enough to not notice the drooping shoulders, but the garbled quality of the words? That, at least, is obvious enough that Tyr reads it — and tosses another healthy scoop of the pungent mixture into the pot. "Obviously." The candidate snipes, glancing over his shoulder before he's off to scrounge up two mugs from the cupboards, which definitely exist, trust me on this. They don't match, and Brodie's definitely getting the chipped-handled one, but look. They're roughly the same size, at least. The reminder that there's a fair likelihood of at least a few of his shiny new friends going home is almost enough to distract Tyr from favoring Brodie with a look politely shy of sympathetic. "They're wrong." He says, firmly, sure of himself. "However it goes, they should be here." Tyr makes an angry sort of face as he pours the off-boiling water into the pot, then makes a beeline for his own cot while it steeps. "At least Cassie's here." Helpful, obviously. Psh. The harper fishes a notebook out of the bag settled at the foot of the bed, sets to scrawling something messily — completely oblivious to any rudeness. Look. It's late.

Brohdan, magnanimous. Look at how he's burying that laugh behind his hand, very stalwartly refusing to give in to the urge to laugh at Ityrziel insulting himself. Self-burn, those are rare! He has the decency to look sheepish for that 'obviously' tossed his way, big shoulders rolling in a shrug. "I imagine I will be once the dragons start their humming again. Until then, it's just another day. I'm sorry the first two didn't help to reassure you." If Brohdan minds he's about to get the short end of the mug stick, he doesn't show it, focusing on the scooping of the tea, then on Iddi's paper-wrassling, the words Tyr's speaking, anything but the drop of emotion into the pit of his stomach. "Transport is expensive, and it hasn't exactly been in the cards yet. I cannot blame them, not really." Mention of Cassie has blue eyes drifting towards his brother's sleeping form, eyes scrunching up with familial fondness, despite everything. "You're right, though. I count my lucky stars we did this together. I can't imagine doing it alone." Finally taking pity on the tatters Iddi is making of a letter the brother in question still hasn't gotten chance to read, Brohdan leans to separate the flit from her prey, dumping her on her back on the bed to check creases for itchy patches and skin wear. He tries to give Tyr space to be his own person but… again… late, and, ergo, rude: "Leaving yourself a note?"

Ityrziel, totally not, but you know. That's just Tyr: maybe a little bit high-strung. "Of course. You're chewing the likely-poisonous varnish off of your nails for…sport?" The candidate suggests, blinking like this is the Most Surprising And Terrible News He Could Imagine. "There are less potentially harmful ones. Wher wrestling. Feeding the little felines." Tyr waves a hand imperiously, makes a soft noise of understanding under his breath after a beat — of course. Brodie's family isn't half-formed of 'riders. Acknowledging that aloud isn't in the stars, though, no sirree. Instead, Tyr turns back to his writing, scribbling another line down quickly before the oaf in question can come over and what? Spy on his nefarious plans? "I don't know if I'd feel the same. Mine are quite enough of a racket in the stands, much less in the barracks with me. We shared enough space as children, thank you." The harper-candidate tuts, but it's without heat, as he rolls the little note up and drags poor Aphelion from his slumber, murmuring something to the gangly firelizard. Apparently trusting that the little blue will actually obey, he tosses him in the general direction of the roof-slot — rude. "Oh, yes. I mustn't forget to drink a lot of water beforehand, you know. Dehydration. The sands are terrible for the skin." Tyr lies, blithely. "Sugar with your tea? Might keep you up, but on the other hand…it's disgusting." So obviously they should be drinking it??

"Is that why my stomach has been hurting?" Is… is he serious? He might be - that is faint surprise registering in uplifted eyebrows, fingers spreading to regard his work again. "And here I thought it was the beans." Then again, maybe not - that is a sly glimmer in his gaze as he considers Ityrziel's list of potential demises, adding, "Getting caught in the dark in that pathway where we first met" to the list. "I'd miss the racket too much, if it ever went away. I'm going to miss this, even, if things go… Well." He waves a hand, dismissing negativity as Tyr offers him sugar with his tea, lips crooking sideways with a nod even as he gathers Iddi up into his hands. "Yes, please. I don't mind being awake - in fact, I might sit outside while I oil this patch on her wing. I'll take the cups - join me there?" Not like Tyr has a choice - there Brodie goes, into the great (cool) outdoors, cups clinking together in one hand while he hauls his own flit and a small bottle of oil in the other.


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License