Weyrling Barracks -- Starmount(#47RAHJLa)

A massive cavern, larger by far than anywhere save the Hatching Grounds, the weyrling barracks are still filled to near-overflowing with the forms of dragonets, many almost full grown, as well as their stone couches lined against all the walls, worn into the floors by years of dragon bodies. Cots stand next to each occupied couch for the dragonet's rider. A huge oil bin at the back of the cavern is filled to the brim and often occupied with numerous firelizards splashing, chittering, and generally making nuisances of themselves. Another bin next to it is kept full of meat chunks for the smaller dragonets, those not old enough to hunt herdbeasts or wherries themselves.
 At any time of the day or night weyrlings can be found chatting and laughing among themselves, the dragonets joining in the conversations by their riders as proxy. Tables strewn with food and hides indicate just how hard these young people work.

Deinha makes her way towards the oil bins, rubbing at her eyes as she goes. She stumbles just a bit over a piece of leather on the floor, and mumbles something under her breath, but keeps going. And then she walks into a bin -- literally. Her hands go out to the rim, steadying herself, and she sort of ... teeters there, squinting down rather stupidly at the bin.

Seated upon a barrel, Puo's already in a similar process, obligingly massaging oil into his bronze's hide with sticky hands. He peers, blearily, over in the direction of Deinha's hazy form, and remarks, "Don't hurt something. Or spill oil. I don't want to walk through it and get my feet all gross when I go back to my cot."

Deinha turns her head that way, and answers simply, softly, "Okay." Fingers working at her eyes once more, she promptly makes a sound somewhere between a hiss and a cough. And bends over, the hem of her sleep-shirt lifted to rub the dry cloth over her now-oily eyes. Good thing it's still pretty dark? The hint of a whimper sounds from her area, followed by a faint whine, "I itch, and it's dark..." A deep intake of breath follows, then several more. And a shaky: "No, Sebayeth itches. And I'm going to be okay..." So what if she sounds like she's just trying to convince *herself* of the matter?

O'kano admits, grumpily, "So does Jharzeth." And he doesn't sound too pleased at that fact. Squinting against the darkness, he queries, "You sure? Doesn't sound like it." Reassuring, no? But he turns back to his nearly slumbering dragon and begins anew, rubbing the sticky solution into limp wingsails with a brief request, "Straighten that 'un up and lower -- I can't reach."

Deinha will take it for concern, at this time of night. And her answer is, indeed, much firmer, "Yes, I'm okay." Sebayeth finally makes her entrance, steps a bit more certain now that Deinha has set a path. The sound of talons clicking on stone rings softly now and then, and a rumbled greeting is given the other pair as the young gold draws even with Deinha. "Here, darling," is the faint murmur as Deinha begins spreading oil on her own lifemate.

<*Jharzeth*> Sebayeth brushes a rosey yellow <<Mmmm>> of pleasure, accompanied by a kaleidescopic rise and fall of breezy blues in the background. <<Isn't that just ... wooonderful?>> comes the almost purring thought, nearly as much statement as inquiry. to her neighboring dragons.

The initial intent may not have been concern, but O'kano lets it pass with a shrug. As fingertips work over the closest edge until little is left within reach and he searches for the oil-paddle, the bemused weyrling conversationally comments, "I never thought I'd end up like this. Sitting in the dark, slathering oil all over a beast that won't stop growing." When Jharzeth issues a miffed rumble, Puo quickly modifies, "All over a dragon, I mean."

Deinha smiles, "I know. It's .. completely different from what I might have thought, yet so... familiar, already." Even if it still feels, half the time, like she's the one who itches. Slipping around to Sebayeth's other side, she tosses over her shoulder, "Hey, Puo? Err, O'kano?"

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Jharzeth flickers purpled contentment in accord with the young gold's comment, throaty tones voicing his own opinions and agreements. <<Wonderful. Simply wonderful.>> to Sebayeth

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Sebayeth touches that thought with a spiral of azure, her own mind-voice a higher, softer pitch, with hints of a whispering echo <<Mine is ... curious... about yours.>> Warmth flares, then softens, <<A puzzle, the word is?>> Hints of interlockings pieces drift in and out of the sending, borrowed from elsewhere, and a touch of uncertainty trembles in muted olive. to Jharzeth

"Eh. Something like that." The lordling's opinions on dragonriding, before Impression, were notorious for their ill-humor; it's no wonder that O'kano's vague in his response. A pause comes, as his attention drifts to paddle-finding, but once he dips the wooden tool into a nearby oil bin and begins to lather it over Jharzeth, he follows up his earlier remark with a simple: "What?"

"That's right, love..." comes the scarcely audible murmur from Deinha's area, and Sebayeth responds with a nearly tangible <<Good>> Then, voice rising for the boy's sake, she queries, "You... I can't figure you out. Everyone seems to hate you." Pause. "Wait! That's -not- what I meant..." Miserable now, the soft voice continues, fiercely, "I didn't mean that at all...It's just that ... well, you don't get along with so many people. And you, well... everybody's so rude to you. And you to them. But...why?"

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Jharzeth lazily drifts in and out on a blissful stream of slippery mahogany -- oil -- before he picks up on the blue-toned train of thought. <<Mine? Everyone's curious about mine.>> Smugness edges his comment as he adds, <<Mine's got some training left yet.>> He mulls. <<A puzzle?>> to Sebayeth

The sounds of rubbing pause as Deinha stands perfectly still, apparently waiting to see just how that's taken. If the light were better, one could surely see worry /written/ across her face. But it's not, so silence is the only hint that she might not be too confident in this latest questioning. That, and the sound of her voice as she drudged through it to begin with.

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Sebayeth gives a mental smile, in an up-close and honey yellow way, and then dips back, granting private space once more. <<Different ... parts. That go together, but only in *just* such a way...>> The vague definition goes with a clarifying of pale browns: a jagged slash moved forward to interlock with deeper tan of exact opposite carving. The thought is spiraled away just as quickly, as her attention is diverted elsewhere, and then returns <<Oh. She worries now -- is yours upset?>> to Jharzeth

Dryly, O'kano notes, "I've been told that." A moment later, his bemusement evaporates into sulky irritability. "It's not my fault that everyone's rude. I've never done anything. I think it's just a weyr-thing." Nothing: literally. No chores, no help, no niceness. "Everything's different, here. People weren't the same back home -- er, at Boll. They got taught how to be polite." Or, rather, they avoided him. Jharzeth's annoyance with his lifemate comes through in another muted rumble, and Puo fastens his focus back to the bronze, hissing, "/What/? I am being nice."

Deinha blinks a few times -- silence continuing from her area, and then she swiftly turns back to scritching and oiling, as a dragonic sigh indicates. "I'm from a Hold, too, you know. And I don't think they're so bad here...if you just ... " Hesitance becomes nearly a physical thing, before Deinha continues, "Well, try. Not that you don't, necessarily, but...you sometimes seem like you...assume everyone's out to upset you." Which, as her next adament statement declares, is not always true, "And they only take your lead in being rude. Sometimes. I mean, there's a sour person in every place; take my uncle at Icevale, for instance...But that's not the point. It's just...there are plenty of people who're perfectly willing to talk to you, politely, if you might...be a little more... inviting." Does this mean she feels invited? Doubtful.

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Jharzeth gets it, enunciating his success with a brisk whirl of saffron satin and vermilion velvet. <<Ah!>> Sweeping along, his momentary silence results in an alliance of buttercup and rose, and his next remarks are a definite poppy-orange, dimpled with pockets of crimsoned exasperation. <<No, no. Not really. Not with yours. It comes and goes. He needs to learn.>> And then, a fiercer, faintly trumpeting note seeps through -- although he keeps it quiet in respect for the slumbering dragons about the barracks. <<I'll make him learn.>> to Sebayeth

"Your hold was, obviously, rather different from mine." Jharzeth's audible vexation quiets the youth's next words, and a mostly-silent argument ensues; what's out-loud is said in grumpy whispers and grumbling undertones, but the end result is a sulkily spoken, "/Fine/," and, a few seconds later, O'kano follows up Deinha's statements with one simple monosyllable. "Oh."

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Sebayeth twines a joyful ribbon of agreeing warmth around the success, nearly tangible. <<You will.>> Confidence caresses, sapphire edged, then flares and melts into sky shades. Lingering freckles of deeper blue, like fragments of a bubble burst, disperse gradually as another thought replaces the last with hazy, graying, columbia blue. <<There.>> A faded yellow trails to a Deinha-image, a Jharzeth's-rider-image, and a bold bronze blur in honor of Jharzeth himself. Her own representation the surrounding shades. <<She tries, too.>> to Jharzeth

Deinha hmphs, one of the few frustrated sounds she's likely to give on a typical day, and then seems to sense that treading must remain simple. "Do you see what I mean?" Do you? Huh? Huh?

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Jharzeth likes the picture-perfect scene and tugs it close with darkened strands of smoky metallicy before he moves on, allowing the images to fade. <<Does she?>> to Sebayeth

There's a hint of fear in that question -- and if Deinha weren't completely grounded in herself (and now, in Sebayeth), and truly didn't believe Puo would ever consider harming anyone, she *would* be afraid to ask. As is, she's much too ... sensible. But certainly hesitant, all the same.

O'kano's reluctancy to give a helpful answer is noticable, as he works his way past the wing he oils to Jharzeth's blackened side. "Sure," he replies, humoring Deinha -- but, then, after a considerable pause, he grudgingly corrects, with the bronzen dragon's encouragement, "No, not really. But that's all past, anyways. Right? I mean, that was the past." Past often sets the pace for the future, but with Jharzeth's not-so-subtle nudges, it's open for improvement.

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Sebayeth releases the image, shares it, in an unquestioning moment. Then whispers rosy warmth in affirmation <<We like puzzles>> Inclusive of her own self, yet with a golden brown emphasis on the OtherSelf with which she is so firmly bonded. to Jharzeth

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Jharzeth plays with the idea of interlocking pieces: this one, greying blue, with that one, purpled red. <<I haven't tried them.>> Or, maybe, his lifemate is enough of a puzzle for the time-being. to Sebayeth

Deinha pauses, physically and conversationally. The first resumes at Sebayeth's gentle nudge, and the latter a moment afterwards, "Well, is it? I mean, you're obviously ... Jharzeth *sees* something in you. I think it's there." Was that last one really spoken? "But habits are /hard/ to break. And it seems a shame to hide... to hide .. whatever it is that makes you so special...from everyone." Gently put, but doesn't it mean, all the same, that his 'specialness' isn't immediately obvious. Or ... does it?

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Sebayeth is content to leave the pieces alone, though a breezy touch does drift from one to it's match, hazily, before withdrawing. <<I get lost in them, but Deinha doesn't.>> Silver shakes, drifts, falls snow-like over the thoughts. <<That I've seen.>> And a dappled frustration wavers briefly in and out, at her newness to the situation, before quickly being encompassed by a frothy salmon hue, just touched with gold striations -- delight at puzzles of her own. to Jharzeth

O'kano ceases in his oiling task as Jharzeth is appeased; he hops down from his barrel and sticks the paddle in the correct place, rewarding the bronze's patience with a fond pat. "Mm. I guess." While his hesitations take center-stage, a yawn broaches the pause. Then, grudgingly, Puo intones, "That's something of what Jharzeth says, too." When the bronze rises to his feet out of his crouched, sprawled position and heads towards his couch, O'kano shifts gears and informs, "We're tired. So we're...I'm going to go lie down on my cot now and sleep." He leaves, then, with his soft farewell of "G'night" almost an afterthought.

<*Jharzeth*> Privately, Jharzeth slides away, at last, with a lingering trace of crimson and a few last words. <<We're sleepy. Eyelids won't stay open. So I suppose we'll have to wait to talk more in the morning.>> And then he's gone. to Sebayeth