Searched

Who: Ch'dais, Korinne
When: Day 21, Month 2, 1st Turn of the 7th Pass
Where: Living Cavern, Northern Bowl
What: Stopping briefly into the living cavern for a cup of wine, the bronzerider's attention is arrested by a young tanner in whom Arinth takes an unusual interest....


Living Cavern

Large enough to hold the majority of the Weyr's human population, this cavern can become loud enough to deafen thanks to the acoustics caused by its size. The ceiling is so far overhead that it's cast into shadow, a darkness that is broken only by the spark and glitter of a lucky beam of light striking the minerals found in the rock walls. Below, most of the floor is covered with an assortment of long tables and benches. There are some smaller tables, surrounded by chairs, but privacy appears to be a rare thing in this bustling cavern. Large hearths line the west wall, with fires burning day and night to warm the food and drink that keep the Weyr's inhabitants fueled. The serving tables are near the hearth, opposite the dais that holds the single table reserved for the Weyr leadership and honored guests.

This room may be +watched (+help watch).
Contents:
Korinne
Upper Caverns (UC) Lower Caverns (LC) Kitchen (K)
Infirmary (INF) Bowl (B)

It is 16:40 on day 21, month 2, turn 1 of the 7th Pass.

Korinne
Thick brown hair has more than a hint of red within, forming frizzy curls which surround her heart-shaped face with riotous abandon. Chocolate-brown eyes are a bit large for her face, framed by dark lashes and accented by slightly bushy eyebrows. Her nose is small and pert, the tip slightly upturned to give her face more than a hint of sprightly mischief. Freckles splatter across the bridge, dancing across her creamy cheeks in wild profusion. Her lips are a trifle on the thin side, pale rose in color and framed by the faintest of what can only be called laugh lines. Her pointed chin adds to the overall impishness implied by her pixie-like features. At 16 turns old, with her waifish build, the greatest accolade Korinne could hope for would be 'cute'.
A shirt of thin pale cotton drapes over her shoulders, long sleeves flowing down her arms to spray out at her wrists in a flare of fabric. A wide collar falls over her shoulders and forms a frame for the curve of her throat. The cream-colored blouse is laced from just above her breasts to just below her navel, where the fabric disappears beneath the waist of her flowing skirt. The outer skirt, a dark brown in color, is split in front to reveal the creamy fabric of her underskirt. Roses chase each other up either side of the slit, dark gold thread gleaming against the umber background, while vines twist and turn their way around the hem of both skirts, forming an almost unbroken line. Functional, if stylish, boots peek out from beneath the hem, adorning her tiny feet. Old and rather battered, this simple knot is that of a Tannercraft apprentice, and though Korinne wears it with pride, there's something about it that seems rather - futile.

Korinne sits quietly at a relatively empty table, managing to find some semblance of privacy in this, the time between lunch and dinner. One curl is wrapped loosely around a finger, constantly being tugged on while she flips through a small pile of hides. A faint line mars her brow, matching the thoughtful frown on her lips as she continues to study, oblivious to the low murmur of conversation and movement around her.

Ch'dais huddles in from the bowl, his broad back hitched very slightly despite the ample clearance that the tunnel provides. The man loosens his cracked riding jacket as he walks, steering towards the hearths by memory; his attention goes up only now and then as he must sidestep the few knots of weyrfolk gathered here at this late afternoon hour. One of those looks flickers over the girl seated with her hides, put passes on swiftly enough. It's only once he's poured wine from a handy skin into an earthenware cup that the big man glances back, his red-brown hair tangling on one shoulder. Lips purse, and then he rumbles, "What are you reading?" Yes, you. So polite, he.

Korinne jumps slightly, yelping as the curl tangles around her finger and pulls tight. Shaking it out, she rubs the side of her head and gives Ch'dais a faintly accusing frown before shoving her hands in her lap. A moment passes before she apparently remembers that he'd asked a question, and her reply comes in a slightly snippy tone. "It's a technique for dying leather to create a subtle multi-tone shading." Her pout slowly drifts away, and she sighs, reaching up to straighten the slightly scattered pages. "Just... studying," she adds in a more normal voice.

Grey-green eyes tighten at the corners, first a wince of silent sympathy as Korinne tugs at her own hair, then a narrowing of mild displeasure as her tone and expression register. Ch'dais shoots a glance towards the bowl entrance. His chest rises, falls; with an air of resignation, he carries his wine to the tanner's table. "Mm. Sorry to interrupt," he returns, in a voice that signals more of annoyance than apology. And then of course it's hard to read in peace when the bronzerider looms so. "I've seen you about, I think, but I've missed the name."

Korinne doesn't miss the displeasure or the annoyance, and winces away from both, hands sliding back into her lap again as her shoulders round. "You're not interrupting, sir," she replies in a soft voice, watching him with wary brown eyes. "I'm Korinne, sir... apprentice." One hand creeps up to her shoulder to finger the rather limp knot that designates her rank. "Is there something I can do for you?" Anxiety flashes through her face as she watches him... well, loom.

Ch'dais shifts his glance to the sewn cuff of his jacket, there where he holds the wine. There's a webwork of grey that crackles over the black hide, and he can't help but smile, very briefly, at the young woman's comment. "No, I think I'm good," he intones, then covers his expression by lifting the cup to his lips. "How old are you, Korinne?" If he's aware that he's making the girl uncomfortable with his proximity or his directness, the man gives no sign. He stands close at hand, a shadow across her table, near enough for the whiff of old leather to be caught.

Korinne's eyes flicker over his riding leathers and jacket, but though she studies them intently, she neither mentions the fact that they could undoubtedly use a repair job nor that she could easily do it. Instead, she swallows slightly and tilts her chin upward, offering him a slightly vapid smile. "How old? Oh, sixteen turns or so, give or take a few months." There's no really witty remarks she can add on there, and instead she shifts her chair slightly, sliding ever so carefully away from him.

Ch'dais is in the midst of drinking his wine when that gentle scraping sounds from below, and Korinne receives the unsettling sensation of his reaching out a booted toe to snare the near leg of her chair, wordlessly arresting her retreat. "Mm--" The burly rider pauses to swallow, then wipes his bearded lips with the back of his hand. "And you're studying blended shades? That's prentice work in the craft, is it?" His lips curve in what seems meant as an encouraging smile, but the man's eyes upon her are pensive, reflective of a stormy sky. Another glance goes sidelong to the bowl entrance.

"Well... sir, it's an advanced technique, but... ah, I'm just curious." Korinne can feel her pale skin heating, and the flush that suffuses her cheeks is enough to drown her freckles. "It's always good to, ah... learn new things, yes?" Her gaze drops to the floor, eyeing the offending foot with growing anxiety, then darts back to his face, wariness now full-blown in her eyes. "My fa- er, the Journeyman doesn't mind." Or know, probably. "Are you sure I can't help you?" she blurts out, fingers curling into fists on her lap. Clearly, his conflicting words and behavior are confusing her.

Ch'dais lets his eyes fall from the young woman's face to her lap, for the first time clearly noting Korinne's anxious posture. His lips thin, turn down at one corner in a mixture of reluctance and disapproval. "I suppose you may, at that," the bronzerider grates, briefly rubbing his temples with a thick thumb and forefinger. A sigh flares his nostrils as that same hand finds the girl's upper arm, closes there with a grip like smoothed stone. "Come on then and we'll see." Then he's hauling her up, effortlessly, steering the young tanner through the crowd and towards the chill of the Weyr bowl. At least he's got his wine in the other hand to warm him.

Korinne gives a strangled gasp as he simply grabs her, and though she resists briefly, it doesn't take long for her resistance to fall away. After all, a slight girl like her struggling against a man like this... well, that's fairly futile. Instead, she swallows and makes her face smooth and expressionless, if one doesn't look in her eyes to see the shocked anger at this intrusion. "Of course," she returns, her own voice hoarse and holding only a hint of her temper. A single brief glance is given his face, then she stares resolutely ahead, padding swiftly along beside him to keep up.

You pass through the tunnel that takes you to the bowl.

Northern Bowl

The bowl floor is a broad expanse of gravel and dust, packed flat over decades of dragonweight landing on it. Kept free of vegetation, the only color variation across the vast hollow of the bowl are the dragons, in good weather often found sunning on low ledges or sprawled along the floor itself. The well-worn, charcoal-grey walls of the bowl are nearly vertical, far too steep for even the most adventurous climber to attempt. The rim of the bowl, marked by a rainbow of perching dragons at all times of the day, is topped with massive stone spires that stretch upwards into the blue vault of the sky. There are seven in all, great black fingers of stone that seem, from where you stand, to touch the clouds.
A number of tunnels breach the walls of the bowl, leading to various indoor parts of the Weyr. To the southwest, a vast tunnel entrance descends to the baths, curls of steam seeping out on colder days. On the northern face of the stone, a huge gaping maw betrays the presence of the Hatching cavern. Somewhat more modest tunnel entrances lead to the living caverns and the versatile classroom chamber to the west, and the Weyrleaders' complex to the east. In the distance to the south, the vast grey-blue of the lake stretches off to meet the southern wall of the bowl.
There is no one word to describe the way snow falls in High Reaches. It drifts and flurries, swirls and sleets. It's difficult to see more than a few feet ahead and the ground underfoot is treacherous with ice and loose snow.

Contents:
Arinth(#247OQaeps)
Nenuith
Aryath
Chelinth
Dragon Baths (DB) Living Cavern (LC) Classroom (C)
Hatching Cavern (HC) Weyrleaders' Complex (WC) Southern Bowl (SB)

Arinth(#247OQaeps)
A veritable giant amongst dragons, this bronze seems at first glance to be as wide as he is tall. Were he as long as his size initially suggests he would outstrip most of his peers, but his tail and neck are shorter than the norm, the latter capped by a squared muzzle. That bluntness, and the thick cords of muscle layering his immense body, give him a blocky appearance. While he is something of a monster in form, the light and dark shimmer of his hide is infinitely more pleasing to the eye. His extremities are tipped with the moonlit ripple of pyrite, as if tail and talons and snout had been dipped in a pool of molten stone. It's a liquid shade, strongest at the edges, but also stippling along his flanks to create streaks of artifical shadow. These drifts of darkness give the illusion of texture to the tawny bronze that makes up the rest of him, a shade that is reminiscent of autumn sunlight fading on a valley bed of pine needles.

Arinth is 7 turns, 8 months old and 67 feet long. He is 33 feet tall at the shoulder and has a wingspan of 100 feet.

Ch'dais can feel the banked wrath in the stiffness of the girl's arm, but his hold doesn't falter as he escorts her into the cold afternoon air. He takes strides as tall as his frame, an agitated pace that she must struggle to follow. It's clear enough that the rider is making for the shadow of a massive bronze dragon; the creature crouches back on his haunches, wings furled, moonlit gold blending into tawny brown on his hide beneath the low bank of cloud that frames him. "This one, Arinth?" he says tightly, giving the girl a little shove and loosing her as he does so. The beast's head lowers, larger than the tanner herself, and he captures her in the round of one luminous eye.

Korinne's feet fairly fly as she tries to keep up with his brisk walk, and when he releases her, she stumbles forward, barely catching herself before she can fall to the ground. Standing up straight, if not quite tall, she whirls on the bronzerider, ready to ignore all convention - and wisdom, and give him a piece of her mind. But her flashing chocolate eyes are arrested by the sight of the bronzen head so close to her own, and she stares into that faceted eyes, lips parted, but angry words unsaid. Instead, all she can do is whisper, "Wha-?"

Arinth's eye whirls through a delicate play of color; the girl's reflection there sharpens and fades with the hue. Then his chest expands, and he utters a croon that's felt, even tasted, as well as heard-- a wave of hot breath and herdbeast that swirls up to the tanner's waist. Ch'dais stands with arms crossed, watching Korinne in tight-lipped silence. His eyes are drawn at the corners, and their sea-storm green carries a strange play of sympathy and regret. "Well, that's it then," he says at last. A wan smile is essayed. "Korinne, apprentice tanner, you'll be standing for Citalth's clutch."

Clearly, she's expected not to argue. Entranced by the play of light along Arinth's eye, Korinne barely register's the bronzerider's words. When they hit her, she takes a step back and shakes her head slightly, then turns to study Ch'dais with piercing eyes. "I will?" she asks mildly, absently smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, those created by the whirl of dragon's breath. "Very well." Simple acceptance of the declaration. Squaring her shoulders, she faces the bronzerider, eyes meeting his, patient and somewhat questioning. Something in that exchange had leeched both the anger and the anxiety from her bearing, and now she seems almost... serene.

Ch'dais returns the young tanner's regard for a long, quiet while. If her look is serene, his is uncertain; his smile falters, disappears beneath the ruddy stubble of his beard. At last the bronzerider lowers his head, and whatever expression he might wear is lost in the serpent's nest of thin braids that falls before his face. He's fishing in the pocket of his riding jacket. "Yes." At least she's aware of the gravity of the situation. The rider produces a length of cord-- black and vibrant blue, with the thread of pure white woven through it-- and tosses it across for Korinne to catch. "Who knows," he finishes, with a last glance and a flicker of that pale smile. "Perhaps you won't be chosen." And then he's stepping past, swinging up to Arinth's neck in preparation to depart.

Korinne catches the knot and gazes at it for a long time, cradling it in the palm of her hands. His last comment sets a tiny frown hovering at the corner of her lips, and she whirls, staring up at him with slightly parted lips. "I don't understand," she calls, holding one hand out to forestall his departure. "Are you saying that I don't want to be a dragonrider - or that I shouldn't be one?" She's not angry, at least, not in any way that's visible, but confusion at his words paints her face, enough that she's willing to halt his departure and ask such an impertinant question.

"My wingleader died not five days ago. Man and dragon both. Plummetted helpless to the earth." Ch'dais takes fierce hold of the fighting straps as Arinth stalks ponderously forward, half-unfurls the glory of his great wings well above the tanner's head. "I watched him." A breath lifts the stone of the bronzerider's chest, and for a moment he allows a whisper-- just a hint-- of pure concern to gather upon his brow. Concern for the young woman he's wrestled out into the cold. That little smile comes again, bleeding off the tension in his grip. "But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Arinth likes you, lummox that he is; you put that knot on." The bronze leaps, his wings beat down, and in the swirl of icy dust he's aloft.

Korinne watches bronze and rider fly off, staring after them until she can see no more, the faintest line of a frown marring the smooth skin of her brow. She turns the knot over in her hands, then slowly draws off her apprentice knot, stuffing it in the pocket of her skirt without even a glance. The cord indicating her new rank is pulled on a bit more reverently, and she sighs, fingering it. Then, with a squaring of her shoulders, she sets off for the caverns at a brisk walk.