Which Gold will rise first?

March 1998
Logged by Saoirse

Central Bowl
Seven spindles brush the clouds - quite literally - overhead, a jagged, spired cotillion grey-stoned majesty. The bowl from here is expansively large, extending a full half mile in both directions, and although sometimes a bit of a stretch, most of the hubs of activity can be easily observed. Hard-packed ground shows the common pathways, all of them meandering about the craggy bunch of boulders that form a centerpiece: carven, hand-worn and foothold-full, it gives a bit of centerpoint to the otherwise vast emptiness of the area.
To the north lie the hatching grounds and leadership weyrs, while the lows of herdbeasts mark the feeding pens to the northeast. A flurry of ever-present activity marks the living caverns to the west, and another time-traveled path the ground weyrs just adjacent to the southwest. Southeast, a glint of blue shows the lake, glittering and cold.
Clinging to footholds in the boulder-mound are Kudi and Maguire.
Brown Amanoth and green Mayuth are here.

Sefren walks in.

Quick in movement and startling in intensity of mood, this young man meets your gaze with a sudden smile and flash of Thread-gray eyes hooded under dark lashes. His inky-black hair is close-cropped and kinda sticks up on top with studied carelessness. His complexion is dark, his form compact, though he occasionally creates the illusion that the opposite is so, due to his unapologetic flair for the dramatic.
He is wearing is an elaborately embroidered indigo tabard, brocade in ivory and fawn encircling the scoop-neck, over a high-necked, bell-sleeved tunic trimmed in tangerine. Darker-klah-and-ecru-striped trews cover his wiry legs and tuck into indigo boots, laced up with black. A round, brimless black cap is settled beanie-like on his head.
Sefren is 17 Turns, 8 months, and 21 days old.

Sefren wanders out from wherever he was with a yawn. What's he doing up so early, anyway? Maybe he never went to bed the night before. "G'morning," he calls. If dawn can be called morning.

Saoirse is top to toe grease; and is slathering more of the stuff over Siulth's already glistening back with a wool pad attached to a stick. "Whaddya mean more? You've already got more oil on ye than any bronze in this weyr." She scowls at some tart rejoinder from the green. "That's because I have to scrub all your grease off of me before I can even get started with a bath." Belatedly, Sefren's presence is noted. She colours a little. "Ah. Good morning." Grin is broad. "Hope we didn't wake you?" Though a heated argument between dragon and rider at the crack of dawn might just have done that.

Siulth takes advantage of the distraction to flip wings, scattering droplets of oil everywhere. She flutes smugly. So there.

Sefren shakes his head. "Nah. Dice game in the Lower Caverns just letting out. I feel like I could sleep for a sevenday." He tilts his head to look at the green just as she decides to spray the Bowl with oil. "Ack. Looks like I'll be needing a bath before bed, as well."

Saoirse grimaces. "Aye… Sorry 'bout that." Siulth gets a mock-whap. "Cheeky sod… Look what you've done." Not to mention that the green has left her looking like she's been swimming in a bucket of grease herself. But her smile is fond as she tweaks one of the bronze-dusted headknobs. "So didja win much?"

Sefren first gives his reflexive reaction. "Nah, not really." There's not much use in bragging to someone he might one day dice with, is there? But then his gaze flickers appraisingly. "Well, I wasn't doing badly around midnight, but when I wanted to leave, they wouldn't let me. It took 'em five hours to empty my pockets, though. And I still ended up with half a mark in change." He pats a pocket with a clicking sound. "Do you dice much?"

Saoirse shakes her head. "Not a wild lot… Too random for me." Then a wicked light enters her eyes. "But I've got one or two things on the boil…" She hesitates, then confides - a fellow gambler; can't be all bad - "Got a few bets on which gold will go up next."

Sefren quirks a brow. "Really? Which do you think? I don't know too much about dragons, really. At least, not from first-hand experience."

"Tiareth." Saoirse's definite about that. "Some of these 'Reaches-bred ones reckon Lara's eejit gold will rise first -" Lara. Girl doesn't know her arse from her elbow. Not a favourite of Saoirse's. "But I reckon our Nuff's Tiareth will be first in the air." She hesitates then shrugs. "Just a feeling." Not to mention staunch loyalty towards one of her own.

Sefren hmms thoughtfully. "That's as good a bet as any, I suppose. A better wager might be on which bronze will catch." He winks, grinning. "I don't bet much on dragons these days, though. It's almost eerie how much I lose. Last Hatching at Southern, I lost nearly 10 marks just on egg guesses." He shakes his head, a bitter set to his jaw.

Saoirse lets out a long, low whistle - one which Siulth, being fascinated by such things, attempts to mimic. "Jeemany. You had a bad day of it alright." She shakes her head. "Ach I've got my money on one of the High Reaches bronzes for that… they know the thermals round here better and all." She quirks a fiery brow, mischievous grin lighting her features. "Don't suppose you would fancy puttin' money on one of the bronzes?" Since he suggested it, after all.

Siulth tilts her head and tries that whistle thing again. Keeps coming out as a high trill. No lips, y'see. That's the problem. She practices for a while to herself. Hopefully there's no canines about; they'd be going mad by now.

Sefren laughs. "To suggest that, you must either be decidedly naive or think I'm not terribly bright, since I just confessed how much I'd lost. Either I'm scamming to draw you in, or you see me as an easy mark." He shakes his head. "So how much did you have in mind?"

Saoirse furrows brows, temper getting the better of her. Naive? Stupid enough to get suckered into betting on a ringer? "You tryin' to say I'm thick, boyo?" One greasy hand goes on one greasy hip as she scowls, the bet momentarily forgotten.

Leshil steps out from the Weyr's living caverns.
Leshil strolls out, munching on leftovers. A wherry leg, it looks like.

Saoirse is covered from stem to stern in oil, and is presently glaring daggers at Sefren. Siulth is trying to work out how to whistle and is making an odd collection of toots and trills in her attempt.

A mass of mousy brown curls perch atop his head, seeming to have been cut using a bowl as the only guide; bright eyes of a warm mahogany peek out from beneath a shaggy fringe of hair. Jovial features mark his pimpled, rounded face, the shadow of a mustache ghosting over his top lip while his barrel torso matches the rest of his chunky, awkward form. Huge hands and knobby wrists provide a bit of contrast, his legs seeming far too long for him though the dainty feet at their ends appear faintly ludicrous.
He wears a knit tunic of llama-wool, washed so many times that the color seems only a neutral grey-brown, and inexpert darns give mute testimony to its age. The brightly hued trousers, patched to such an extent that there's no telling if they started that way, provide a good contrast to the tunic without ever clashing, full and just slightly too long.
A single cord of High Reaches Weyr's blue drapes over one shoulder, looped once.
Leshil is 12 Turns, 8 months, and 6 days old.

Sefren laughs again, the sound studiously relaxed in its tone. "Not at all. I'm just wondering if that's how you see me. And considering how much more you most likely know about the contenders, I probably /am/ as easy a mark as you see me as." He lifts a hand to wave to Leshil.

Leshil glances from one to the other, then to the dragon. "What happened? Did the oil jar get dumped over your head? What do you mean by easy mark?" Forget the greeting - get right down to the 'meat' of things.

Somewhat mollified, Sorsh lowers the hackles. "Oh." She grins apologetically then. "Well sure I wasn't suggesting that either… Just a… friendly bet, eh?" Is there such a thing? "Say a sixteenth?" It's not the amount that gets Sorsh hooked; it's the thrill. She, too, nods to Leshil then. "Ach h'lo there." Clear blue eyes note the boy's choice of breakfast and she sighs ruefully. "The kitchens not got any bubblies ready yet?" Because she was /so/ looking forward to a couple after her bath.

Sefren isn't about to be drawn into the anger's flash; leastwise, not when they're discussing the terms of a bet. "Saoirse and I were just discussing who'd be likely to fly Tiareth when she rises." He considers. "Just a sixteenth?" Then again, if he's just throwing away marks on a bet he's likely to lose, the less the better, eh? "Sure… who do you wager will catch?"

Leshil mmms. "They weren't out of the kitchen yet, but we should could smell them."

"O'feri's Seivvath. Dead cert." Any bronze who can catch Saoirse's Siulth is bound to be able to get his claws round a gold. She beams at Leshil then. "Beaut." And in answer to his earlier questions, she adds: "And nope - didn't get grease dumped on me; this is just the way I always go when Siulth gets her oiling done."

Leshil ahs. "Bit messy. Still, that Weaver craftheadsecond, the one who's Weyrweaver over on Ista? She might approve, heard her harranging someone for not taking care of their leathers the last time she came, said they should oil them. Though I don't know if she meant in the quanity you've got."

Sefren looks vaguely disappointed for half a moment. "Oh? Well, perhaps you're right." O'feri happens to be the only bronzerider here who's spoken with him, so that would've likely been his bet as well. "Well what about S'fyre? He must have half the females in the Lower Caverns swooning over him… that's gotta be a good sign, right?" Poor Sefren just gets drawn into betting on the principle of it. Sefren quirks a grin at Leshil. "So who would you bet on to catch Tiareth?"

Leshil hms. "If I bet, which I don't, yet, I'd say Jh'ral's Rennth. The two have already proven they can deal well with the queen and her rider. They even figured out how to keep Lara from…never mind, that's another story."

Sefren quirks a brow, a teasing smile playing across his face. "What's that? Have you got a bit of juicy gossip you're keeping from us, lad?"

Saoirse nods to Sefren in acceptance of his bet. They can hash out the details later mebbe. For now, Leshil's comment is too intriguing to pass up. "Keep her from what?" Besides. She can't stand Lara, so any embarassing stories about that twit are music to her ears.

Leshil shrugs. "Not really. I thought it was well-known." still not saying what 'it' was, though.

Sefren blinks a degree of impatience. "Well, now you know it isn't. So? What's the story?"

Patience is definitely /not/ Saoirse's middle name. Carrotty brows come down again but Sefren beats her to the punch. Yeah. What he said.

Leshil takes a deep breath. "Well, you know she's a bit flighty. And horrible at running things. For that bit when she was Sr, she wanted to run everything. Even the food and infirmary. Jh'ral persauded her that it would be best for Weyr morale if she just stayed up on her ledge and made sure Marachekith was well-fed and oiled, the picture of good dragon health. Which means things were nowhere /near/ as bad as they could have been. Of course, this is second-hand, since my brother and I only came back to the Weyr about a week after the deaths stopped…"

Sefren hmms and nods. "I suppose that's true," he allows. "How much else do you know about Jh'ral, though?"

Leshil shrugs. "He's always been here at the Weyr, along with his parents, sister and a few of his children, has a good head on his shoulders, or so F'renkil told me a few turns back, seems sensible enough. O'feri, on the other hand, tried to tell me canine slobber helped heal scrapes. I almost belived him, but Catia said not to when he said things like that. S'fyre…I'd think, from what I've seen of him, that having all those females mooning over him might not be a good thing. Fenral keeps saying he wishes he knew how S'fyre did it."

Sefren blinks innocently. "You mean canine slobber /doesn't/ heal scrapes?" Clearly, Sef's the sort to hear what he likes and forget the rest.

Pita meanders in from the north.
Pita leaps recklessly about, a distinctive spring evident with each hop to the Caverns.
Pita steps out from the Weyr's living caverns.

Leshil rolls his eyes. "No. It also doesn't act like numbweed."

Saoirse just lets the conversation wash over her as she begins working oil into Siulth's tail. She blinks. The boy can definitely talk. "Siulth, stop twitching." Siulth has given up whistling and is now craning a head after Leshil. Or rather, after that leg of wherry he's waving around. If /he/ doesn't want it, she'll have it…

"Odie? /Odiiiieee/!" Peet hollars, hands cupped 'round her lips as the rider searches for her lifemate - off playin' games again. "'Lo there.." she greets, absently saluting to the surrounding people. A snort from afar discerns her lifemate's distant position, creating a smug look of satisfaction across her face. Green gazing again.

Leshil grins, "So, anyway, that's just my opinion. Not set in stone or anything like that, just the idea of them I have now. S'fyre's nice enough, O'feri likes to tease, and I've only seen Jh'ral briefly since I came back home." He finally stops waving the wherry leg around to take another bite.

Sefren stifles a yawn. "Jays, I've been awake a long time. I'll be looking to collect on that bet, Saoirse," he remarks with bravado.

Saoirse snorts. "In your dreams, boyo." That's another sixteenth she'll be collecting, yup. Though the smile she tosses at Sefren is genuine.

Sefren flashes an equally warm smile back at Saoirse and wanders off to find a weyrling on elevator duty….

Siulth stalks the wherry leg. If the wee human would just… hold… it… still… Ah. There. She daintily extends her nose to nab the treat, drooling a little on one end of the leg, but… Shards! It moved again. She inches closer.

"Siulth, stop wigglin'." Saoirse's chasing a green tail all over the bowl with her oil daub. Peet gets a somewhat frazzled wave. "Siulth! How am I s'posed to get your tailfork if you won't… bloody… well… stop… *moving*" She's annoyed as well as oily now.

Leshil actually looks at the wherry leg, spots the drool, and sighs. "Maybe this is what she's after? Perhaps if I let her have it, she'll not move so much?"

Pita continues, heading north.

Siulth's eyes whirl delightedly as she flutes her approval. Such manners. Such breeding. Why aren't all the weyrbrats so understanding? She carefully takes the wherry leg - what's left of it - and swallows it whole. The merest tidbit for her, but she's happy now.

Sorsh, back at the far end, just waves over. "Thanks there. I owe ye one." Maybe now she can finish oiling the brat.

Leshil laughs. "Good luck on having her not move unless you ask her to…"
Leshil walks to the Caverns.

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