Red II
The scoop: The morning after the masquerade, T'ral heads down to the baths, and Ella cuts off his red curls for him. He discovers where he's seen her before, and eases right past her questions about his impersonations of the night before.
It was a good party, and like all good parties, the morning after sees a large majority of the people who attended looking rather like they wish they hadn't. The day is grey and dreary, which befits the general hangover that looms over the Weyr population. If weyrlings were forbidden to imbibe, at least this means no nursing of pounding headaches the following morning and afternoon. Ella only made a brief attendance, slipping in wearing a quick makeshift mask and some faded men's garb, she took in the sights, grinned at some of the clever constumes, and slipped away again.
This morning finds her in the dragon baths. Having finished washing and rinsing Reth, she's seated on the floor, working on oiling the growing green. Reth sits quiet and mostly still, gaze attentive to the room, and one wing stretched wide so her bright sails can be caefully slathered in oil.
Uncharacteristically, and for reasons of his own, T'ral was also one of the number who didn't imbibe the night before, and in consequence, he's out and about early as well. He's thrown on just enough clothes to make it down to the baths this morning -- unlaced boots, pants belted in loosely enough that they sit on his hips, shirt half buttoned. His hair is still the shocking red it was the night before. He's knuckling sleep away from his eyes as he enters, and lifts a hand to the weyrling, before making good use of it to muffle a yawn as he ambles across to one of the shelves where the towels are kept.
Ella lifts her head and then wipes one greasy hand on a nearby crumpled towel. "Sir," she greets, as she offers a slighty oily salute, "Mornin'. Weyrlead'r. Sir." She looks away with a small grin as Reth tucks one wing and stretches the other.
"Keep up the good work," T'ral replies, adopting the cheerful growl of the night before for those few words. His accent is as the Weyrleader's, Bitran, so the shift doesn't require much. He muffles another yawn as he sheds his clothes, and steps out of his boots, dumping his possessions on the shelf before he walks forward to step down into one of the baths. "Did you come to see the party?"
"Sir. Yeh. Not f'long." The woman scoops up a bit more oil to rub down the last of Reth's other wing, and begin now on a patch of her side. "Jus' long 'nough t'see what folks all put themselved int', sir." Her attention flicks more intently to the green and her eyes roll. "Know y'itchin'. S'why'm gettin' all oily. En't found't yet, show me an'll get't." Her own accent is a hodgepodge of several places. High Reaches and Tillek and something that mangles both of them up into a language pattern that is mostly just distinctive of herself.
"I'm taking time off, pretending to be a brownrider this morning," T'ral informs her as he lowers himself into the water. "Name's T'ral." And with that he disappears, a trail of bubbles marking his place, and then the parts of his arms that stick up above the water as he scrubs, fruitlessly, at his hair. His curls as plastered down flat as he surfaces. "You'll be able to get away for longer, soon. It's harder when they're young. Got a dragon on one side, the Weyrlingmaster on the other."
"Sir, thinkin' y'gonna have bout's much luck's th'actual weyrlead'r've getting that shit outta y'hair. 'lo. M'Ella." The greenrider snorts softly at whatever Reth says as she shifts enough to allow her rider access to the skin along her side and beneath her front, right leg. Oil is rubbed on there as well, and the green releases a small and relieved sigh. "Eh. Figgur, 'f I got th'rest'a'm'life with'er, kin take a turn off t'figgur out how't's s'pposed t'work, sir."
"I reckon so," T'ral agrees ruefully, one hand swiping his curls back from his face, before he shakes his head to clear some of the moisture. "It'll all just have to come off. It grows back fast enough." Now he's had his try at washing the red away, he's inclined to talk, easing over to the side of the pool. "Ella, that's right," he repeats, cheerful. "I thought I recognised you when you first impressed, but that accent's not from Bitra."
"Sir, naw, it en't. Y'r'member where y'met m'now, sir?" Reth's headknocks get all gooed up with oil, but as the greenling jerks her head back and gives it a shake, that seems to have to do more with teasing than with itchy hide. "A'right. Y'done. Stay'n here, let't soak in b'fore w'go headin' through th'mud." Pushing up into a stand, Ella moves over to T'ral's bath to crouch down a few feet from the brownrider and rinse off her hands in his bath.
"No, but it's sitting in the back of my mind, you know?" T'ral taps the back of his head to indicate -- just so, here, is where the identity of her home lingers. "Spare me the effort of thought, will you? Where've I seen you before?" One hand goes out to scoop up some sweetsand, which is optimistically dropped on top of his wet curls, and rubbed in. Just in case.
With a small shake of her head, Ella murmurs, "Sir, y'dyed't. Y'fucked." She lifts out her hands, holding one, palm up, for a bit of soapsand. "Dunno. Y'don' r'member, mebbe I should make y'work f'it, sir." Her head is tipped to the side, eyes considering as T'ral scrubs away at his hair.
"Fuck," T'ral concurs gloomily, though his everpresent grin disperses said gloom promptly. Soapsand is transferred to her hand, and he scoops up water in his own to rinse his curls. "T'ral, really. I'm not your Weyrlingmaster, nor a Wingleader, just a rider." Another scoop of water, with a sigh. Alas, his hair.
"Sir," Ella says with a small shake of her head as she rubs her hands soapy and then rinses them clean, "gotta say't t'ever'one. Y'don' like't, y'kin take't up w'y'pal. Orders, y'know? Seems sorta...nah..." she gives a shake of her head and then a shake of her wet hands, tossing away whatever thought was about to spill out of her mouth. "Y'got someone t'cut't f'y', sir?"
There's a brief pause, at that juncture. "Right," T'ral says, in response to his pal's orders, nodding. She says no more, and nor does he. "I got nobody to cut it for me, unless you want to wield the shears and try your luck. Can't do any harm, if it's all coming off."
The weyrling's grin becomes wide and bemused. "Sir, sure. I..." Ella's nose wrinkles. "A'right, w'gonna hold a whole conv'sation, this's gettin' t'be a problem. H'weren't real s'pecific. First'n last word, h'says. So, sayin' I started talking t'y'usin' 'sir', an' sayin' th'last thin' I say t'y'is 'sir', y'think it'd be cheatin' too bad not t'worry 'bout all've'm in b'tween?"
"I think there's no such thing as cheating when nine tenths of the weyr is still fast asleep," T'ral replies, pausing to dunk his head under one more time, and reaching when he resurfaces for the towel that sits by the edge of the bath he occupies.
There is a moment of consideration, and then Ella gives a curt nod. "A'rright, then. 'll get th'scissors." She stands and moves past Reth, giving the reclining baby green a found flick to her muzzle before she goes poking about the various shelves of various things that line a side of the dragonbaths.
While she gets the scissors, he heaves himself out of the bath, and knots the towel around his waist, casting about for a place to sit for the surgery. "Ever done this before, or would I be better off asking a different question?"
"Done't plenty. M'self. Coupl'a other girls," Ella informs him as she pulls down a pair of shears and a brush before heading back to the brownrider-turned-Weyrleader. "Y'think m'own head's a'right, y'should be fine. Don' matter. All gotta go, wh'ev'r does't. By th'bench," she adds with a chinjerk in that direction. "Then I kin sit on't and y'head'll be 'bout'n th'right place."
"I suppose it can't be that bad," T'ral agrees, a note of hesitation in his voice. "As you say, it's all got to come off." He turns obediently, padding across to the bench, and lifting one hand in greeting to a small group of sleepy newcomers as they make their entrance, and claim a bath up the far end. "What, on the floor by the bench?"
"Yep. Y'wan' sumthin' t'sit on?" Ella plunks down on the bench itself, legs parted a bit to allow for T'ral's shoulders back back to go directly in front of her.
"Nah," T'ral replies, his own diction sliding in the face of hers, as he eases himself down onto the ground. "Take it all off, I'll grow it back again, a better colour."
"Red en't s'bad," the weyrling muses thoughtfully as she slides her fingers through T'ral's wet hair to smooth it as much as curls can be smoothed. "S'why th'weyrlead'r?" She readies the scissors and then, with a *snip*, a pair of very red curls tumble down the brownrider's shoulder.
"Why the Weyrleader?" T'ral begins to shrug, then remembers to hold still. "Why not, I suppose? The weyr could use a laugh right now, don't you think?"
"An' how," Ella snorts as she snips a bit more. "Fuck, y'wen' near down t'th'roots, didn' y'. Watched a bit. Got 'im pretty good."
"There you go, then," T'ral replies, as though this vindicates him entirely. And how. "It was sort of going on in a hurry, I was running late. It was hard to do without getting dye on our hands at the same time." He tilts his head helpfully, to let her get at the back. "Got him well enough to be recognised, make them smile. Doesn't do to be /too/ accurate, in these things."
"No drink'n y'hand. No grabbin' where y'shouldn'," Ella agrees. As T'ral shows her the back of his head, she begins clipping away there, curls falling away at a steady rate. "Smart. Must'a been 'nother man, y'got t'do y'hair. No woman'd kill y'curls."
"I've got a weyrmate'd want to hear the reason, if I started grabbing," T'ral replies, giving his shoulders a quick shake to rid them of the falling curls. "It was another man, yes. They'll grow back quick enough, though, and she laughed enough that she'll live without them for a bit."
"Met y'weyrmate once. Sh's nice." Snip snip snip. Ella works in silence for a while, save for the occasional request for him to tilt his head this way or that. "Nearly there," she offers after a bit.
"I think so," T'ral agrees, tilting his head obediently, this way, and then that, so she can snip. "You're not going to oblige me and tell me where I saw you before?" he asks after a time, hopeful again. "If it wasn't here, and it wasn't Bitra, was it somewhere around Benden?"
A few more snips and then Ella slides her hand over T'ral's much-reduced hair, brushing away the clippings that still remain atop his head. ""Rinse y'self off 'gain b'fore y'get dressed. Otherwise, clothes'll b'itchy." She considers for a moment and sniffs faintly. "Sound Benden t'you? Naw. En't fr'm there. Where else y'been, y'met a whole heap'a women?"
"Yes ma'am," T'ral agrees, rising to his feet, and brushing off his shoulders. It will be someone else's work, apparently, to sweep up his shucked curls. "No, you don't sound Benden. I don't know, I suppose it was a gather somewhere." One large hand comes up to wave dismissal. "It doesn't matter, I'm being nosy. Thanks for lopping off my hair."
It is not, apparently, Ella's work either. She stands to wipe off the shears and set them and the brush back where she found it, the pile of curls left where it is. Fuzzy hands get rinsed free of hair and as she straightens, she offers up her answer. "Aramia's. 'n Tillek." She shrugs and then walks to the dozing Reth to gather up the oil pot and press the lid down atop it.
T'ral drops his towel and wades back down into the water, mouthing the words to himself in the moment before he submerges, obedient to her instructions. He's registered just where that place is, by the time he comes up, but rather than choking on his mouthful of water, manages to somewhat more sedately spit it out. "I'm surprised I remembered your face, then, I don't think we talked, did we?" His tone is easy -- his surprise doesn't register there.
"Didn' s'much, naw," Ella says with a small shake of her head. She smirks faintly for the way Reth's eyes move beneath their lids. Dragon dreams. "Show'd y t'y'table. Was mostly 'bout it. Triess 'n Fen came w'th'drinks. Fen struck out w' one've y'. Triess..." Ella smiles again, for a different reason, and crouches down to brush her knuckles against Reth's cheek.
"Yet another argument for behaving myself when I think I'm out of sight," T'ral replies, running a hand over his scalp as he climbs out of the pool. "You mean the Weyrleader's 'second. Probably not the man to try, in retrospect." One last time he shakes water everywhere, climbing out to claim his towel, and dry himself off.
"Well," Ella snickers, "Don' think Fen'll b'tryin' again. C'mon, up w'y'." The last is to Reth, as is a fond slap to the sleeping green's haunch. Rather than startle, she opens her eyes lazily, and then rises, stretches, yawns. All is done painfully slowly, and a flickign tailtip returns the slap in the form of a swat to Ella's ankles. "Nice t've met'cha again. Should go. Breakf'st."
"And you," T'ral replies, as he reaches for his clothes, grinning his farewell. "Tell your Weyrlingmaster it didn't wash out, and he's going to have to answer to my 'mate if she doesn't like the result."
"Sure. 'll pass't along. Sir." Ella knocks off another salute, which is countered by a very entertained grin, before she and the green slip out of the baths and into the bowl.
It was a good party, and like all good parties, the morning after sees a large majority of the people who attended looking rather like they wish they hadn't. The day is grey and dreary, which befits the general hangover that looms over the Weyr population. If weyrlings were forbidden to imbibe, at least this means no nursing of pounding headaches the following morning and afternoon. Ella only made a brief attendance, slipping in wearing a quick makeshift mask and some faded men's garb, she took in the sights, grinned at some of the clever constumes, and slipped away again.
This morning finds her in the dragon baths. Having finished washing and rinsing Reth, she's seated on the floor, working on oiling the growing green. Reth sits quiet and mostly still, gaze attentive to the room, and one wing stretched wide so her bright sails can be caefully slathered in oil.
Uncharacteristically, and for reasons of his own, T'ral was also one of the number who didn't imbibe the night before, and in consequence, he's out and about early as well. He's thrown on just enough clothes to make it down to the baths this morning -- unlaced boots, pants belted in loosely enough that they sit on his hips, shirt half buttoned. His hair is still the shocking red it was the night before. He's knuckling sleep away from his eyes as he enters, and lifts a hand to the weyrling, before making good use of it to muffle a yawn as he ambles across to one of the shelves where the towels are kept.
Ella lifts her head and then wipes one greasy hand on a nearby crumpled towel. "Sir," she greets, as she offers a slighty oily salute, "Mornin'. Weyrlead'r. Sir." She looks away with a small grin as Reth tucks one wing and stretches the other.
"Keep up the good work," T'ral replies, adopting the cheerful growl of the night before for those few words. His accent is as the Weyrleader's, Bitran, so the shift doesn't require much. He muffles another yawn as he sheds his clothes, and steps out of his boots, dumping his possessions on the shelf before he walks forward to step down into one of the baths. "Did you come to see the party?"
"Sir. Yeh. Not f'long." The woman scoops up a bit more oil to rub down the last of Reth's other wing, and begin now on a patch of her side. "Jus' long 'nough t'see what folks all put themselved int', sir." Her attention flicks more intently to the green and her eyes roll. "Know y'itchin'. S'why'm gettin' all oily. En't found't yet, show me an'll get't." Her own accent is a hodgepodge of several places. High Reaches and Tillek and something that mangles both of them up into a language pattern that is mostly just distinctive of herself.
"I'm taking time off, pretending to be a brownrider this morning," T'ral informs her as he lowers himself into the water. "Name's T'ral." And with that he disappears, a trail of bubbles marking his place, and then the parts of his arms that stick up above the water as he scrubs, fruitlessly, at his hair. His curls as plastered down flat as he surfaces. "You'll be able to get away for longer, soon. It's harder when they're young. Got a dragon on one side, the Weyrlingmaster on the other."
"Sir, thinkin' y'gonna have bout's much luck's th'actual weyrlead'r've getting that shit outta y'hair. 'lo. M'Ella." The greenrider snorts softly at whatever Reth says as she shifts enough to allow her rider access to the skin along her side and beneath her front, right leg. Oil is rubbed on there as well, and the green releases a small and relieved sigh. "Eh. Figgur, 'f I got th'rest'a'm'life with'er, kin take a turn off t'figgur out how't's s'pposed t'work, sir."
"I reckon so," T'ral agrees ruefully, one hand swiping his curls back from his face, before he shakes his head to clear some of the moisture. "It'll all just have to come off. It grows back fast enough." Now he's had his try at washing the red away, he's inclined to talk, easing over to the side of the pool. "Ella, that's right," he repeats, cheerful. "I thought I recognised you when you first impressed, but that accent's not from Bitra."
"Sir, naw, it en't. Y'r'member where y'met m'now, sir?" Reth's headknocks get all gooed up with oil, but as the greenling jerks her head back and gives it a shake, that seems to have to do more with teasing than with itchy hide. "A'right. Y'done. Stay'n here, let't soak in b'fore w'go headin' through th'mud." Pushing up into a stand, Ella moves over to T'ral's bath to crouch down a few feet from the brownrider and rinse off her hands in his bath.
"No, but it's sitting in the back of my mind, you know?" T'ral taps the back of his head to indicate -- just so, here, is where the identity of her home lingers. "Spare me the effort of thought, will you? Where've I seen you before?" One hand goes out to scoop up some sweetsand, which is optimistically dropped on top of his wet curls, and rubbed in. Just in case.
With a small shake of her head, Ella murmurs, "Sir, y'dyed't. Y'fucked." She lifts out her hands, holding one, palm up, for a bit of soapsand. "Dunno. Y'don' r'member, mebbe I should make y'work f'it, sir." Her head is tipped to the side, eyes considering as T'ral scrubs away at his hair.
"Fuck," T'ral concurs gloomily, though his everpresent grin disperses said gloom promptly. Soapsand is transferred to her hand, and he scoops up water in his own to rinse his curls. "T'ral, really. I'm not your Weyrlingmaster, nor a Wingleader, just a rider." Another scoop of water, with a sigh. Alas, his hair.
"Sir," Ella says with a small shake of her head as she rubs her hands soapy and then rinses them clean, "gotta say't t'ever'one. Y'don' like't, y'kin take't up w'y'pal. Orders, y'know? Seems sorta...nah..." she gives a shake of her head and then a shake of her wet hands, tossing away whatever thought was about to spill out of her mouth. "Y'got someone t'cut't f'y', sir?"
There's a brief pause, at that juncture. "Right," T'ral says, in response to his pal's orders, nodding. She says no more, and nor does he. "I got nobody to cut it for me, unless you want to wield the shears and try your luck. Can't do any harm, if it's all coming off."
The weyrling's grin becomes wide and bemused. "Sir, sure. I..." Ella's nose wrinkles. "A'right, w'gonna hold a whole conv'sation, this's gettin' t'be a problem. H'weren't real s'pecific. First'n last word, h'says. So, sayin' I started talking t'y'usin' 'sir', an' sayin' th'last thin' I say t'y'is 'sir', y'think it'd be cheatin' too bad not t'worry 'bout all've'm in b'tween?"
"I think there's no such thing as cheating when nine tenths of the weyr is still fast asleep," T'ral replies, pausing to dunk his head under one more time, and reaching when he resurfaces for the towel that sits by the edge of the bath he occupies.
There is a moment of consideration, and then Ella gives a curt nod. "A'rright, then. 'll get th'scissors." She stands and moves past Reth, giving the reclining baby green a found flick to her muzzle before she goes poking about the various shelves of various things that line a side of the dragonbaths.
While she gets the scissors, he heaves himself out of the bath, and knots the towel around his waist, casting about for a place to sit for the surgery. "Ever done this before, or would I be better off asking a different question?"
"Done't plenty. M'self. Coupl'a other girls," Ella informs him as she pulls down a pair of shears and a brush before heading back to the brownrider-turned-Weyrleader. "Y'think m'own head's a'right, y'should be fine. Don' matter. All gotta go, wh'ev'r does't. By th'bench," she adds with a chinjerk in that direction. "Then I kin sit on't and y'head'll be 'bout'n th'right place."
"I suppose it can't be that bad," T'ral agrees, a note of hesitation in his voice. "As you say, it's all got to come off." He turns obediently, padding across to the bench, and lifting one hand in greeting to a small group of sleepy newcomers as they make their entrance, and claim a bath up the far end. "What, on the floor by the bench?"
"Yep. Y'wan' sumthin' t'sit on?" Ella plunks down on the bench itself, legs parted a bit to allow for T'ral's shoulders back back to go directly in front of her.
"Nah," T'ral replies, his own diction sliding in the face of hers, as he eases himself down onto the ground. "Take it all off, I'll grow it back again, a better colour."
"Red en't s'bad," the weyrling muses thoughtfully as she slides her fingers through T'ral's wet hair to smooth it as much as curls can be smoothed. "S'why th'weyrlead'r?" She readies the scissors and then, with a *snip*, a pair of very red curls tumble down the brownrider's shoulder.
"Why the Weyrleader?" T'ral begins to shrug, then remembers to hold still. "Why not, I suppose? The weyr could use a laugh right now, don't you think?"
"An' how," Ella snorts as she snips a bit more. "Fuck, y'wen' near down t'th'roots, didn' y'. Watched a bit. Got 'im pretty good."
"There you go, then," T'ral replies, as though this vindicates him entirely. And how. "It was sort of going on in a hurry, I was running late. It was hard to do without getting dye on our hands at the same time." He tilts his head helpfully, to let her get at the back. "Got him well enough to be recognised, make them smile. Doesn't do to be /too/ accurate, in these things."
"No drink'n y'hand. No grabbin' where y'shouldn'," Ella agrees. As T'ral shows her the back of his head, she begins clipping away there, curls falling away at a steady rate. "Smart. Must'a been 'nother man, y'got t'do y'hair. No woman'd kill y'curls."
"I've got a weyrmate'd want to hear the reason, if I started grabbing," T'ral replies, giving his shoulders a quick shake to rid them of the falling curls. "It was another man, yes. They'll grow back quick enough, though, and she laughed enough that she'll live without them for a bit."
"Met y'weyrmate once. Sh's nice." Snip snip snip. Ella works in silence for a while, save for the occasional request for him to tilt his head this way or that. "Nearly there," she offers after a bit.
"I think so," T'ral agrees, tilting his head obediently, this way, and then that, so she can snip. "You're not going to oblige me and tell me where I saw you before?" he asks after a time, hopeful again. "If it wasn't here, and it wasn't Bitra, was it somewhere around Benden?"
A few more snips and then Ella slides her hand over T'ral's much-reduced hair, brushing away the clippings that still remain atop his head. ""Rinse y'self off 'gain b'fore y'get dressed. Otherwise, clothes'll b'itchy." She considers for a moment and sniffs faintly. "Sound Benden t'you? Naw. En't fr'm there. Where else y'been, y'met a whole heap'a women?"
"Yes ma'am," T'ral agrees, rising to his feet, and brushing off his shoulders. It will be someone else's work, apparently, to sweep up his shucked curls. "No, you don't sound Benden. I don't know, I suppose it was a gather somewhere." One large hand comes up to wave dismissal. "It doesn't matter, I'm being nosy. Thanks for lopping off my hair."
It is not, apparently, Ella's work either. She stands to wipe off the shears and set them and the brush back where she found it, the pile of curls left where it is. Fuzzy hands get rinsed free of hair and as she straightens, she offers up her answer. "Aramia's. 'n Tillek." She shrugs and then walks to the dozing Reth to gather up the oil pot and press the lid down atop it.
T'ral drops his towel and wades back down into the water, mouthing the words to himself in the moment before he submerges, obedient to her instructions. He's registered just where that place is, by the time he comes up, but rather than choking on his mouthful of water, manages to somewhat more sedately spit it out. "I'm surprised I remembered your face, then, I don't think we talked, did we?" His tone is easy -- his surprise doesn't register there.
"Didn' s'much, naw," Ella says with a small shake of her head. She smirks faintly for the way Reth's eyes move beneath their lids. Dragon dreams. "Show'd y t'y'table. Was mostly 'bout it. Triess 'n Fen came w'th'drinks. Fen struck out w' one've y'. Triess..." Ella smiles again, for a different reason, and crouches down to brush her knuckles against Reth's cheek.
"Yet another argument for behaving myself when I think I'm out of sight," T'ral replies, running a hand over his scalp as he climbs out of the pool. "You mean the Weyrleader's 'second. Probably not the man to try, in retrospect." One last time he shakes water everywhere, climbing out to claim his towel, and dry himself off.
"Well," Ella snickers, "Don' think Fen'll b'tryin' again. C'mon, up w'y'." The last is to Reth, as is a fond slap to the sleeping green's haunch. Rather than startle, she opens her eyes lazily, and then rises, stretches, yawns. All is done painfully slowly, and a flickign tailtip returns the slap in the form of a swat to Ella's ankles. "Nice t've met'cha again. Should go. Breakf'st."
"And you," T'ral replies, as he reaches for his clothes, grinning his farewell. "Tell your Weyrlingmaster it didn't wash out, and he's going to have to answer to my 'mate if she doesn't like the result."
"Sure. 'll pass't along. Sir." Ella knocks off another salute, which is countered by a very entertained grin, before she and the green slip out of the baths and into the bowl.