Of Bath’s and Breakfast [T'ryn]

I’m not opinionated, the little bronze was clearly frowning as he peered up at N’mor. I’m right. He eyed Syrendryth for a moment and gave a physical shrug, shuffling his wings and sticking his nose in the air. I never claimed I’d clean it up, he pointed out regally. Just because he wanted to squish, the fools did not mean he was going to mop up the mess afterwards. They could mop up their own squished mess; if they had not been so useless to start with, then they would not have required squishing, which wouldn’t have left a mess!

A slightly disdainful look was given to T’ryn. I did not say they did not. I said they were useless, not that they didn’t have uses. N’mor’s eyebrows arched up and he shook his head, partly to himself and partly to T’ryn, deciding not to bother trying to work that one out; his dragon was clearly full of very strong opinions and he just as clearly didn’t have the wisdom to voice them in a way that made any sense. Peering past his dragonet’s nose, N’mor decided the bucket was about as empty and clean as it was going to get and he set it aside. Rhezalth settled himself down on his haunches and set about cleaning himself while N’mor turned to eye T’ryn.

After a moment, he shook his head with a grin. “Very dignifying,” he teased, trying hard not to picture Rhezalth stumbling around in some strange contraption. He could already tell the young bronze would take deep offense to that. Then again, maybe he would surprise him and find it amusing? N’mor wasn’t quite sure it was worth the risk, not so early in their bond, at least! Still actively trying not to picture that, or Rhezalth wallowing in a shallow pool of oil, N’mor strode with determination to where the oil and cloths were, and then came half-jogging back, tossing a cloth at T’ryn and flicking Rhezalth across the rump with the corner of his own. The dragonet gave him a droll look that made N’mor smirk.

Unintentionally following T’ryn’s train of thought, N’mor instructed Rhezalth to stand up and extend his wings so he could start by oiling his back. “As glorifying as having a huge dragon must be, I think greenriders have the best deal.” He grinned as he literally poured half the bucket of oil over Rhezalth’s back, letting it slide down his back to pool against his wing membranes; the dragonet gave an inelegant squeal at the cool touch. “I much prefer scrubbing down Larrikith or Grith compared to slaving over, say, Ronarth.” He grinned. That was one heady size difference! “Probably why the other colour’s don’t let their dragons get painted by the ‘brats!” That, and N’mor knew many of both riders and dragons considered themselves above such antics.

“I reckon Rhezalth would look pretty spunky with pink polkadots, don’t you?” The weyrling smirked wickedly at the dragonet’s horrified look: clearly N’mor had made no effort to hide that particular image!