This Is The Best [Clothes Making Chore]

This was inappropriate.

The news that chores would be required hadn't been so bad. Naturally, Breccan assumed she'd find herself in the infirmary tent or whatever they had, stitching up the poor sods forced into menial labor. Her training was extremely practical, and more than that, useful. Of course she would be valued and her talent used.

Instead, this said she'd be making clothing. Making clothing? First of all, she hardly knew what that meant. Her birth, illegitimate as it was, meant she'd certainly never had to produce her own garments; they'd all simply appeared, like magic, and then been tailored to her frame. Was that what they expected her to do? Hem a skirt or tighten up a waistline. Inappropriate. They were not using her to her full potential, and there was nothing Breccan resented like being prevented from shining. Feeling like her opportunity to impress her new colleagues had been shot out of the sky, her trip to the craft hall was one overshadowed by a stormy frown. Inappropriate.

Worse, she was the first one there, apparently. After asking some potter or some-such which area was intended for tailors, she found herself with no one to surreptitiously watch and imitate. No, there was just fabric, and knives, and thread, and awls, and needlethorn. It was neatly enough arranged, but she had no idea what to do with it. In a very general way, she knew clothes were made of things sewn to other things, but...general knowledge and practical knowledge were two very different things. Why couldn't she just be gathering plants somewhere?

With a sigh, she settled herself to the ground, cross-legged. What would be simplest? Sleeves, probably. Examining her own clothing, she decided a sleeve was nothing more than a tube of fabric. So, all she had to do was cut a length, and stitch it into a tube. Stitching, at least, she was good at. Shards. This would be much easier if it weren't so necessary to convince the powers that be that she'd accepted her lot and was making the best of it, even growing happy to be here. Honesty, she reflected. Honesty was the way to go, and she couldn't take it. Just like she couldn't sit in the infirmary and dispense knowledge and numbweed. Instead, she was going to sew fabric-tubes. Tugging cloth towards herself, she cut off a generous length, threaded herself up a 'needle,' and got to stitching. Fine. If she had to to this, she'd do a fantastic job. In fact, she would do the best job, and this chore was the best.

Katila’s administration had a talent for assigning people inappropriate chores.  Did Talian look like a lumberjack?

He didn’t complain; it wasn’t in his nature. Yes, he had the capacity to complain, but he saved it for close friends in dark places. Complaining about the chores wouldn’t do any good in the first place, and trying to do something about it would only accent his already acute discomfort. It was better to just do it and get it over with, which was exactly what he’d done. He rose early, unable to sleep well as it was, and went out to get the unpleasant work done as soon as possible. After all, he was the Weyr’s property now. They’d punish him if he didn’t do it. Why struggle when you can’t win?

He walked into the craft hall, an axe slung uncaringly over one slender shoulder, and trudged through the first few rooms without bothering to lift his eyes from the space directly in front of his feet. Lumberjacking was not his forte. In spite of a valiant effort, he was exhausted and had managed to tear the palm of his hand open. He wasn’t worried on either count. His own slight frame and the cool weather meant he didn’t sweat much, and he was all but oblivious to the pain in his hand.  Having bypassed his medication that morning (for practical reasons; swinging heavy metal objects around requires focus), he was feeling rather numb to the world.

He may have walked past other people as he meandered through the hall, but if he did, he missed them completely. It wasn’t until he turned into one particular room that he finally took notice of another human being, mostly because if he kept going forward, he was going to trample her project.

“Oh,” he said, his voice scarcely a whisper. He flashed the unfamiliar girl a smile before carefully picking his way around her things. He cast his analytical eyes over her arranged materials and shook his head as he passed. That was the same chore he’d been assigned the previous month, and he didn’t envy her one bit.

“Pardon me.”

He make his way across the room and opened a storage room closet, where he returned the axe. He’d spent quite a while searching for one that morning, until a kind farmcrafter had pointed him in this direction. He shut the storage closet’s door and let out a relieved sigh. Well, that was over.

He wiped his bloody palm on his pants and looked down at it with a discerning, thoughtful expression. It wasn’t so bad as it looked at first glance, it was just bleeding a lot. Content to put some pressure on it and let it be, he started to make his way back to the door. In spite of himself, he flashed the girl a strained but honest smile and gently nudged a bolt of fabric that had managed to roll away back towards her. “Sorry if I disturbed anything,” he murmured, not sure if he was to blame for the errant bolt or not.

---

I'm totally diving in here, even though I'm in another chore group :3 Seemed like a good opportunity!

Breccan looked up quickly at the sound of someone's step, almost eager. As much as she disliked the prospect of someone seeing her doing something clumsily, the opportunity to learn how to do it properly balanced it well enough. She could swallow her pride and accept tutelage from someone more experienced. Well, most of the time.

Instead, a slightly-built young man came dangerously close to scuffing his way carelessly right through her little project. Grey eyes narrowed, she was ready with a sharp comment, but strangled it down. Happy to be here. She was happy to be here. In any case, he smiled and excused himself, showing more manners than anyone else had so far. Brec was mollified, more because she had to be than because of his polite remark, though it hadn't hurt. She watched with interest as he strode across the room, hoping he'd pull out a bolt to work on himself and do things correctly. Instead, he stowed the ax she'd failed to notice in a storage cupboard across the room. Probably not suited to making clothing then, if he was out cutting trees, though the leadership here certainly hadn't noticed what she was suited to.

He wiped his hand on his leg absently, making her wrinkle her nose unconsciously. He didn't look the type to be chopping down trees, and she was willing to wager he had or would have some nasty blisters. Move like that was liable to burst them, and that was hardly the proper thing to do for blisters. As he came towards her, she was all ready with a little solicitous blister-advice, but instead noticed the blood on his pants. Had that come from his hand?

Her hand caught the rolling bolt reflexively, and just as reflexively, the corners of her mouth tipped upwards in answer to his smile. "Oh no, but would you mind if I took a look at your hand? I'm a Healer...or was," she said, adding a touch of wry humor at the last. He didn't look like he was Southern born and bred, though she couldn't be sure. She didn't look much like an Istan for that matter. "I could at least bind it for you," she offered, indicating the bolts of fabric around the room, "Take your pick of styles." Her humor was a bit more bitter then, unintentionally. She was rising already, not waiting for an answer. Breccan's career choice might not have come from a generous desire to help others, but she disliked seeing a wound neglected. It upset something in her, perhaps something to do with her sense of perfection. Her own health was something she paid close attention to. It baffled her when others treated their bodies so callously, with little regard for physical concerns. No matter. She'd soon set things right.

One hand absently brushed dust from a slim knee as she strode towards him, fully expecting that he'd extend his hand for her inspection once her request processed. Beginning to lift her hands to accept the one he'd undoubtedly offer up, she stopped. Did he look familiar? This place! Every other boy looked half-familiar, like they were a part of her past she should have been aware of. Something about those unusual tawny eyes seemed...well, perhaps she'd never seen him before, but she'd heard of him? Oh, there was something. This niggling feeling in her brain was altogether unpleasant. Not only did it mean she was lacking answers, it also implied her memory was all but failing. She'd never had reason to reproach her memory before. Could she depend on nothing here?

"I'm sorry, do I know you from somewhere? Ista Hold perhaps, or around Fort?" she turned questioning eyes up to him, her half-lifted hands forgotten where their journey had been cut short, "You seem familiar. Somehow." A flicker of irritation at her mental failure darted across her features as swiftly as sunlight on water before she smoothed it away. When had she become so unreliable?

A healer?

Tal’s eyes widened and his head pivoted slowly in her direction, dreary expression lightning subtly. His eyes poured over the girl, not admiring her from a physical standpoint, but instead searching for familiar features. Ah, yes. He’d seen this girl before, and if he’d been paying closer attention to her face he’d have recognized her sooner. He often brushed past her in the healing hall or saw her from the corner of his eye in candidate classes. Of course, he’d been pulled from the most recent lessons and didn’t expect he’d be rejoining his classmates anytime soon.

“I am as well, actually,” he said softly. He offered his hand, uncurling it slowly to avoid tearing the skin any more than it already was. He was hesitant to actually offer it to her. Being touched by strangers made him nervous, and he didn’t know that he’d ever trusted someone else with giving him medical treatment. She was just trying to help, though. After a moment of consideration, he extended his arm fully and allowed her to take it.

“I was actually on my way to go bandage it myself,” he said, eyeing her various bolts of cloth with what may have been a flicker of amusement. He'd never have considered asking a stranger to let him wrap his bloody hand in her nice cloth.  “But if you’re offering, I won’t decline your kindness, Breccan.”

He smiled reassuringly as he added her name. He never forgot names or faces, but his manner of spontaneously injecting them into conversation made some people nervous, as if they wondered where exactly he learned it. It was an innocent habit, though. He was just observant. Good thing she asked if she’d seen him before, allowing him to slide smoothly into his next statement. “I believe so, I see you at the healing hall sometimes. And during candidate classes. I’m Talian,” he said. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t claim to know her from the true Healer Hall. He’d spent far too much of his time shut away in private classes, not to mention too much of his free time with Fiora.

He realized suddenly that they'd both stopped halfway. He laughed just a bit. "Nice to meet another healer..." he murmured. So far, he'd really only spoken to Lym.

Breccan didn't mind the scrutiny. She was comfortable with her appearance in a way few girls could claim to be. It wasn't that she was vain or certain of her beauty; she simply valued her talents more than her looks. Sure, she was attractive enough, when she worked for it, but she didn't place any pride or self-worth in her appearance. Putting it somewhere else just gave her one less thing to fret over. Anyway, his long look didn't have so much as a hint of lechery in it. If she was more reliant on her looks, she might have been offended, or at least disappointed, by such a lack of reaction.

As it was, she spent the time subjecting him to similar scrutiny, examining his features. He was attractive without having any one outstanding trait that would make him easy to identify, though she did find his tawny eyes pleasing. The rest of him was nondescript, and didn't help her faulty memory in the slightest. His quiet assertion that he, too, was a Healer, helped her narrow her focus. It was even easier when she thought over the few she knew had disappeared somewhere. Was this...Talian? Really?

For now, Breccan reserved judgement. It was likely this was not, though it was common knowledge he'd been all but kidnapped. The excuses for the others -that they'd settled down and left Healing, that they'd fallen prey to some accident- had never worked for Talian's disappearance. He was too obvious a figure, especially among the Healers. Automatically she accepted his extended limb, handling it gently. To ensure her traitorous eyes didn't give anything away, she focused on the cut, delicately probing the skin around it. It wasn't so deep, nor did it seem to be contaminated in any way. Clean-edged, without enough excess skin to allow for any stitching. Just pressure and a bandage would do, but he seemed to know that.

And he knew her name. Before she could stop herself, her head snapped up, eyes wide. As he continued, he revealed the knowledge wasn't such a mystery, reassuring her somewhat. She felt a small flare of triumph when he introduced herself -her guesses had been good. The rest of her was astonished, but she wasn't so tactless as to open her mouth and gape, nevermind that she had idolized the man for most of her time in Healer. She wasn't quite sure what to say to him about that just yet, so instead she responded to his earlier look around at the colorful cloth.

"I think red," she mused aloud, "If we're going for color, we might as well go for dashing." Releasing his hand, she bent over the bolts until she found a shade that suited her own preferences. Cutting a length free efficiently, she doubled it over itself several times, ensuring it would be thick enough to not bleed through. At least not right away. "I've heard a lot about you," she finally settled on, "I wasn't sure what to expect." Her tone was neutral, but she glanced up at him and a furtive smile hung around her mouth. "I certainly thought there'd be a little more arrogant swaggering to you," she almost-teased, her tone amused. In his position, she'd certainly be more than a little arrogant. Being the youngest Master in Pern's history was something to be arrogant about.

Her binding was efficient and neat. She worked to keep it flat enough to minimize interference with natural hand movements, but maintain some pressure. Breccan almost opened her mouth and advised him to maintain pressure and wash it out with redwort as soon as he got a chance, realized what she was doing, and flushed. "Faranth, I was going to tell you to make sure to clean it properly. It is nice to meet another healer," she agreed. Nevermind that they were hardly on the same level; 'another' healer was almost a sacrilege, in a way. Still, she appreciated the sentiment. As devalued as she was feeling, she wasn't sure how she would have handled being coolly put in her place by a Master Healer. Would have just popped him right in the face, most likely.

Indivara threw an irritable look over her slim shoulder as she shoved the door leading to Hell open, throwing an ominous "You owe me!" over it as she did so. Whomever the threat was being thrown at was apparently less than worried, as laughter flowed before Indivara kicked the door shut with her foot, her arms being somewhat preoccupied. In them, she held a bundle of clothing; there appeared to be some few dresses included, and from the sleeves and pant legs hanging out, they too were screwed up in the ball of cloth the young girl was hauling with considerable ease, despite the bundles rather's awkward size.

"Hey," she greeted, not really interested in breaking up the conversation between the two candidates (you could always tell a Northerner by their sunburn, irritable expression, explosion of freckles, age or combination there of) as she marched through the room. Her blue eyes gave them both a once over (Talian, master healer, Larrikith's; Breccan, Jr. healer... ) Indivara frowned slightly when she realised she had no idea who stole the young woman; not even a dragon colour! That was not a good sign. Of course, with all the tantrum throwing Indivara had been doing since D'ren had told her in no uncertain terms she was too young (what was one turn?! One!) to Stand, Indivara wasn't really that surprised that her notes on the Northerners were not one hundred percent. Obviously, she would need to work on her ability to both throw an amazing tantrum and still keep up to date on the goings on around her. That, certainly, could be arranged.

Tuttering to herself, Indivara dumped her pile of clothing carelessly in the centre of the room, and gave it a nudge with her foot; she watched as the clothing sprawled, resulting in separating the mass some. The items that became visible varied, in size and style enough to indicate that most of it came from riders and other children. Indivara had gone around collecting from some of the huts closest to her mother's before winning a lift out of the green dragon. The girl had no desire to make clothing - besides the fact that Kerrin had told her in no uncertain terms she failed at it (and Indivara didn't really like being made a fool) she also had no desire to make anything for anyone. There were more interesting things to do, better places to be, and while Candidates were an interesting source of information about the North (having been born in Katila, Indivara knew very little about the lands) they tended to spend a great deal of their time bitching and moping. Frankly, Indivara would rather scrub her mother's green Khainth with a twig than listen to them mope about how they don't want a dragon. Who didn't want a dragon?! Their first trip between obviously addled whatever brains they had!

"You can get away with this chore by just sewing up the dodgy leftovers." She said mildly, speaking to her companions but hardly attempting to claim their attention. "Patch ups, mostly, are all that is expect. Most of the women will go bug the Weyrwoman if they want a gown, and the tailors around the place do a much better job than we ever will." She lifted her gaze, eyes bright as she took in their obvious lack of interest at being in the room she shared with them, and extreme interest in each other. A small smirk flickered over the corner of her lips before she continued, offering a bland explanation as to why they were doing menial chores. "You're kind of expected to heal - it is your craft. The chores are meant to bore you while also mixing you in with the Weyrfolk." The girl shrugged. "I suppose they think you'll cause less trouble or something. Of course, mixing the 'brats in has caused some issues." Her cheerful grin indicated she was usually in the centre of those situations. It hadn't been much issue when Renewed Hope had been the only batch of Candidates - the Weyrbrats had been too young (Indi was one of the eldest born to the Weyr) and the Candidates were seen less as a threat and more as a novelty. As the weyrbrats grew, issues had been cropping up.

Generally speaking, there were more than a few Weyrbrats who were insanely jealous of the Northerners Standing, and the fact that they didn't want to had the tendency to cause scuffles.

Not much escaped those tawny eyes when Tal was on top of his game. His thymus treatments usually kept him hazy and unfocused, but that wasn’t the case today. He watched in silence as the girl examined his cut. Her mind was clearly hard at work. The deliberate way she looked down stuck out to him in particular, though his own eyes were just as traitorous, widening slightly as he took note of her actions.

Tal knew his wound was nothing serious. It was mere tear, and a relatively clean one at that. It was likely to reopen if he stretched it too much during the healing process, but that was it. A bandage and the occasional cleaning would take care of it. There’s no way she was thinking so hard about such an inconsequential injury. Her gears were obviously turning, though. They were turning hard.

She recognizes me he realized, not sure if he was disappointed or not.

Mercifully, she didn’t make a big deal of it. She seemed a little startled by his recognition of her, but his explanation must have been sufficient.  She’d relaxed, though Tal thought he might have detected a hint of excitement or accomplishment lurking in her eyes.

“Red it is, then,” he replied agreeably. His face fell within seconds. “You’ve heard a lot about me, huh?” he asked in a mellow tone. He wasn’t surprised. In all honestly, he’d been enjoying his anonymity at Katila.

He considered her words for a moment as he hesitantly offered his hand a second time, having withdrawn it out of habit only moments before. It took great faith for him to allow her to wrap his hand. He never let anyone else work on him. It was a small thing, yes, but it was important to him. His jaw set itself in anxiety as he watched her work, asking himself why he’d even allowed it. It was an act of trust, but she was a stranger. Did he want to establish some sort of bond with a fellow healer, someone who shared at least part of his pre-Katilan life? Or was he just being polite?

Bah, he was confusing himself by over-thinking again. Either way, she’d done an excellent job. His rigidness faded a bit as he pulled his hand back, looking over her work with a pleased eye. “Arrogance isn’t exactly appropriate for someone in our craft, don’t you think?” he mused lightly as he looked back at her, smiling in spite of himself. “I don’t know, I guess I just don’t have it in me.”

He laughed gently at her final comment. He imagined she was being modest. That was better than the alternatives – vindictive, jealous, or even intimidated. He’d run across that quite often back at home. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” he assured her. “I appreciate the concern. You did a good job with the bandage,” he said. “What’s your specialty?”

His attention was momentarily seized by the little girl who’d just entered. Tal watched with uncertainty as the girl spoke. He hadn’t asked for her explanation, but it didn’t surprise him. His lips curled inward with anxiety. “Trust me,” he said with Indiviara, his voice distant without being overly cold, “I’m well aware of the Weyr’s control tactics. What amazes me is how many of the others are blind to it.”

Following Indivara in came Par'a, her hair neatly groomed for once. Like always, she was muttering softly as she told Grith that no, she couldn't come into the Craft Hall to help her. The Green's loud creels could be heard through the windows as she flounced around the exterior, a likely activity for her to be doing until Par'a left for lunch.

Entering the room where the cloth was kept she eyed the pile that Indivara had dropped to the ground. "You should handle other people's things with more respect." Par'a commented lightly. It wasn't scolding, more just a note in passing. Whether or not she actually did treat the clothes with more respect after that the Greenrider had little care for. She wasn't her child or grandchild, discipline was to be enforced by her blood family, not a random dragonrider. Par'a was however, thankful for the load of clothes she had brought in. Having done chores like these for so many turns, she knew that they usually patched up clothes and remade those that were beyond repair. She herself had lacked the motivation to fetch worn clothes from people, figuring that some spry little glow would do it themselves. Which she had been right on the mark with.

"Hello!" She greeted the three brightly, having taken now to ignoring Grith's mental assault. She knew Indivara, even with her terrible penchant for names it was hard to forget one of the first children born at Katila, whom she had looked after several times as a young girl. Breccan she didn't recognise in the slightest, which Par'a then slotted her into the group of Candidate, since even those who came south with the dragonriders she vaguely recognised. Talian caused her to pause however. She recognised the young man, something in her mind sent off a small alarm bell. Did she know him? Most likely she had promised to remember his name but there was nothing popping to the forefront of his mind. Perhaps it was safe to just pretend she remembered, and introduce herself to the young lady. Maybe she would say his name.

"I'm Par'a. If you keep an eye on the window you will eventually see Grith, hopefully that's the only way you'll see her," Par'a introduced with a slight laugh, holding her hand out to Breccan. Whether or not Breccan knew of Grith's rather… intruding habits depended on whether or not she paid attention to the gossip of the Weyr. Though, how one could ignore glaringly obvious results of Grith's enthusiasm - Dining Hall doors, anyone? - was beyond Par'a. Glancing over to the window she sighed, Grith passed right as she looked over, bouncing and half-flapping so as to take giant leaps as she did laps of the hall. At least she would get plenty of exercise now, which would help to prevent any freak-strains like she had gotten in her wing not so long ago.

Breccan shook her head she worked. "Not a lot. At least nothing personal. Just plenty about what a shooting star you are," she answered, sounding amused. The way his face fell; that was strange. What did he have to be upset about? True, perhaps being constantly recognized got old, but she couldn't imagine being unhappy about her accomplishments, at least not in the way he seemed to be. He seemed almost fragile in a way. She resolved to avoid the topic of his alarming rise through the ranks until she knew him better. He didn't seem eager to discuss it, but fortunately, Breccan relished a challenge. The gentle teasing he didn't seem to mind, so she chose to stick with that. For now.

She felt a sort of tightness as he examined his hand, the sort of eager-to-please nonsense she'd always felt around her Masters. She knew it was a good job, but she, well, wanted to hear that from someone else. The approving look in his eye made her heart leap. Breccan was wildly self-sufficient in so many ways, but nothing would put her in good spirits quite like being told she was doing well. His comment on arrogance half-baffled her -why wouldn't you be arrogant when you had so much to boast about?- but she set it aside. Breccan was regularly bored by the way other Healers viewed their careers as some sort of sacred, altruistic calling. She did not heal because it was 'the right thing to do' or because she liked to 'put others first.' She was a healer because she had the skill for it, and because she did take real pleasure in setting things right. Watching someone's body all but mend itself under her care was the most sacred thing she knew; helping it along was all she really did.

"Thank you," she answered, feeling the usual warm flush of pleasure at the sound of praise, "I'm an herbologist, I suppose you would say. The active principles in plantlife are fascinating. Being here has that going for it, anyway. I've found some varieties that don't seem to exist up North, and a few interesting strains of well-known plants. At least it's something to focus on." She shrugged one shoulder upwards, attention dragged towards the door, where a girl was coming in with a handful of clothing. She rummaged through her motley collection, obviously not all hers, and offered some advice.

Breccan was quick to take it, pulling out a pair of pants and a torn shirt from the pile. Fixing ripped clothing couldn't be so different from stitching flesh. In the last few minutes, her mood had improved immeasurably. This she knew how to do, and she'd established at least an acquaintance-ship with Talian. Perhaps he'd even stick around, though it looked like he was finished with his own chore. The girl offered some interesting information on why they were here, mending clothing, and Breccan was fascinated by both the mechanism and Talian's cool reaction. He clearly disapproved of how they were treated.

The entrance of another woman caught her attention, but not for long. A loud squealing was coming from just outside the windows, and with a shock, Breccan realized there was a dragon, right there. Occasional glimpses of a bright hide revealed the dragon as Green, and Breccan was astonished by her sheer size. Weren't Greens the smallest? How on Pern did anyone manage to get on a Brown, or for that matter, a Gold? She'd been quite unconscious for most of her kidnapping, barring a moment of consciousness in which she'd volunteered the information that she'd jump from her captor's back. She had no recollection of the dragon's size, and while she'd gotten a ride from one from the Candidate Isle to Katila proper, somehow she'd just never noticed how big they were.

Her intended comments about the Weyr's control tactics died in her throat with the appearance of a dragonrider. She probably liked how things went. Accepting the cheerful woman's offered hand, Breccan automatically smiled and shook it. "Nice to meet you, Par'a. Is Grith...friendly? I haven't really met a dragon," she said, peering out the window at the enthusiastic Green. What would it be like to be bonded to something that energetic? Probably exhausting. Then again, looking at the older woman's cheerful face, maybe they were a fair match.

The very idea that Grith might just invite herself in was a little horrifying. Breccan was curious about the things, sure, but she didn't know if she wanted one barging right over to her. She wasn't afraid of course. Just cautious. It occurred to her that she hadn't properly introduced herself, so she turned to include Indivara, just as curious about someone who had obviously been born here. "I'm Breccan," she supplied, "From Healer Hall." Did that even mean anything to these people? Certainly not to the little girl, who'd never been North, unless they were stealing babies from their cribs as well. Par'a...was she from the North, stolen turns and turns ago and now content and Impressed? That would make her someone to get to know. It would be interesting to hear how she'd adjusted, and come to terms with leaving all she knew behind. Asking bluntly if Grith was worth it probably wouldn't go over well, but that was what Breccan really wanted to know. Why did no one try harder to leave?

Shooting star. That comment brought a flicker of a smile to his face. He didn't care for the excessive attention and constant pandering, but it was always nice to hear that he hadn't completely wasted his life on his father's craft. He was at the very least bright and skilled, which meant he had something to show for the years of work he'd poured into it. It was entire life. Receiving acknowledgement for it here at Katila, an unimaginable distance away? As cautious as he'd been initially, now he found himself relaxed.

"Thank you," he said earnestly, his voice still low and muted. He tried his best to gauge her reaction to his words (or perhaps even his presence, he realized self-consciously) as he withdrew his hand. He examined it once more before letting it fall at his side. "I appreciate it. I got a lot of comments back home, but they usually pretty impersonal and cold, if that makes any sense."

"You know, I didn't actually want to be a healer. My father took me to the hall when I was six turns old," he said. Like Breccan, he hadn't chosen healing out of altruistic reasons. He'd developed a sense of healer-patient altruism over time, but it hadn't appeared overnight. The mildly pleased ring in his voice indicated that he felt much the same about the craft itself. He'd come to love it over time. "Herbology? This is a good place for it," he murmured, thinking about all the odd plants he'd seen outside. "I specialized in trauma and emergency care myself," he added.

He hadn't chosen that, either. It was chosen for him because of it's difficulty. Finding new apprentices willing to work in that particular specialty wasn't easy, so naturally they'd jumped to shove someone like him in the gap. It worked well, though. He enjoyed it; it was probably the only part of the job that was actually exciting.

He cringed when he heard Par'a's voice. He slowly turned towards the door, eyes widening as he caught sight of the greenrider. Oh shards. He remembered Par'a all right, but mercifully, she didn't seem to remember him. Perhaps this encounter would end without her flailing wildly in his face and provoking all sorts of drug-addled flight reactions.

What a bad day that had been.

He laughed weakly and offered her a comically nervous wave, hoping that would be enough to get him out of a conversation. He'd acknowledged her, yes, but surely the girls in the room were more interesting. Please?

At the mention of Grith, he turned a mistrustful glare towards the window. Never again would he trust Grith not to destroy buildings.

Oh Faranth, there she was, darting past the window outside like a green shadow of destruction.

Indivara snorted in amusement at Par'a's comment, and rolled her eyes with good nature. "I doubt anyone really cares, Par'a." Amused, Indivara poked at the clothing pile with the tip of her toe, further spreading them out. "They really aren't anything more than rags." Not that she expected anyone with any love of their clothing would hand anything but rags over to a chore group. Besides the fact that dragonrider garments were likely to come back with the legs sewn shut or the arse cut out of them by vindictive candidates, everyone had been shuffled through the stupid chore at one time or another, and knew well enough that pride and ethics rarely came into play for the deplorable hours.

"Have you any new paints?" Indivara asked, turning her bright blue eyes upon Par'a with interest. "We ran out of red, blue and orange." She paused for a moment, and then gave the greenrider a wide, beaming grin, heedless of the missing canines she showed - or rather, didn't show. "She needs glitter Par'a!" Picking up a pair of pants and flicking them so she could find where the repair was needed, Indivara babbled on. "It would look amazing. Especially in some of the pattens she gets. She could outshine Nirinath!" Beaming happily, the girl examined the size of the hole, and scrambled to her feet with no grace at all so she could find a bolt of similar-coloured fabric and cotton.

"Grith is amazing," Indivara gushed the answer to Breccan, barely giving a pause before she continued. "A lot of the greens are real snots, but Grith lets us paint her, and she doesn't always demand a bath afterwards. Sometimes it's fun, though, to bathe her, but it ruins all the paints." Indivara scrunched her nose up. She didn't like putting all that work into painting the green, only to have her turn around and demand a bath. Of course, when Grith did that you knew something was up, because that girl loved her pretties. "You should come paint her some time. Its a lot of fun! Oh. I'm Indivara, Katilan born." The girl ignored the cold tones and distance exhibited by Talian, content to peg him as a stick in the mud. She grinned at him all the same, however, as he eyed off Grith with obvious apprehension.

"You should come too," she offered, grinning. Grith would enjoy breaking in a new candidate. She really was a delightful dragon, and definitely one of Indivara's favourites. The fact that the green wasn't above speaking to her and her fellow brats was, perhaps, one of the more defining factors of why the girl and her play mates enjoyed painting the beast. "She's really very sweet."

Par'a gave a light yet hearty laugh at Breccan's question as she shook her hand. "Oh, you couldn't find a dragon more friendly than Grith. And intrusive too, might I add…" Par'a replied as she let go of her hand. Breccan's pondering about their energetic natures was fairly spot on, were Grith bonded to anyone else they might have died from the sheer exhaustion of handling the exuberant dragon. That's why she had bonded to Par'a after all, they were a brilliant match.

Talian's nervous wave was noticed by Par'a, though she paid little heed to it. Many candidates reacted strongly to the dragonriders and it wasn't uncommon to be assumed to be a searchrider just because she rode a Green. Of course, Grith was banned from returning North, simply due to her inability to stay still and quiet, so Par'a couldn't be a searchrider even if she desperately wanted to. Which she didn't, how boring it would be to hide and snatch unwilling people. She preferred to meet people on their own terms, even if they had to be brought to Katila first by somebody else. His nervous glance to the window caused her to glance out, seeing Grith to now be stationary outside the window, her wings flared and golden-striped snout pressed against the window. "Grith if you break that I won't let you get painted for a week!" She threatened, though mostly it was to see how it affected Breccan and Talian. Par'a wouldn't dream of keeping Grith from being 'prettied' as she called it, it was the one time of the day she got some peace and quiet.

"New paints… No I haven't got any at the moment, though I could ask and see if we could get some bigger pots this time. They do run out awfully fast." Par'a answered Indivara, wondering who would be willing to brew such large batches of paints. The pots were already as tall as her knee and as wide as her hips, any larger and she'd have to sweet talk someone into snatching pots from the North. Well, she'd threaten to send Grith to them when the paints ran out. That always seemed to work. "Glitter… Hmm, maybe one of the smiths can create some paint that dries with a shine to it, like the Golds and Bronzes." Par'a mused.

She stifled a laugh as Indivara bragged about her dragon to Breccan, covering her mouth with a hand as she sniggered. It always amused her to see the weyrbrats speaking so fondly of her dragon. If only they could deal with her clingy insecurities all day long. When mention of Grith being bathed came up Par'a couldn't help herself and gave a loud, whooping laugh. "Grith hates being bathed too you know! But she knows if she leaves it on during the night she won't get prettied again the next day." She pointed out, giggling as Grith creeled her agreement outside.

With a sudden whooshing sound Grith launched herself into the air, flying up and out of sight of the window. A few moments later there was a thud on the roof. Par'a glanced up and sighed, grinning. She could tell from the thumps that broke out after the initial thud that Grith was prancing on the roof, making different shapes and patterns. "Ah, you silly girl." At least she couldn't break the roof. Or at least, she was yet to find a way to do so.

Breccan smiled faintly, agreeing. She had no problem accepting impersonal compliments, but she suspected her Masters had longer to get to know her personally than Talian's had. It was easy to distill the man into nothing but a success story to tell the Apprentices. For the first time, she wondered what effect his meteoric rise had had on him. She'd always assumed that being promoted so quickly would be a source of personal pride and pleasure. Perhaps that hadn't been quite the case. "Do you like Katila, then? I suppose no one has heard of you -besides Northerners, anyway. I imagine it must be a good opportunity to start over as Talian the man instead of Talian the Master," she remarked, doing what she could to mask her intense interest in his answer. Did people come to love it here so easily?

She lifted her eyebrows, mildly surprised. "That's odd. One of the Masters used to say you knew you wanted to be a healer the moment you could draw breath. Hyperbole, of course, but I suspected it was a sort of life-long aspiration," she answered, then immediately felt foolish, "Not that life-long means much at six Turns." Her correction was hasty and embarrassed. Some part of her feared Talian would find her uninteresting. What would it be like to live in a world peopled with others not as intelligent as you? For her part, she found associating with the stupid or dull extremely unpleasant. Yet he seemed friendly, open at least to a conversation. Perhaps that humility extended to all facets of his life.

Indivara was talking about paints, for no reason that made any sense to her. Was she looking to paint the clothes? That didn't seem right, but then again, she wasn't a Weaver for a reason. It didn't take long for the 'brat to puzzle that one out for her. "Paint?" she repeated inanely, glancing towards the snout that was moving ominously close to the window, "Do most dragons like to be painted?" Somehow, she didn't think so. They were such stately creatures, with a sort of dignity to them. In the air, anyway. Then again, she could hardly doubt the girl's words, since they were immediately corroborated in a threat from the rider to the dragon.

"I would be interested in meeting her, but I'm not sure if painting is a talent of mine," she cautioned, "Bathing might be more my speed." In fact, she was awful with most creative or artistic tasks. In a way, she thought of healing as art, and particularly herbology, but it was more like baking, really. This ingredient combined with that ingredient and prepared in this way yielded this product. The only art to it was how intuitive she found it; she suspected that her predilection for that branch of healing was much like an artist's talent for a certain medium.

She stole a glance at Talian. He seemed terribly nervous. Surely he was more comfortable around dragons than this! Perhaps it was simply the exuberance of this one...who was, apparently, now on the roof. And dancing around, if Breccan's ears were any judge.

Talian remained silent for a few moments as he considered her question. His immediate instinct was to say no.  He hated Katila. Maybe she had a point, though. The notion of 'starting over' had occurred to Talian in passing, but it was often overshadowed by grief at the loss of his girlfriend. Perhaps a turn ago, if asked rather than forced and was allowed to take Fiora along for the ride, he'd have welcomed the relocation. Having a clean slate would be nice. It wouldn't diminish his skills or knowledge, but it would give people a chance to actually meet him instead of treating him like a medical curiosity.

In a way, that had already happened. Coming to Katila had effectively knocked him to the bottom of the totem pole. People still recognized his talents, but that wasn't the only thing that defined him. But it also deprived him of everything he'd worked for; not necessarily just his rank, but independence. After years of being the hall's whipping boy, he had been building his own life. Funny how this situation arose at the worst possible time.

His face betrayed a swirl of emotions as he looked back at Breccan. Her theory was a sound one, and he found himself wondering why he hadn't taken it to heart more. When it came down to it, he really didn't know how he felt. He was a failure at adjusting and bitterness often threatened to overwhelm, but there were some unsung positives.  "Not really," he finally replied in a subdued tone. "You have a good point, but I'm not sure it's worth the losses." No need to mention specifics, though as usual his heart trembled at the thought of Fiora.

He smiled. It was an honest but sad smile, a clear effort to close that particular topic before it became painful for either involved. Talian knew nothing of Breccan as a person, but she seemed to need some kind of reassuring. He drew up a bit in self-consciousness, hoping that he wasn't making her uncomfortable. She seemed so friendly. He smiled again at her next gesture of surprise.

"I didn't choose it," he said smoothly, "But I did come to love it," he said simply, seeing no need to elaborate. He cast a quick glance to Indivara and Par'a, both of whom he was trying to ignore (and doubted he would be successful for long). He didn't have a problem with either of them, per se, but Indiviara was just a child and well...Par'a's dragon was dangerous. He eyed the window, his face momentarily constricting into a comical expression of mistrust. "They would say that though, wouldn't they?" He wasn't sure if that little bit of news made him sad or amused him. Either way, he didn't bat an eyelash at her self-correction. It didn't bother him at all, though he wondered subtly if he'd done something to make her uncomfortable.

"How about you?" he asked Breccan, his eyes still not leaving the window. "Did you choose the craft yourself?" His tone revealed his interest, but he was obviously quite concerned with Grith. His eyes traced her movements up to the ceiling before he blinkewd and shook his head. "Bah! Sorry about that.." he said, returning his attention to his fellow healer.

He shot a brief glance to Par'a. He needed to keep her in his sights at all times!

"Nope!" Indivara chirped, daftly sewing a patch onto the pair of pants with swift, sure movements before she tossed them casually to one side and jerked a shirt out of the pile. Examining it, she made quick work of uprooting a new piece of matching fabric and some cotton that wouldn't stand out too terribly against the marred and obviously well worn shirt. "Which is what makes Grith so amazing! She loves it and you don't have to be good at art!" Indivara waved such a silly concern aside with a shake of her head as she used her upper arm to push her long and very untamed hair out of her face. "Kerrin couldn't spell 'dragon' if one sat on him (which Grith would probably do, if she had any concept of the situation) and some of the kids are as likely to colour Rukbat purple as gold!" She giggled gleefully as she made her dig at her friend. Kerrin, of course, was totally deserving of every insult she threw his way and she was pretty sure he'd make a lovely throne for Grith.

"Bathing them is only good if you want to get wet!" Indivara warned, examining the shirt before looking up at Breccan. "Especially Grith, but she, at least, is polite!" Very few dragons were very polite about not getting their washer as wet as they ended up. Winter was always the worse, even at Katila where it was generally warm enough that swimming wasn't completely ill advised. Indivara wasn't a huge fan of water, and bathing wasn't high on her list of dragon care priorities. As a result, there were only a few dragons she would walk away from the opportunity to wash. Larrikith, for example, was a demon in the water and Indivara would rather roast alive on the Hatching Sands than bathe that dragon. Her mother's green was another. As likely to end up drowned as not, going near half the greens in the Weyr and water was inadvisable.

"Oiling is fun, though!" it didn't look as pretty as the paints, but it did make the hide supple and sparkling in a way that only oil could do. Finishing with the shirt, Indivara held it up to make sure before she tossed it, too, aside with the pants and jerked another item from the pile. Her eyebrows arched at the pair of well worn pants with more holes in them than there was actual material left to sew a patch to. "He's joking, right?" She asked of no one in particular, before scrunching them up and tossing them in the opposite corner, almost managing to get them in the bin. "If he wants those fixed he can do it himself." She had no idea whom they belonged to, and didn't care at all.

"She won't fall through," Indivara smirked, seeing the expressions on Talian and Breccan's faces. "Katila was constructed with Grith in mind." She paused, then amended, "Well, Grith and summer storms."

Breccan regretted the turn the conversation had taken almost immediately. Their talk had been pleasant so far, but the movement of emotion on his face was suddenly tumultuous; this was a sore topic. She had no desire to remind anyone of their private unhappinesses, provided they extended her the same courtesy. And Talian's behavior was nothing if not completely courteous. The silence was becoming painful before he finally broke it, and she looked down, helplessly unable to meet his eyes. Sadness was not something she dealt with well, in herself or in others. She never knew what to do when faced with that particular emotion. They did not know one another well enough for her to try and hug him, and that was really her only defense. She'd seen others do it; it seemed to be the acceptable response to sorrow. She could hardly try and comfort him, when she could not change his situation or her own, and expressing any sympathy just seemed empty.

Finally, she offered, "I haven't been able to work out the math just yet either." Her tone was as quiet as his, but she managed to meet his eyes. There were few gains for her in this situation, and far more losses, but somehow she teetered and could not commit to hating Katila. She suspected that was simply because it was too new. She didn't have enough information to completely condemn her change in circumstances. The opportunities here might turn out to be better than those up North. She simply didn't know yet.

Breccan knew a graceful closing of an upsetting topic when she saw one, and she gratefully allowed it to drop, not interested in pursuing it herself. Her attempts at coming to terms with things weren't going too well, though she wasn't wallowing in any sort of distress or tragedy. She was simply avoiding the thoughts and doing things as they were set in front of her. Belatedly, she realized she'd gotten nothing done so far, though the younger girl was positively speeding through her work. She set needle to the torn shirt she'd selected, allowing her knowing hands to complete the work as neatly as they would if she were stitching flesh and trying not to leave a scar.

Glancing up at the sound of his voice, she smiled, feeling she knew precisely what he meant. His expression widened her smile. "Of course. It's a much grander tale if you knew you were born to do it," she agreed, setting a few more stitches in place, "Destiny. That sort of thing." Amused, she shook out the shirt, neatly mended already. A rip of thread and another shirt took its place in her busy hands. "I did, yes," she answered readily, "My birth is illegitimate, so I could not count on it to afford me any kind of security. A craft seemed an obvious choice, and Healing had always appealed to me. I enjoy setting things right, putting them in order." She regarded her half-mended second shirt with clear satisfaction. This chore hadn't turned out so bad after all. "Perhaps that's not as noble a reason as some of my fellows, but it's honest." She chose to ignore his clear nervousness, and then impulsively chose differently. "Are you nervous around all dragons, or only the painted ones?" she asked, a teasing note hidden in her polite tone.

Indivara had more to say on the subject of painting, and Breccan was content to listen with interest. "Wet doesn't trouble me," she answered, "I could swim before I could walk, likely. Ista is much like here in some ways. Plenty of sun and plenty of sea." She paused to neatly snap her thread, and lay her completed second shirt on top of her first. "Who is Kerrin?"

The younger girl's comment about Katila being built with Grith in mind startled her into laughter, despite the fact that the image of the Green falling through the roof was more alarming than humorous, at least when you were directly underneath. "Are the storms as bad as Grith?" she asked, shooting an apologetic look at Par'a. She hadn't meant to imply the Green was bad in any way, only that she was almost certainly terrible for architecture. "I have seen a few huts that look, ah, tattered. I remember storms on the Isle but I was probably pouting too much to pay attention to details," she added. The storms then hadn't really impressed her much. They had seemed no worse than Istan squalls, and she was familiar enough with those. Besides, she had had adequate shelter and been deeply furious about her plight, so the storm had seemed a lesser concern. In fact, she remembered standing out in one and simply screaming her frustration, lashed by wind and rain and muffled by the thunder. Not so bad, really. Then again, she'd always liked storms.

Talian was content to let the awkward, uncomfortable moment pass.It wasn't his fault or Breccan's, and he could see that the girl as every bit as torn and uncomfortable as he was. There was one major difference, though. Talian was every bit the kind to wallow in sorrow. He didn't exactly care to show it due to his desire to avoid unwanted attention, but it was very much a part of him. His tendency to keep his tourbles to himself rather than complain probably contributed, causing his frustration to build up over time and finally explode in fits of emotion.

Now wasn't one of those times, though. He smiled at her again. Perfectly happy to let the conversation slip away, and nodded with gentle interest at her story. "There's something to be said for honesty," he said with a half-smile. He knew a lot of healers to be awfully self-righteous about their profession. He understood the sentiment, but there wasn't enough aggression in him (passive or otherwise) to be self-righteous.

"I do love it, though. I didn't handle people too well when I was younger, and going out on journey helped me feel more...connected, I suppose," he mused. His eyes widened and his face coiled into a conspiratorial, cautioning sneer as Grith was mentioned. He sidled close to Breccan, delicately craning his neck over to whisper in her ear. He was careful to avoid actually touching her. "That dragon ripped the doors off of the dining hall not long ago," he whispered. "I don't trust that thing near any building." He nodded with authority and cast a stern look towards the window, completely oblivious to how weird he was acting.

Shards, Talian wasn't even aware of the stereotype that prodigies tended to be weird people by nature. In his mind, he was giving Breccan necessary warning of potential disaster.

"Anyhow," he said with a curt nod, "I probably need to go have a bath. I must smell horrid after being out in the sun - and I apologize if I do. It was a pleasure meeting you, though." He moved to shake her hand, but stopped short and frowned at his bandage. He changed hands. "I'll see you around again, I'm sure. Have a nice day."

With that, he flashed a nervous but sincere smile and lightly stepped around her,. excusing himself from the room.

Par'a laughed at Breccan's cautioning words. "You don't need to know how to paint, or be any good at it. So long as the paint's on her hide, she's happy. Aren'y you ol' Grithy?" Par'a directed her last words up at the ceiling, resulting in Grith prancing directly above them for a few moments in response. "Then again, I'll always welcome a willing hand to bathe the beast. She may be one of the tiniest about but she's still big to me." She laughed, ever thankful that she had been blessed with such a small dragon. Then again, all the dragons of her time had been smaller than the ones that were being clutched now. How big would this clutch wind up being?

Shaking her head she tuned back into the conversation, noticing Talian's nervous glance towards her. She laughed, clearly he was a shy soul, not used to one as boisterous as herself or her dragon. Perhaps he had been in the dining hall when Grith had gotten herself stuck, that would definitely explain for his wariness of them both.

When Indivara spoke up again she laughed. It was true, she had often had many little weyrbrats tell them excitedly of their painted scenes upon Grith's hide, only to later see them as slaughtered abstract arts. Though that might not entirely be their fault, Grith did like to make a mess of the paints. Her constant rolling and spilling of paints out at the edge of the Weyr and the eastern ranges seemed to have left a permanent stain of paint on the ground there.

"Ah… The storms here are tropical, so they can get quite nasty," Par'a answered Breccan. Her mind swept back to the storm of 224, they were lucky they hadn't had another like it since then. "A few turns ago we had a terrible, vicious storm though. Almost the entire Weyr was destroyed because of it. We rebuilt, trying to keep things much sturdier than before. We lost some of our number that day." Par'a's voice darkened for a moment as she remembered the dragons and riders that had died from the storm. The moment passed quickly though, with her wide grin and chirpy attitude back in place.

Bye wingless one! Grith shouted down to them all as Talian said his goodbyes, her voice jarring and high-pitched. Hopefully she would be distracted before he reached the exit of the hall, or he might find a rather exuberant dragon following him.

It was interesting to find Talian had felt unconnected to people, and confirmed her earlier suspicions that it would be strange to be so much more intelligent than those around you. Why else would he feel that way? Never having met a prodigy before, she was also unaware of the stereotype, but when he abruptly stepped closer and whispered ominously some story of Grith tearing the doors from the dining hall, she was more than a little surprised. His careful avoidance of physical contact didn't go unnoticed either, but she was more inclined to count that as some leftover Holder-politeness. You didn't simply touch the opposite gender without more of a guardian than there was here. Par'a and Indivara were Weyrfolk, and probably comfortable with physical contact, but the rules were different in the Holds, as she well knew. Then again, remembering his earlier hesitancy to allow her to touch his injured hand, he might have a personal aversion to the sensation altogether.

She shook his hand, saying it had been a pleasure to meet him as well, but wasn't unhappy at the idea of turning her attention to the pair of Weyr females. "I'd be happy to lend a hand, then," she smiled at the woman, quite unable to resist the obvious affection between her and her Green. She did hope Par'a would call upon her to help at some point. It would be informative at the very least, and probably pleasant as well. Despite Talian's warning, she thought Par'a completely harmless, and Grith was probably just prone to overexcitement. Somehow she doubted the Green that liked to dance on buildings and be painted by children had deliberately pulled the doors off of the dining hall. Destruction didn't seem to be in her nature, only exuberance.

Breccan was surprised to hear that one of the storms had been so severe it had killed some weyrfolk. Perhaps even dragon-riding pairs? Debris would be a problem, especially if someone happened to be in the air during a storm. Then again, Breccan was abruptly seized with an image of herself a-dragonback, lashed by rain and wind, tumbling across the wind currents of a tropical storm. It was an exhilarating thought, but she reminded herself that such behavior was doubtless discouraged, if not forbidden. Even if she Impressed, she had some time before she'd be flying anywhere, much less unsupervised and in the midst of a storm.

The Green's voice in her head was much, much more surprising. Breccan winced, her hands making small abortive movements towards her ears. The sound was gone as quickly as it had happened, but it hadn't been a sound, not exactly. It had been in her head, like her own mental 'voice,' but it had certainly not been hers. "Was that Grith?" she asked no one, grey eyes leaping to the roof, "How do you...how do you do that, someone in your head all the time?" Her eyes were wide as she turned them to Par'a. Faranth, she hadn't thought this through! Impressing meant someone always listening and commenting, someone in your head. Breccan was inclined towards privacy, to keeping things to herself and musing about them privately. Having someone around listening in was not only strange, it was alarming. How could she possibly know what she thought about things if someone else was constantly interjecting their opinion?

Faranth. She had to hope she got a fairly quiet dragon.

Indivara's blue gaze flickered to Breccan in amusement at her question, and the smile that lit up on her lips was devious. "A Weyrbrat. No one of importance." Kerrin would disagree fiercely, of course, but that was entierly the point and hte girl's self satisfied expression belied that much.

The young weyrbrat's expression sobered dramatically as Breccan asked about storms and Par'a explained the happenings. Indivara remembered that day, that week, shards that year. She'd not heard so much keening from the dragons before or since. She hoped never to. Her mother had been one of many that was thrown back into times of plague and constantly vanishing dragons. Indivara shuddered.

"Death keens are the most soul rendering sound." She said softly, barely above a whisper. It was never a good thing to hear, when a dragon's keen broke through the air. Their hum, however, was awaited on with baited breath. Indivara quivered again, this time in delight at the prospect of the upcoming clutch.

Indivara laughed outright at Breccan's shocked expression and automatic response to cover her ears. "It doesn't work," Indivara laughed, teasing. "Covering your ears," she explained, realising her sentence was a little chopped. "But yes, that was Grith. You'll come to recognise her distinct voice." A cheesy grin was sent to Par'a, before the girl added a teasing reassurance for the healer girl, "don't worry, Grith is one of a kind!"