Can I help you? [E'kan]

The greenrider was sprawled in his seat, with both legs kicked up to stretch across his desk at the front of the classroom he'd laid claim to several turns back, when the Craft Hall had first been opened up. The room before him was empty, his classes for the day long since having been done and dusted. Outside, Larrikith was sprawled against the wall, legs and wings stretched in every direction as she dozed in the sunshine. B'jin could pick up the faint sound of the fat dragon snoring lightly, a habit the little dragon vehemently denied possessing, despite the fact that she knew B'jin was about as good at lying as the grass was at growing pink. Personally, B'jin couldn't wait until someone else pointed it out... preferably someone Larrikith respected, so that at least they couldn't be eaten for it.

B'jin tapped his quill against his chin, flicking the tip of the feather lightly back and forward and amusing himself with the gentle touch of the feather. Before him, he had a square of rough parchment, the stuff used to get the slightly older students used to pen and paper. It was starting to wear and had been scraped one too many times, but that was all well and fine. The man's expression was deeply amused as he puzzled through the terrible combination of bad writing and worse spelling. Some of these kids! Scratching a light correction in, B'jin managed to decipher another sentence and moved on to the next. Some of these kids were going to find themselves at a sore disadvantage if D'ren decided to toughen up on the requirements of Weyrbrats and their education. They were already competing against men and women with more turns education than most of the 'brats were old.

Finally managing to work his way through the sheet, B'jin tossed it onto the pile of others that had been marked, and turned his attention upon the next. Another atrocious hand, this one almost had legible handwriting and while he still had to decipher what the word was meant to be, B'jin found it much easier to do when he could actually see what the letter was intended to be. Brushing the feather across his cheek absently, B'jin's eyebrow arched as he read through what was written. Some of these brats needed to be more subtle with some of their opinions. Instead of going on the main pile, this one got shoved in a draw that B'jin twisted to tug open and shove it in, being careful not to unseat himself in the process. The next piece was, at least, almost up to B'jin's (rather extravagant) standards. He could read it with ease, and the spelling was even almost entirely correct! Unfortunately, as a result, it needed little more than a bare glance in order to read and mark it... and B'jin was back to the horror of terrible writing, atrocious spelling, and a sudden desire to have his dragon chew firestone so he could burn it all... Sure, let's add unauthorised firestone usage to your list of rule breaking. And you worry about the handwriting of children. Larrikith's voice was a sleepy mumble on the edge of his mind. Your priorities need work, love. B'jin ignored her, in order to toss aside the latest atrocity.

You have a visitor. The little dragon shook herself awake just enough to have her eyes flutter open, though she didn't actually move. Sleepy eyes glanced around, and then she gave a huff and shifted to become more comfortable. Her eyes sunk shut once more, and her breathing slowly deepened. Really! Who? B'jin's thoughts, in comparison, were bright and enthusiastic at the prospect of being interrupted. He couldn't really think who it could be; he was pretty sure his usual array of companions were busy doing one thing or another, and besides, he'd let his students out early so none of them would actually expect him to be free for another hour or so. Brown Zhekemth's rider. Larrikith said gently, not immune to the way B'jin's entire attitude changed at her words. She didn't understand his fear and aversion of her brown brothers and their riders, and occasionally she found it hilarious, sometimes she found it tiresome, but mostly she just didn't care. She couldn't find any reason for it in his mind, and so it was pointless dramatics. B'jin disagreed, but he still wouldn't elaborate so why should she change her tune?

... What does he want? B'jin's voice was reserved now, almost holding back from speaking to her and she could feel the captured memories trying to get free, though she couldn't touch them. Stupid human.  How should I know? she snapped, ignoring the fact that a simple query could answer such a question. Ask him yourself. B'jin's brown eyes lifted warily from the parchment he was holding, and stared at the form of E'kan in the doorway, neither welcoming nor dismissing his appearance.

"Can I help you?" His words were quiet, and polite.

Spring was a lovely time of the year, and early spring especially so. When E'kan rose in the morning on this particular day, he was burdened with glorious purpose quite certain that there was more for him to do than simply walk into Mordor get started on the chore that, once again, awaited him. Shards, it wasn't like anything that he had to clean was going to get up and walk away while he took advantage of the morning to take a long, leisurely bath and debate on the most important question (this week) that he needed to answer: What was he going to give Tsuen for her birthday?

Rising from the water, certain that he was cutting an impressive figure, E'kan pulled on his leather breeches and elected to neglect his shirt. It was getting hotter, just a little, and he wanted to start on gaining back that protective layer of tanned skin that would keep him from burning in the hot months to come. After all, summers were hot and wet, and muggy, and altogether still more comfortable than some of the weather he vaguely recalled from the North. Almost 15 turns on the Southern continent had wiped his mind clean of most Northern weather but for what he thought he might remember from one of the many stories he'd heard over four turns of exile and the many turns since.

And (almost) everything he had now was thanks to Tsuen and Nirinath. His home was because Nirinath had called them all back together, and because they had worked all together, and Zhekemth was born, and... in the end, all the important things in his life spurred from that moment when Melisanth had lifted her aging green head and told them both that it was time to pack. Then too, Tsuen had been pregnant for- oh, for forever, at least, so he needed to get her something very nice to reward her for the trials and tribulations of being a "leader" not only politically, but by being among the first women to give birth since D'ren's controversial ruling.

So, E'kan decided as he was elbow-deep in suds, he was going to write Tsuen a poem.

Women loved poetry, didn't they? All through lunch, E'kan agonized over what kind of a poem he could write Tsuen- but the only thing he could wax eloquent on was her dragon. He didn't know her well enough to care about her personality, and frankly, he wasn't into her looks. Not that they were bad. It was problematic.

Will you bathe before you go to the Hall? Zhekemth asked after a time, his gravelly voice falling into his Bonded's head like rocks. He knew, after all, probably better then E'kan did- the man was a talentless hack when it came to art.

"No." the Rider said aloud, still shirtless, making his way towards the CraftHall later that afternoon. Because the shirtless part was what was important. "I will journey to a professional. I have a few marks. I can get something done at the Hall. I have some great ideas."

You need more marks. Zhekemth told his rider kindly. They have a lot of work to do to make your ideas... palatable for a Goldrider. Or anyone with taste.

"You shut up." he told Zhekemth, scowling. And entered the room, where B'jin seemed to be ready for him. The scowl turned to a grin, and E'kan's voice was jovial as he almost proclaimed- "Greetings!" How exciting! Even when E'kan was courting, or dating, or whatever his sexual and romantical entanglements could be construed as, he had never thought so hard about a present. And it said a lot about him, truth be told. "I have an idea all formulated. I want to commission an ode."

B'jin's politely neutral mask did little to betray his bewilderment at how, precisely, anyone bonded to a lump of mud with wings could possibly have something to be happy about. Or where those bonded to lumpy mud pies got such arrogance to walk around half naked, or why they were always getting in his face. The greenrider was almost tempted to check to make sure he didn't have some sign on his back or attached to his head like a flashing neon.

Instead, his feet came down from his desk and he shifted subtly on his seat, feet under himself and ready to bolt. B'jin didn't trust more than a handful of people, and not one of them were a brownrider. Brownriders were the worse of the crop and he had no desire to be anywhere near a half naked, far too happy looking mud-bonded rider... That wanted to what?!

"Why don't you commission Kerrin to make you a shirt!" B'jin snapped, scowling irritably, as he tried to figure out why under the red star anyone would come to him to commission such a thing. Obviously, the brownrider must have any some other motive, because B'jin was pretty sure anyone even remotely interested in word based art wouldn't come within a range of him if they could help it.

B'jin was a great singer, and an amazing artist. His talents, however, did not extend to words. He was not a word smith, and his had a better tendency to tie himself up in knots and get him into trouble than win people over. Talian could probably write a better poem than B'jin, and as much as he loved him, the boy was about as imaginative as a rock.

Besides which! B'jin had better things to be doing in his time than sitting around with a some idiot brownrider who wanted to write an ode. What did he even want an ode for? Who was it for? B'jin's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "For whom," he finally asked, his voice as mild and slightly suspicious as his features.

He'd feel out this situation, and then decide whether it was worth his time or not. While the brownrider undoubtedly was not the information he might glean my well be.

"I don't need a shirt, and Faranth knows Kerrin would probably gouge me for every last mark I've gambled out of anybody." Not that marks really meant much in Katila, all in all. That was a Northern form of currency; Katila's money was hard work and rippling muscles. "Regardless of your personal feelings on my dress- or lack thereof, I will admit- I have come up with the basis for a poem, but Zhekemth says I did it wrong, so I should go to a professional."

He had tried very hard on this, but truth be told, he'd grown up in the Southern Wilds with a crochety old Greenrider. Taste was hardly something that he'd been taught to have.

"Ode to Tsuen." he advised the Harper, and began the first stanza.

Tsuen of Gold Nirinath
Fairest Weyrwoman of Pern
I know it is hard to do the math
And count the hearts that you've made burn
With your bewitching eyes and your long dark hair,
Your breadth, your height,
And your personality is pretty good too, I think.
Your eloquence is awesome, it isn't fair
And your teeth are just so pearly white.
And from past to present, you are the link.

He cleared his throat, grinning. "I have some of the next stanza too. What do you think. Can you make, you know, music to go with it, once you've fixed it and made it classy-like? Maybe teach me to play some notes on a lute so I can strum along?"