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Date Posted: 23:22:13 08/23/05 Tue
Author: Yima & Yimask
Subject: So, um. Any Weyrleaders around to chat?

After a half-day of fitful sleep, once it seems that all her wher-handlers are finally asleep, Yima and Yimask move to the entrance cave to listen to the dragons. Yimask whines softly, no better able to sleep than her handler is, and shifts uneasily. "Aaach, I know, 'Ask," Yima sighs, thumping the big creamy head affectionately. "I'm no happier than you are about leaving the younglings alone, or having a green about to clutch, or that back entrance to the caves. But we'll have to trust that bronze for the younglings and the second tunnel-" Yimask makes a rude blatting sound, and Yima chuckles hoarsely, in perfect agreement with her watchwher on just how well they can trust someone they've barely talked to "-and that Journeywoman can't control when her green flies." This time, the gold wher hisses, and earns herself a sharp rap on the head rather than the friendlier thump. "Oh, shut it," her handler snaps. "The cave's perfect for clutching, and you won't fly for another quarter-Turn yet. There's no need to whine, she's not stealing anything from you." Yimask whines, but subsides. Before she can continue complaining, sounds drift in from outside, and the watchwher queen's head jerks up and tilts to one side to better hear. "The Hatching?" Yima asks, and Yimask makes a soft crooning noise, an affirmative rather than the dragon's Hatching response. Now neither try to sleep, Yima wide awake and alert for a certain signal, Yimask uncertain of her handler's sudden attention but determined to match it. Finally, a distant, muted sound reaches them, the combined cheers and bugling of many dragonriders. "That'll be the gold," Yima says in satisfaction, and pushes herself to her feet. Yimask moves to rise with her, and the woman gestures her sharply back down. "Stay," she orders. The watchwher groans in protest. Reaching down, Yima raps her fist against the thick skull again, then soothes it with a heavy pat. "Stay, Yimask. Guard the others." Everything she says to the wher is backed up by a sort of mental echo, far more emotion than thought, but this time she deliberately focuses on that echo. Yimask whines and then makes an odd sound, something like a deep, echo-y chirp, that indicates her obedience, however resigned.

The Hatching won't be over just yet, but Yima isn't heading straight to the Feast anyway. Ducking out past her makeshift felt curtain, the woman blinks fiercely as afternoon sunlight burns her eyes, and quickly makes her way into the Weyr and locates a spot in the shade. Beltknife tucked into the top of her boot for easy access, she hails a passing drudge. "I want some hide, a pen, and colors if you can find them," she orders, in an imperious tone that tends to bring results, and the drudge squeaks in alarm and scurries off. Back against a stone wall, Yima waits impatiently for her supplies, then sits and begins to draw, glancing up and reaching for her knife any time something so much as moves within her range of sight. Finishing her map, she tucks it away, accosts another hurrying drudge, and smirks in satisfaction when informed, in faltering and terrified tones (people holding drawn beltknives are rather scary), that the Feast has begun, and if she hurries she'll be in time to hear the Weyrleader's speech.

Yima doesn't hurry. She doesn't care about the Weyrleader's speech. Instead, she moves slowly, cautiously, glancing about with a guarded gaze, and with one hand always near the knife tucked back into her belt. Some, upon seeing her, might assume abuse or a painful experience in her past. But despite the dangers that had accompanied and followed the disasters, Yima has never truly been hurt, not badly enough to make her this wary. And she's never been hurt like that because she's always been this wary. Sheer paranoia motivates the woman, which may explain why she's so close to her watchwher, for suspicion and distrust have been bred into the whers so that they may guard their Holds well. In the crowded Lower Caverns, Yima is practically vibrating with terror, though she'd never admit to it by that name - suspicion, distrust, caution, even paranoia, but she will never flat-out call it fear. Only two people here she dares to trust, and she'd seen her brother's green dragon in the skies, while the bluerider who had saved her and her watchwher is nowhere to be seen. It's not too hard to identify the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman, though, and fighting down instincts that tell her to run with the iron-willed self-control that has driven her survival and success, Yima approaches the head table. She doesn't approach immediately, although marching right up to the pair had been her original plan, because the Weyrleader has men lined up beside him and seems to be in the middle of some sort of minor ceremony. It's no good earning the man's wrath by interrupting him, not when Yima is only MasterCrafter by her own declaration (few people stop to argue with someone who assumes authority and has an organized plan, or else someone might have realized by now that she hasn't exactly been given the title). Instead, the woman drifts around the cavern, staying as far away from crowds as possible, until the scent of cooked meat drifts past her and makes her stomach ache. For a moment, she resists, but the lure of food is too much, and she ducks in and snatches up a meatroll from beneath a dragonrider's fingers. Eating the meatroll gives her something to do while she's waiting, something other than twitching and coming up with tactics for self-defense if someone attacks her, and when she's licked the last crumbs from her fingers, the Weyrleader is finally finishing up his ceremony. She approaches the table, pauses a short distance away, and lurks - very, very obtrusively. Yima is extremely skilled at being obtrusive, and it doesn't even have to involve a knife, just a hard stare that could probably wear away boulders if given a long enough period of time.

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