Curfew Conundrum

Xanadu Weyr - Hatching Arena

Large outer doors can be thrown open to allow massive amounts of people into the foyer with ease, the well-lit space both having many thick-paned windows as well as spaced lights along the walls. Smooth tile has carefully been laid on the floor, a variety of orange hues reflecting the pale tan of the walls. Wide areas have been left unadorned - perhaps for future artistic endeavors - on either side of a pair of low, bronze doors which remained closed the majority of the time, as they lead to the sands themselves. Off to the sides are doors to the candidates barracks and the Dragonhealer's annex, and a pair of wide staircases on either side lead upwards to the observation level.

Curfew was something that sailor was well adjusted with, to an extent. All they had to do was be on the deck when the ship was about to sail. As it was, with the evening having turned utterly quiet and motionless, Landers had finally pried himself out of the chair in the observation level. He hadn't much thought of the consequences to strolling in late, as it was he didn't do anything but over extend his stay in the galleries. No harm done… Yet as his footsteps took him into the large corridor, he paused to consider the empty space, where his boots echoed the sound of each step. The lights had been dimmed, if not turned out for the evening, while the doors to both the barracks and the annex had been shut. Thinking nothing of it, the sailor turned candidate makes for them. The instant he reaches for the door, he puts his weight against it, meaning to shoulder himself inside while masking the sound of the knob turning from a steady hand. Instead, his weight just thumps up against it and the handle does not spin. "Shit…" is rapidly uttered as he fidgets with the handle a few more times, as if trying it several times over would magically get it to unlock. Groaning a little for the realization that he had been locked out, his forehead lightly thumps against the door as he rests it there, hand still on the door knob. Come the morning head count, he'd be found out.
that a sailor*

M'nol's boots click along the stone as he makes his way down the hall, chattering easily to the bronze perched on his shoulder, "Well, Bloodstone, this lot seems to be doing quite well." The bronze chitters back, then his bond continues, "Well, yes, some of them are young, but all easily suited to the life." There's more chittering, then, "Well, yes I know you can't talk. But Farry's asleep." An easy chuckle peels down the hall before the compact assistant weyrlingmaster appears around the bend of the tunnel, "Not even any major discontent ye-" He cuts off with a soft whistle at the sight of Landers there outside the door, "Missed curfew by quite a bit, there, candidate." He manages light-but-stern very well along with a questioning arched brow as he waits for Landers' response.

Lan closes his eyes as his forehead stays on the door, contemplating the means that he could use to pry open the door or likely how to sneak around the head count in the morning. The footfalls echoing down the hall have the young man jerk his head up, his eyes flashing in the dim light toward the direction of the sound. No time to react however, he is caught red handed, quite literally since the palm of his hand still gripped the knob in a sense of desperation. There wasn't even any use of running or hiding. It'd only get worse if he did. Shoulders thereby slump down as his head bumps back up agains the door frame, hearing the man's soft whistle and initial response. Languidly, he rolls himself away from the door, the door frame itself digging into the center of his back as he rests back upon it, arms loosely crossing his chest as his face lifts up, a large breath puffed out from between his lips. "Aye…" the sailor gives the admission easily, "Reckon I lost track of the time up thar," a thumb pointe to the stairwell of the observation level. A typical excuse, one that had likely been used many times before in the secret rendezvous of a candidate. Would the rider believe him?

M'nol eyes the older candidate curiously, then peers into his eyes, "Just the eggs, hmm?" He peers closer, more menacing. The little bronze on his shoulder cocks his head to one side, peering equally curiously, "Are you sure it was /just/ the eggs? You'd hardly be the first candidate to lose track of time… doing any number of things." His tone is soft and speculative, his eyes waiting for Landers' reaction.

The seafaring man squints his eyes through the dim light of the corridor, clearly not intimidated by the other, save for the fact that there was a certain amount of respect given to the title there upon M'nol's shoulder. Respect was different than being intimidated. Yet, the sailor decided to smirk at the unconvinced assistant weyrlingmaster, "T'would wish it otherwise, ta be honest," there is a confidence in the sailor as he continued to grin at M'nol, confidence not over empowering, but there, and a sturdiness in him, while his heavy seafaring accent carried the conversation further, "Be hard fer me ta keep ta the rules, yet I be not proud that I be breaking this one. Tis only four days in ta wearing the knot, sir."

M'nol straightens to his full five feet, which is hardly intimidating and he knows it. One hand comes up, then sticks a finger in one ear, spinning it this way and that as if cleaning his ear out before he chuckles, "Shards, now I know how folks felt when I brought my Crom miner's accent down here." It's clearly gone now. "Now… I think I caught most of that." He turns to look at the bronze and the pair seems to confer as to a proper interpretation of the former sailor's words, then he pulls a key out of his pocket and wiggles it, "Once is all you get. And if I've found out you lied to me, you'll be punished as if I'd caught you in the act

Lan quirks an eyebrow for the chuckle in respect to his accent, his jaws tightening as he chews on the subtle insult. Pushing away from the door frame, the candidate seems to not know what to say, since his words apparently give M'nol trouble to understand. However, the fact that M'nol no longer speaks with the Crom accent he claims to have once used, does give the sailor pause. "Whar? Did they give ya a new tongue?" he asks out of turn, even as he shuffles back from the door upon seeing the key being slipped out of pocket. The latter comments have the sailor puff out a noise between his lips, "I nay be lyin ta ya sir. Be caught up in my thoughts. Tis a different life 'n I be thinking iffin it really be fer me." An appreciative look goes to the rider for the mercy shown.

M'nol chuckles appreciatively, "Eight turns with a dragon in your head'll clear up just about any weird speech. At least Farry was constantly making me repeat things more clearly or asking why I didn't sound like R'owan." He turns the key in the lock, dropping his voice so as not to wake up those within, "And I remember my own month starin' at those eggs. Well, different eggs, but you know what I mean. Just keep a better eye on the time next time. Can't be seen t' be playing favorites."

Indeed. There had been no wild stories or reasons why he was out so late. It was a simple misjudgement, caught up in his own nightmares and his uncertainties that he could not shake. To be in the place he was now, many have been before him. Many crafter, many a holder, many a wayward soul had found themselves in a position, wondering if they deserved to be there, if they really wanted to become a rider. For Lan, he showed a quiet resolve, nodding at the rider with an indebted countance. "Aye sir," he murmurs quietly, starting to slip into the previously locked barracks, pausing once to look back at the keyholder, "Thanks be to ya sir," and then he's disappearing into the darkness of the barracks, attemping to work his way to the nearest empty cot, since not all had been full.

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