The Nickname Game

Xanadu Weyr - Observation Level
Dark blue seats form a semi-circle around the sands below, the lowest row separated from the multicolored red and white sands by merely a railing. The seats climb upwards, each row a bit higher than the previous, and they are broken up into sections by three sets of staircases. Between the first and second section, a glass wall descends to separate the observers from the heat of the sands. Air is kept in motion through a set of fans, and so these seats are quieter and cooler than the rest… though the noise and heat of the sands is still present.

Lights are evenly spaced along the outer wall, lighting the seats and the sands easily, though they tend to be dimmed unless a major event is taking place. A large balcony overhead connects to the glass wall. Vents for cooling run along the bottom of it, and the ledge provides a place for observers of the draconic kind to watch without obstructing the view for others.

The sand below is variegated in hue, individual grains of red and white that have a pinkish hue when seen from across the circle of the hatching grounds but - up close over that railing - are clearly two varieties mingled.

Late afternoon has finally come, bringing sweltering waves of heat and humidity that make the southern continent's beaches prime real estate. The air is more fit for swimming or drinking than breathing, and there's a heaviness found mostly in saunas and bath houses. Pattering in on thick souled boots is a young woman dressed head to toe in a loose linen skirt and blouse. This outfit is eye-soringly made of bright pink and purple geometric patterns. Beads of sweat drip down her brow, dirty blonde flyaway hairs frizzle next to her face as she bends down around the corners, green-brown eyes wide and lips puckered with mischief. "Hellllooo… Hhmmmm, I don't think they're here." Voice dripping in playful sarcasm, scanning every nook and cranny, even eyeing the ceiling for a moment before shaking her head.

Well, whoever she's looking for may not be here, but Kyszarin is, armed with a variety of cleaning tools, including the broom he wields in his hands with half-hearted gusto. There's not really much reason to sweep the platforms - sand will be sand, especially in the Hatching Arena, but someone decided it needed to be done, anyway, and assigned the healer-turned-Candidate to do it. If he were to guess, he'd bet whoever it was started with 'R' and ended with 'annoying sister' - but he had no proof. So here he was, broom in hand, cleaning solutions and scrub brushes tucked off to the side along with a bucket of water that might well evaporate before he gets to it.

Skipping up several steps before pausing, Evi calls out, "Oh no, I'm sure Ely and Izzy aren't in here. They must have disappeared forever." It's loud, sing-song, and absurd; there's two full beats before the curly black-haired candidate is noticed. Without hesitation, her face turns bright red, chin ducking to chest and shoulders hunching forward. Both elbows squeeze inward, finding a normal tone before asking, "You didn't, perhaps, maybe, possibly, sorta see two little boys come this way? Did you?" A flickering gaze over the seats is met with a huffing sigh of annoyance, "If they promised you marks to keep still, well, know they've not got many, and you'd be better off telling me. I have more." There's no slyness to her. She's genuine and bright, fingers lacing together at her chest. "Do you have a name?" An innocent question, one step is taken closer, toes tapping together twice for no discernible reason.

Bemused, Kyszarin's sweeping slows, then stops altogether and he plants the broom against the ground, leaning on it while he watches Evi with storm-blue eyes. Having been raised among a Weyr's creche - and being in possession of his fair share of younger siblings - he recognizes her sing-song call at once. As she notices him, he takes note of her apparent embarrassment and offers her a crooked grin that might just hold a hint of charm - if one is susceptible to such things. "Alas, I wish that I could say otherwise," the young man replies, still leaning on his broomstick, "but it's been me and a few grown gawkers and not many else. Never seen so few weyrbrats gawping at eggs before, but I suppose dam and sire being who they are, most people are wisely making themselves scarce unless it's safe for mental consumption."

Using the Weyr creche might well keep Evi from doing this sort of thing, but where's the fun in that. Taking another step forward, there's an inquisitive tilt of her head, chin tracing a bowl back and forth before one ear settles on a shoulder. The charm gets a second blush; far from immune, she glances up and down before crossing her arms and straightening in the way one might if their mother admonished them for slouching. "Ours don't mind, the noise doesn't bug weyr children, but it gives me a headache." A hard glance at the sands, as if any moment Leirith might start singing a ballad or playing the drums like a talentless but enthused child. "Um, well, you seem busy but finding them before dinner is vital. What if I helped you do this, and then you helped me?" The offer is placed out, hand held for the broom. "Plus, then, we can learn your name."

Briefly, Kyszarin's eyes flicker around, as if expecting to see someone else there - then he exhales in understanding. "Well, I'll not say no to help; goodness knows there's enough sand here to start a second hatching grounds, were we so inclined." The words are low, pitched not to carry - he knows much better than to give Leirith any ideas. "Here, if you'll sweep, I can start scrubbing down this row of seats. I've only to do this section, the first three rows - more than enough," he adds as he surveys the array of chairs layered before them, "for this day, at least." He passes over the broom to that outstretched hand. "And you could just ask, you know." And, being persnickity, he stops there with that same, half-cocked smile.

The broom is swiftly wielded like a swordsman might use a blade; the greenrider's efficient and brutal with it the way aunties tend to be. Dirt fears this kind of person and flees. While working, there's a lull, eyes going to the seats. "Did they not tell you some of this is optional?" Casual and sweet, there's a small twirl as the dirt is unceremoniously pushed through a crack to fall back into the hatching grounds. "We could start a second one, put it over in the corner? Give the girls options." A glimmer of youthful play, there's definitely a hint of trouble in the half-smile that fades into an intense pucker when more sand is spotted. None will escape her wrath. "Hrmm, or we could give you a fun nickname. Candidates come and go, but a good nickname is forever." Assessing from head to toe, there's a soft glaze of the eyes followed by a snicker, "You could then give me one." The offer is tossed out as if evening the playing field was important somehow.

"A nickname?" Kyszarin considers this proposition as he begins to scrub down one of the seats. "I suppose it would depend on the nickname. It needn't be particularly fitting - but it must be appropriate." What exactly does he consider appropriate? As he works at a stain that he has no desire to know the origin of, he glances over at Evi, watching her wield her weapon broom with a slightly appreciative grin. "But I'm afraid I'll have to decline giving you one - I'm not so clever as that," he sighs. "I'd probably end up calling you something completely out of touch with who you are, and the next thing you know, everyone thinks I'm an idiot." His lips curve wryly. "Well, even more of one than usual, anyway."

"Hrm." A petite nail-bitten hand is planted on a curvy hip, body leaning exaggeratedly to the side as Evi squints with a wrinkled nose. "Nicknames help describe a person's character." Twisting around again, the broom is danced with as if she has forgotten the candidate is there. "Names mean things, and things have power." Sing-song, playfully lilting the words as she bounces. "My original name means nothing to those who never knew it, as yours might not soon." Both hands form L's, flopping down next to the washed seat, fingers framing the younger man's face. "You have curly hair, so you could be Curly, or curls, or Curcur; I could call you stubby because you seem a bit stubborn. Stu, short for stubby, Mmm. No, that's good." The last comment was made to some invisible force, but most likely a dragon chiming in. "Scrubby fits, both how we met and… fits. Scrubby it is. As for me, you can call me Evi." A hand is jutted out as if sealing the deal is an essential step in this process. Poor Kys didn't even agree. OR DID HE.

"… Scrubby?" Kyszarin turns the word over on his tongue, frowning over it. "No. I think not." He puts down his scrub brush and stands up, proving he is very much not of the 'scrubby' variety. "Nicknames reflect a person's attributes, both physical and mental. There is nothing about me," he frowns, "that is 'scrubby'." It seems she's actually managed to offend him. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Evi, but I would prefer if you would refer to me by a name that particularly suits." And yet, his name still remains unspoken; now he's just being contrary, it seems. Sniffing, he settles back down in a crouch to begin tackling the next chair with his scrub brush. "Scrubby!" he mutters. Offended.

"That's not how the nicknaming game works." Evi is cheerful for absolutely no reason, scrunching up her face and squinting again at this new stranger person. "Grumpy could work, too, but that's probably too simplistic." The offense rolls off her, scooting to the edge of the seat. "Broody works, but that one is taken too. All the good 'y' names are pretty much booked up." A hand snakes down her side, a green hide hand-sized notebook is pulled out, and the pages rapidly flip through. "You could create your own nickname if you want; provide an alternative." Excitement bubbles over into a bounce, teeth flashing before she shakes her head teasingly. There's a chance she's playing with him; the joy rippling off her is its own private island as if she's entirely forgotten finding her children. "If you find the boys, you could be finder. That's better right?" She's asking, genuinely unaware of what might offend this new person. Or not, it's tough to tell.

Kyszarin's eyes are steel-blue as he studies her from where he scrubs, as if inspecting a new patient with a fascinating undiscovered disease. One that makes all sorts of spots and splotches. "Grumpy would suit me," he agrees with a flash of teeth against honey-hued skin. "Broody. Sulky. Brat was always a favorite, too - I'm generally more than willing to answer to that one. Hey You works, and also Kynryjiwhoever! That one is my mother's favorite name for me. My father can be even worse, but he's got significantly more children than she does." He shrugs nonchalantly and stands once more, dropping his scrub brush in the bucket and wiping his arm across his forehead. "It is absolutely miserable out here. You're missing two littles, yes? Perhaps we might go find them now; I can come back to this later, but I'd rather go looking before this heat enervates me any more than it has."

Being Evi is pretty MUCH a disease, and Kys would not even be the second or third healer to attempt to diagnose it. Maybe he could start a forum and write a paper. Noticing the study, there's a slight blush, head ducking down and body cheating away before she straightens reflexively and lifts her chin. That nagging mother again curtailing some of her 'bad' habits. "Brat isn't nice." The interjection is quick and kind, face softening maternally. "There's a reason I only have two kids. Well, three, sorta." A drop in tone signals she is leaving it at that. At the change in subject, it's jumped on, "Ok, Sulky, let's go find Izzy and Ely… They're probably somewhere cooler, maybe." She really has no clue, standing and brushing sand off her skirt, "They're four turns and six turns. Do you need a hankie?" Pulling one out of her pocket that's bright marigold with kittens embroidered and offering it to him as they whisk off. An unlikely pair at best, but they eventually find the boys hiding under a cupboard in the kitchens. A job well done for Evi and Sulky.

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