A Three Hour Tour!

Xanadu Weyr - Candidate and Weyrling Barracks
Xanadu's barracks are a massive, L-shaped amalgamation of caverns and construction, squared on one end, rough-hewn and oblong on the other, with weyrlings and candidates separated from one another by a large communal area. Wood and stone floors meet in a clever spiral pattern that interlaces and spreads, creating harmony in a space meant for completion of chores, classes, and storage of both dragon supplies and bedding for humans. A singular wooden door leads into an office for the weyrlingstaff.
Windows stretch the length of the candidate barracks, a long, low-ceilinged room that opens off the training grounds. One wall is slightly curved, set against the outer wall of the hatching arena, with a locked door closing off a tunnel that leads onto the sands. Cots are set in two rows along the length of the room, each with its own small press at the foot for personal belongings. It's always warm here when there are eggs on the sands; candidates seldom need more than a light blanket, but a diminutive hearth is available for the warming of beverages or the occasional firelizard-surprise.
The weyrling half of the barracks have been burrowed back into stone. Close and dark when shutters to the outside world are drawn, the ample paths between dragon couches have been lit with dim strips of light. Smaller couches are obviously intended for the very young weyrlings, while the largest ones at the back are for those close to graduation. A second small hearth abuts a massive cavern opening that slopes gently down to the training grounds outside.

It's morning in the barracks, and it's a crapshoot on whether there's more Candidates still snoring in their bunks or out and about. Might just be running about even at this point. Amongst those still wrapped up in their sheets is Kyszarin. He's a sprawler, it seems, and one foot pokes out near the end of the bed, while one long arm dangles down, fingertips brushing against the rough stone floor. His cheek is smushed into his pillow and for the moment, he's zonked. That's going to change, as Ginger is having none of it. Perched atop his head, the little brown firelizard eyes his friend's face, then lowers his head, shuffling around to expose on ear. His head twists to one side, then the other, gauging his range - then strikes. "OW! You mangy, mangled…" Whatever else the healer mutters is lost in the shuffle as he swats at the brown and shoves himself up, glaring.

While she's found a cot, it was merely a matter of convenience, rather than preference; she has an excuse: she was quite literally whisked off over the shoulder of a bronzerider, after all. Thus, Ligeia awakes and is left blinking in the morning light, her green firelizards vying for position on an oversized pillow that can easily hold the two of them with space to spare but, no, they're stretched out and pushing and generally being problematic. She stares at the ceiling for a long, long moment, idly reaching over to try to pet one firelizard or another, only to be reminded that, oh, right, her arm is still a mess of kittenish claw marks. And then, there's a familiar voice wafting through the barracks and she sits up - maybe a little too quickly, because there's a soft 'whoa' from her as she regains her equilibrium. "Hey? Heyyy."

Ginger takes wing and flutters off, pleased with himself, while Kyszarin, grunts and eyes his pillow as if debating flopping right back down. A warning twitter from the firelizard perched above, however, earns a glare and a mutter best left unheard by sensitive ears, before he's shoving ineffectually at his sheets, trying to free himself from the tangle he's managed to make of them. Sound of another voice drifting through the barracks earns a soft curse, then a pasted on smile as he lifts his head to apologize. "Hey. Sorry, didn't mean to…" That's a trail off as his eyes focus on the other bunk's occupant - then he grins for real. "Heeey you. Someone snagged you up, eh? Excellent."

"Will you two just- here. Fine. Herb, you go here." With all the casual ease of a relatively long-time firelizard owner, Ligeia grabs one of the two greens up and drops her on the pillow she'd just vacated. With peace restored, firelizardly snoozes can continue. Only after that does she look at her arm, red and angry - not infected, but definitely looking unpleasant - and blow out a breath. Kyszarin's approach draws a smile, though, and the discomfort's forgotten for the moment while she pats her cot and scoots over a little to make room for him to sit. "Nah, you're fine," and maybe there's a wig-waggle of eyebrows there, but it's there and gone, playful and light. "Yeah, some bronzerider just picked me up and carried me off for his depraved whims," she explains, tugging at the knot that's hung up nearby. "Someone got you, too. How weird is that, right?"

Clad in nothing but a pair of knee-length shorts, Kyszarin picks his way over to Ligeia's cot and slides down to sit on the indicated spot, scrubbing his hands through his short, tight curls. "Makes two of us," he grins, before his smile fades and he reaches out to gently catch at her scratched arm. "How is it every time I see you, someone's gone and done a number on you? This courtesy of that bronzerider?" Grey-blue eyes bleed to steel as temper ignites in them, his jaw set firmly against saying what he wants to say. "Here, let me have a look. Did you get a name? I have some excellent laxitives that taste like nothing at all. He won't even notice." He prods gently at the slashes, checking the depth. "Yeah. For a change of pace, was my father instead of my mother this time." Humor is there, but that thread of anger is still present.

"Ugh, it's a long story," Ligeia begins, but- really, it's a story that seems to make her laugh just thinking about it. She scoots a little closer, nudged hip to hip with Kyszarin - ostensibly to make it easier for him to look at her arm. It's the result of a kitten, evidently; all scabbed lines and redness, with some running a little deeper in the meat of her forearm, but the risk of scarring? Okay, she'll scar from it. She just has that kind of skin. "Buuut, his bronze was stalking some kitten at the lake and the kitten ran to me, so of course I rescued it and said it was mine. But his dragon really wanted it, I guess, so instead of taking my offer to come visit he just- decided to take me here instead and the kitten was not having it, sooo." Scratches ensued. She laughs, "I had a kitten for all of ten minutes, maybe, you know? I'm a terrible cat-mom. Mister Meowstopheles," for that's his name, forevermore, "is with them now." She flicks a look askance to her fellow Candidate. "Oh." Her tongue works into one of her cheeks. "Well, I'm glad you accepted. The rider that got me was Ila'den? Ila'den."

It's probably a really good thing that said bronzerider was not responsible for her scratches, because as amusing as it would be for Kyszarin to dose Ila'den's food with a laxative - he would absolutely have not wanted to be there when said bronzerider found out. "Oh," he says faintly. "Ila'den, hmm?" He seems to be struggling between being sympathetic and laughing in her face. "And Teimyrth was stalking a kitten? That sounds…" He pauses, considering. "Exactly like Teimyrth." Says someone with an absolutely skewed view of the rider-dragon pair. "Mister Meowstopheles? I'm sure you'll be given visitation rights." He'll make sure of it. "I'll need to clean these and bandage them, but at least I won't be stitching you up this time. I've got a small kit," because of course he does, "or we can go to the Infirmary. Up to you." He hasn't released her arm. He's no longer prodding, just holding gently.

Fingers wiggle a little bit all the while, just enough to indicate a low degree of lightheartedness despite the circumstances. "Yeah? Sounds like you know them pretty well already, huh?" Though whether she's started to connect dots - or run along lines of rampant speculation - remains to be seen. Ligeia's expression shifts slightly, slanting into unreadability for a moment. "I'm sure. I should make sure the kitten's doing okay, since, uh- well, it's kind of here because of me." Sheepish? A little, but he's holding her arm and she'll sneak a hand over to touch his fingers with a hand while she's briefly lost in thought. Then: "Here's fine, I think, unless- uh, you want to go for a walk, too? I don't… even know where the infirmary is here." The revelation sparks a laugh of her own, incredulous in its own right.

"Have you ever been to Xanadu before? It's an… interesting place." Quite reflective of the people who run it. Kyszarin's smile is slow and he squeezes her arm lightly before gently releasing her and rising from the bunk. "Let me toss on a shirt and I can show you around a bit." He offers out a hand to help her up, secrets crowding his eyes as he considers what to say next. "I know them well enough," he finally confirms - better to drop it on her than let her find out elseways. "Ila'den would be the same rider that Searched me, and I've known him most of my life. He, ah… takes some getting used to." UNDERSTATEMENT. "And I'm sure he'd let you see the kitten."

That prompts a slight shake of her head and a glance to her drowsing firelizards. "No. I think- um. I have vague memories of Half Moon Bay? And I've been to Ierne a few times. But, otherwise, it's just all Igen, all the time." If he's offering a hand up, she'll take it - and with another little squeeze for good measure. She's reluctant to release, but release is eventual, if only so he can get a shirt on. "Oh." A beat. "Ohhhh." And there, the moment when all dots are connected and crystallized accordingly. One thumb fidgets against another before she grins up at him again. "You know, if this were a real story, someone would say that's a little too contrived." But it's not a story (unless we want to get really meta) and it makes her laugh again. "My mom knew him, I think? Or- she knew his name, anyway." <REPOSE SORRY D:>

There's a suspicious gleam in Kyszarin's eye. "Ila'den knows a lot of people's mothers," he says dryly. "Please, please, please don't tell me he's your father, too. That would be…" AWKWARD, especially in light of - well, everything. When she accepts his hand up, his fingers close about hers for a brief squeeze before he lets go as well, moving to grab a shirt from his press and tug it on over his shoulders, buttoning it quickly. "Well," he says, his voice holding just a hint of amusement, "Xanadu's not like anywhere else I've been - but really, I've only lived at Ista and Healer, so I guess I've little basis for comparison. But - well, you'll see soon enough." Kyn's never been one to ruin a surprise - and Xanadu (and her many denizens) can definitely be a surprise.

"Oh no. No no no no noooo!" Staccato-quick and wide-eyed, Ligeia's at the verge of wheezing with a mixture of laughter and horror. "Nooooo, not unless he's moonlighting as a dragonless baker in Igen." Which- okay. MAYBE. She's not about to think too much on that, though; that way lies madness. While he pulls a shirt on, she waits patiently, with a hand out for the taking once he's ready to go. "I think she Impressed out of one of Teimyrth's clutches, that's why." Crisis: averted. And then: "What was that like? Living at Ista? And Healer? I've always wondered what Crafthall life was like." And Xanadu? She'll not pry too much at all; she's looking forward to the secrets and surprises!

"Okay. Good." Because any other answer might well have sent Kyszarin in a bit of a tail-spin. "I mean, I can't speak for da - maybe he'd like to pretend he's not a dragonrider, given how much trouble dragonriding seems to be at times… but you'd know." There's no mistaking Ila'den, whether or not you're his spawn. Shirt buttoned, sandals slipped on, he reaches out to slide his fingers through hers with an easy grin. "Ista? Ista's a lovely Weyr," he muses as he begins to lead her from the barracks, Ginger tumbling off his perch to flit along above them. "A bit like Xanadu, climate-wise - although not quite so muggy. Great place to visit, but I'll not live there again if I can help it." Fortunately, he's an adult - just one who loves his mother. "And Hall life? Hectic," he grins wistfully.

"Oh, I'd definitely know," she laughs, fingers lacing readily with his. Ligeia's arm? Forgotten for now, with her attention easily shifted to talk of life in far off and distant lands - which includes Xanadu, even if she's here in it. It's shiny and new and unfamiliar! Which is why she'll follow along without question or hesitation, all eyes for all the sights that might present themselves. After all, her snapshot glimpses of the Weyr were brief enough - long enough to get here, to drop her stuff off and pick a place to sleep. "It really is humid," she asides with a grimace. "Igen's not like that at all." It's just dry, dry dry - though all of her clothes should work just fine here. "Wow. Any fun stories from the Hall or- Ista, too, I guess? Aside from you being asked to Stand by your mom, I mean. Do you miss the Hall?"


Xanadu Weyr - Training Grounds
This wide, grassy expanse is nestled into a vaguely bowl-shaped curve, granite walls jagged and misshapen as though something's taken a bite out of the mountain. It's high above the level of the beach, with a lovely easterly view of the sea and a long path leading down to sandy shores. Cliffs surround the training grounds on all other sides, excepting a small archway leading towards the hatching arena.
While much of the grounds are left in their natural state, one area has been trampled and trodden by enough feet that the grass struggles to grow. A running track circles a set of equipment - straw dummies with wooden frames, obstacles of various sizes and shapes, and targets for flaming, archery, and whatever else might be needed to train human and dragon bodies alike.
Candidate access to the combined barracks can obtained by way of a simple door embedded into the wooden half of the structure. Weyrlings are encouraged to make use of a short but massive tunnel that slopes gently upwards into the half of the barracks meant for dragon use. To the right of this opening, a jagged crack in the stone leads to a dim cave, alive with the sound of water.

Out of the barracks and into the Training Grounds, and Kyszarin pauses to look around, getting his bearings. "Truth be told, this tour will be as much for me as you. I can tell you where the infirmary is, where the food is, and vaguely where the gardens are - but I didn't take a lot of time to look around. Life's busy in a Weyr, especially if you're forever patching up people." He grins, squeezing her fingers slightly as his gaze darts around the area. "Not a bad view, anyway." His eyes flicker briefly to her, then back towards the sea. "Make sure you drink plenty of water, take in plenty of salt - just like home," he murmurs. "The threat of dehydration remains the same - the heat paired with the humidity will leech you of water and salt just as fast as an arid heat will." Once a healer, always a healer. "Stories? Oh, millions," he says breezily. "If you think weyrbrats are bad for shenanigans, try having scores of teenagers from all over Pern tossed together in one place."

"That's still way more than I know," Ligeia points out with a playful squeeze of fingers and slight swing of hands. But the rest? She can only nod along with it - Weyrlife is busy and she can only imagine the life of a Healer at a Weyr. "I promise, you'll never want for work if I'm anywhere near where you are." An impish flash of a grin follows. Her gaze tracks after his, though it lingers a bit on him before it moves along. "It's really nice. Different, but- nice." More nodding follows, with faint noises of agreement; all of that's familiar enough, what with hydration and electrolytes being kind of a big deal. It's only his last that has her eyebrows lifting with a bit of a waggle. "Oh, I can imagine. Especially with all the rules, right? That just makes it even better, yeah?"

A slow smirk greets her words. "I imagine you can certainly keep me busy," Kyszarin replies, and doesn't bother to hide the sly laughter that underlies his words. "I'll have to keep close - just to make certain you don't end up too hurt," he adds after a very distinct beat of silence. Tugging on her hand, he begins to draw her towards the beach - then pauses, his gaze drifting towards the crack in the rock where he can hear the sound of water. "Huh. Wonder what that is." His gaze tracks down to her, then focuses on her arm. "I should have just treated that in the barracks," he mutters. "Maybe we should hit the Infirmary first - or… wait here." He releases her hand and darts back towards the barracks, likely intent on getting his emergency kit. Healers.

"Oh no. Whatever shall I do," is deadpan-delivered as she looks at him, a straight face held only as long as it takes for the words to be uttered before Ligeia cracks and laughs and sways closer to him to touch shoulder to shoulder for a moment. Casual contact. Easy. "I can't imagine what a terrible fate it is for you to have to keep an eye on the likes of me. Just imagine how terrible the Sands are going to be, eh?" If a kitten can wreck her business - well. Best not to think of a weyrling dragon. She's set to follow to the beach, but then? Distraction! "Ohhh. A waterfall, maybe?" Possibly? She blinks a bit at his sudden disengagement and is left blinking in his wake with an, "Okay," as he goes to retrieve his kit. Don't mind her, she'll just stand here all awkwardly until he returns.

LOOK. He's young. Also, a healer, and some things always take precedence, even over flirtations. At the very least, she should be pleased at how quickly Kyszarin returns, his kit dangling from his hip. Catching sight of her expression, he grins sheepishly. "Look, I don't want those to get infected," he explains as he reaches for her arm with one hand, the other digging into the pouch for the sealed packet of redwort-soaked gauzes he keeps in the kit. "And the sooner I treat them, the sooner I can focus on just you." Another beat. "I mean, on showing you around." Again that grin, not quite so sheepish now, although it doesn't quite land in the area of cocky, either. Maybe a hint of uncertainty underlying the charm?

More gold stars for Kyszarin! Prompt service and he makes, er, well, house calls? That's a keeper. "Oh, no. Nope. I've heard a lot of horror stories about infections." Thanks, grandma. Ligeia shivers just a little at the thought. "I tried to keep them as clean as I could, but." See also: busy, whirlwind transition of one life for another, all that fun stuff. Her arm is easily caught and held, though, and she watches, rapt, while he prepares to start his work. Her lower lip is briefly caught in her teeth, then released with a soundless exhalation. "I'm sure you say that to all the girls - and probably a few of the boys," is a gentle tease, with a lopsided grin of her own. That one's playful enough; light and easy, the kind that lights up her eyes effortlessly. Her free hand? That reaches with a hint of her own confidence, to coax a lock of his hair into a different position. Why? Just because. "Things seem a lot more, um. Relaxed here."

"I mean, maybe, but that doesn't mean it's not true, particularly for you." Kyszarin's words are almost absent; the downside of flirting with a healer who is working - he's concentrating on work. The scratches are cleaned, stained red by the redwort, and he balls up the used gauze and tucks it in a small bag for disposal later. "No stitches, I think; might scar for a bit, but nothing that's deep enough to require more than just a light banadage to keep it clean." He suits actions to words and pulls free a roll of light gauze bandaging, wrapping it gently around her arm. "A day or two, and you should be good. Don't worry," he adds, looking up with a lopsided grin, "I'll collect my fee from Ila'den. Least he could do after turning your world upside down." He chuckles then, sliding his hand up her arm to cup her elbow, stepping in closer. "Of course, maybe I owe him for bringing you here." Relaxed? That's one way to put it.

Her grin is a devilish flash of a thing - even if he's in work-mode while flirting, she can see past that. "Oh, I'm not complaining," she replies, with an impish tuck at the corners of her mouth. Ligeia keeps her arm out, in what she hopes is an easy position for the gauze to be wrapped around. "It'll definitely scar," because that's the curse of her lineage in so many ways, "but that's okay. I'll keep it clean and bandaged." And hopefully Mister Meow doesn't get all claw-happy when she visits. Because she will visit. "Ohhh, I wouldn't show my hand to him that easily," she replies, tone gone sly as she slants a look at him. "Make him pay for the Healing services, absolutely." Fingers wiggle when his hand catches her elbow and her fingers explore a little more, skimming over his forehead to his temple and threading through the locks there. "Orrr, maybe I should pay you for the Healing services and he'll owe you for bringing me." Is that a win-win? IT MIGHT BE.

Kyszarin's fingers wrap around her elbow and he tilts his head into the hand in his hair, his grin taking on that cocky air that had been thus far absent. "Do you scar easy? Then I shall be certain to have a care with you," he murmurs, storm-blue eyes glinting wickedly. "Well now, if you're offering to pay, farbeit for me to deny a lady her wishes." Those fingers tighten, drawing her close enough that there's no mistaking his intent - not that that glint in his eyes leaves any room for misinterpretation. "How about a partial payment now," and his voice drops as his fingers slide coaxingly against her elbow, his other hand coming up to catch up a strand of that black hair, "and we can revisit this after," or during, "our tour?" What? Too exposed? Maaaybe.

"Yeah, I do," her nose scrunches some. "I get it from my mom's side." The scarring, that is. Ligeia is easily drawn closer, coaxed with minimal effort; her fingers spread a little more, thumb sweeping along his temple while she cups his cheek and caresses gently. Affection? Absolutely; though they may be but strangers in a relative sense, that matters precious little. "If you're willing to take partial payments, then who am I to deny you? Especially after all you've done for me already?" And that partial payment is absolutely on the figurative table, as she leans in with the air of one oh-so-cleverly sliding coins across the table. Slow. Sly. And if he doesn't meet her halfway, that's fine; she'll close the gap and claim a kiss, dishing out what's owed in the best way she knows how. "Of course," will eventually be murmured, "we could just… do the tour tomorrow, too." Or later today. Or break it up into small bits.

Oh, the temptation; then the kicker, as Kyszarin pulls back from that kiss with a grin that's one part pleased, and one part sheepish. "We could," he agrees, voice mayhap just a bit on the hoarse side, "except I - ah… don't know where we could go. To, ah… find some privacy." Hence, it seems, the point of the tour. "I never bothered picking a room," he finally admits, exhaling on a huff. "It was easier to just stay in the general Weyr barracks." Don't laugh at him; he's genuinely embarrassed. "And I'm certain the Weyr has… places," it's a Weyr. There are greens and golds and pheremones. "But I don't know where they are… here." His eyes slide towards that crack in the wall, where the sound of water still echoes outwards. "Thusly… tour. To… discover all sorts of wondrous," and that's said looking directly down at her, "things."

Brash and brazen, she. There's a playful tilt to her smile and a teasing roll of eyes along with it - but whatever her thoughts are? They're dismissed while her hand drops from his face and seeks to grab his hand, the better to tug him rather boldly in the direction of the water in that crack in the wall. "C'mon, then. Let's see what's in there." Ligeia shoots a look to him, her smile softening a bit. "I think it's just- mmm. Well. How about we both get a little more creative about things, yeah? It's a Weyr," she agrees on that score; Weyrs have places - even Weyrs like Xanadu, which feels so very unorthodox, "so maybe we just need to think around the corners a bit, right?" Or maybe she's hopelessly incorrigible. Someone, somewhere, is feeling the compulsion to clutch pearls. Legend has it that they will never stop. "Though, mayyybe," she adds with an impish gleam in her eye, "we should make the living cavern our next stop so we can stock up on water and stuff." Hydration: it's important.

They're literally going into a cave from which issues the sound of water; granted, it could be salt-water, or mineral-heavy, or hot, but… Kyszarin willingly allows himself to be dragged, as content to follow as he is to lead. "Creative? I can do creative," he agrees, teeth flashing pale against his dark skin. "Just you wait, you'll see." In a moment. Or two. Or however long it takes them to find one of those places that even an unconventional Weyr like Xanadu must have squirreled away somewhere, just waiting for a proddy green or gold or a pair of wayward Candidates with a little too much libido and not quite enough sense. Or maybe just sense enough to realize that fun must be had when it can, because at some point in the day, chores and/or family will interfere. Huh. Did Kyn forget to tell Ligeia about the rest of his Xanaduvian kin? Whoops. His bad.

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