Morning Misunderstanding

Xanadu Weyr - Forest
The trees grow thickly here, avians nesting in their branches and flitting about after insects. Flowers sprout up and speckle the ground between, the green of small plants and their blooms of bright saffron and cheeky rose that creep all the way up to the bases of the trees and adorn the fallen leaves and mulch of the forest floor. Those trees rise upward in their aged magnificence, gargantuan limbs casting often welcome shade, the general atmosphere and scent of the path is one of freshness and wild abandon.

A path winds its leisurely way through the trees, wide enough for wagons to pass. As it goes through into the forest, a number of other trails branch away, both more and less traveled. Many of them lead to private weyrs, but there's a few more trodden paths - notable among them a road to the feeding grounds, set against the western slopes.

The forest grows wilder the further north one goes, deep growth and ancient places, and the road splits in two against it. One branch leads to a clearing with a large stone building finished with wooden cladding, while the other turns back toward the meadow. Just before it emerges, a trail veers off to the Firelizard Theatre.

Early morning light filters through the canopy shading the forest of Xanadu Weyr from the worst of the late summer heat. Despite the hour, it can't be said that these woods are unoccupied. In the section of forest near enough to the main path that winds so leisurely through the trees, voices can be heard, some hushed, others occasionally a little raised as the riders and residents of Xanadu begin the day's work, some headed toward the rest of the Weyr proper while others head away. The tall blond dressed in neat and functional khaki shorts and blue shirt turning off one of the smaller off-shoots with a marker indicating it to be heading to some of the private homesteads dotted through the forest with a tan messenger bag that's seen better days slung across his chest and a laughably teeny backpack possibly trying to figuratively escape muscular shoulders indicates with the turn he makes onto the path proper that he's one of those going toward the main areas of the Weyr. F'yr's unfairly long legs grant him the right to one of those almost lazy looking strides that nevertheless eats the lengths of ground beneath his feet with no effort. It doesn't even set him apart from others along the same path to have a hunk of bread in one hand, save for perhaps the fact that it looks more like a half of a loaf than just a slice or two.

Zaira is not alone on this path, nor alone in traversing it. Coming up from the Weyr is a tall, willowy young woman with hip-lengrh wet-seal brown hair and silvery eyes rimmed with gold and clad in black v-necked sleeveless pullover shirt and black capris. She's walking in her bare feet, feeling the cool of the still-dewy grass. She has a massive tome tucked under one arm. A Candidate's knot is proudly bourne on her right shoulder, a sleepy and rather rotund brown firelizard perched on her left. As F'yr approaches she slows almost to a stop and flips a casual salute to the rider.

Were it not for the near-stop of the candidate, the bronzerider might have walked right on with nothing more than the nod he returns to the salute, mouth working through the latest large bite of his bread. As it is, F'yr may be mimicking the slow to a stop in error, as there's a mildly inquisitive lift to his brows in the awkward three count before he manages to chew enough to swallow the mouthful and get out a, "Candidate?" as if Zaira must have had a reason for stopping - for stopping him? AND LISTEN, MAYBE SHE DID NOT, but he's stopped all the same and is looking down at her from a polite distance as if waiting for something, even if (in bizarre contrast) there's no real air of expectation. Maybe he stops because on the collar of his shirt is a small patch of Quasar Wing and getting on-the-way-to-work messages from the nuthouse administrative offices is far from unheard of.

Zaira nods. "Candidate Zaira, sir," she answers politely. She's used to the Weyrllingstaff eyeballing her so she doesn't seem to mind F'y's appraisal either. "Good morning. Ah I know…the Wing that's run ragged all the time and half the time it's petty things that could wait or be done on a non-rush basis." Apparently Zaira has taken the time to recognize the various wing badges…that or she did her rider internship with a member of the hive-of-busy-bees Quasar Wing. "You get off as early a start as some of the Candidates. Some of them like to sleep in." She's obviously not one of those.

Rumor might be split about whether Quasar is busy with Legitimate Grown Up Rider Work or if they're all just down that long hall with meeting rooms and offices making up non-existent filing systems and building pillow forts, but F'yr keeps a more or less straight face as the candidate claims the kinder grapevine version as apparent truth. True, his lips crook up at the edges just a touch, but only enough to imply a congenial acknowledgement of her words, not omitted laughter. "Quasar," he fills in helpfully, "Candidate Zaira." Whether the repetition of her name is further acknowledgement or not, it's hard to say. There's perhaps a slightly long pause where the man's lips press slightly together, thoughts gathering and coalescing in slightly more than the usual time. Maybe what he has elected to respond with is worth waiting for, but Zaira may never know because the bronzerider gets as far as, "We—" before an off-key fanfare BOOMS INTO EXISTENCE IN THE GENERAL MENTAL SPACE. If anyone was struggling to wake up before their morning cup of klah, never F'yr, Glorioth's got you covered. His voice, brassy, bold, and just too. damn. loud., unforgivingly assaults the minds of those within the vicinity open to dragon invasion mindtouch with his OBVIOUSLY OVERZEALOUS LAUGHTER that actually sounds exactly like the syllables of, « AHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! COME, MY F'YRFULLY FLAGGING FRIEND, » (yes, he has never known a doubt that he's hilarious), « THE SHIFTY-EYED FOE-VILLAINS AWAIT THE RADIANCE OF MY GLORY AND THEIR PAINFULLY PAINFUL DEATH. » At least his delight at the prospect could be considered contagious even if the subject matter leaves much to be desired as does the entirely off-key HEROIC THEME overlaying the sound of weapons clash and the smells of smoke and a very MAN— er, DRAGONLY MUSK all his own. F'yr must be desensitized because even with the shouting (always with the shouting~) of the unseen dragon, he doesn't flinch, he doesn't even frown. He just flashes the candidate a genuinely bemused smile and a gesture somewhere in the general direction of the Weyr and/or the sky with his bread. "Duty calls." Without further ado (from F'yr), he's off, stride picking up from the original to long stride and, after the bread is tucked away (in a cloth, then his bag), a jog. Glorioth's parting nearly sing-song-SHOUT of « ONWAAAAAAaaaaAAAAAaaaAAAaaaard! » lingers and he's not even sorry.

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