Xanadu Weyr - Candidate Barracks
A long, low ceilinged room opens off the entrance hall to the arena. One wall is slightly curved, set against the outer wall of the arena itself. Cots are set in two rows along the length of the room, each with its own small press at the foot for personal belongings. Wide windows are spaced along the outside wall, letting sunlight in, while other lights are available for the night time hours. It's always warm here when there are eggs on the sands, and candidates seldom need more than a light blanket.
As mid-day arrives at Xanadu so does Sylvarin to the barracks with a package in hand. A lidded box has a simple string tied around it but the baker is carrying it with much caution. By the way he's glancing around, it seems that the baker is looking for someone specific…namely Mathis. His attire is much the same as usual except for one thing…the rock he's been strapped with lately? Not there. It /is/ however broken into a million different pieces and residing in a bucket next to the bed. 'Orphaned Rocks - Need Good Home' has been scrawled on the container. Thankfully his shirts have gone back to being unwrinkled, for the most part.
Mathis had thought that picking up littles all day and carrying them around was the only reason his arms were going to fall off. BOY WAS HE WRONG! Once again returned to his cot after getting up early an washing dragons till lunch time, he lays there on his stomach staring blankly at the bucket beside Sylvarin's cot. He'd seen it when he's slithered his way armlessly back into the barracks, using his legs and chin to crawl onto the mattress. Everything hurt, truth be told, muscles aching and pulsing at random to accentuate their protest of misuse. There had been a few people coming and going in the hour or so he'd been laying there simulating a corpse, but no one had said anything nor had he the will to move.
"If you want to adopt any please go ahead, their father would have wanted them to go to good homes." Their father, the rock-pet Sylv and Nessalyn had murdered by throwing off the clock tower. There's an easy grin on the baker's face as he settles onto his own cot and looks over at Mathis', "You looks like your muscles melted completely off your bones." Because that is /totally/ a thing that can happen. He considers the woodcraft apprentice for a moment longer before reaching over to place that box on his bed, "For you, and I'd open it fast…if your arms can handle it." Hopefully they can!
Attention easily relocated from bucket o' rocks to baker, Mathis's face was half mushed into his pillow, as he'd tried to get as comfortable as he could before he'd gone still with the intention to never move ever again. A blink or two and his gaze falls away to the sock he'd curled up in the center of a cushion on the floor, once again it's middle looking lumpy and distended. Maybe the kid just liked stuffing things into other things, it sure did seem like something he did with enthusiasm. "It wouldn't end well for them." Sylvarin might notice that his bucket was looking a little less burdened than it had earlier. This aside, the boy sighs at mention of melty muscles, "I with they would, then maybe they'd hurt less." From the way things were going lately, he figured it be a miracle if he made it to the hatching, which may or may not be a bad thing by his calculations. Anxiety, the struggle was real. With the box that the baker had being placed on his cot, Mathis eyes it with no small measure of curiosity, that is until he's told to open it fast. Suspicion comes next, even as he groans breathlessly with his slow rise to sitting. Seriously, he looked and sounded about a hundred turns old. Again, he wished he had a stick. "Is it going to explode or something, because I'd really rather not have things exploding."
"You couldn't possibly treat them any worse, believe me." Sylvarin chuckles a bit, though if he notices the bucket is a bit more empty than before he doesn't comment. In fact, he'd be /more/ than happy if all of the rocks just disappeared. "Might not be able to walk then, we'd have to cart you around in a wheelbarrow." Which is apparently an amusing notion to the baker because he follows the words with a soft chuckle. "No explosions, that would be Nessa's domain. But it will probably get a bit melty so…if you feel the desire to do bedsheet laundry, perhaps best /not/ to open it." Sylv leans back, both arms sliding behind him to keep him propped upright on the edge of the cot.
Matty didn't know about that. Feeding the babies of Sylvarin's pet to his just felt wrong somehow. Ah, such a dilemma. Well, oddly enough there would be no regrets later when he picked up Mr. Flibble and dumped those rocks outside somewhere. Otherwise, his friend might get backed up and we couldn't have that, now could we? A soft smile appears on the boy's lips for the possibility of being carted around in a wheelbarrow. Is it really surprising that he thought that idea sounded fun? "Doesn't mean we couldn't try it?" The baker was locked into it now, bound to be pushing Mathis around in no time if he could manage to convince him to do it. Then, it was all about that box, as wheelbarrow rides fall painfully shy of boxes filled with potentially exploding mystery. "Melt?" he repeats, looking all the more inquisitive as he did wary, and tentatively pulls at the string that kept the lid locked down. He does try not to take the lean back onto hands that the man follows up with as a suggestion to lean back, carefully as possible opening the top of the box and peering inside. No, he did NOT want to do laundry. Not at all. Best to get this over with and hope for the best.
"I think I gained a bit of muscle after carrying that thing around…maybe we can try the wheelbarrow thing." /Maybe/. There should probably be some alcohol involved. Sylvarin chuckles again, watching casually as Mathis finally moves to open the box. Inside is…the bowl that Mathis gave him, but it isn't empty this time. There's a small dome-shaped cake with forest-green glaze that covers the top. Random splatters of color break the monotony of the town and on top rest some rather delicately placed pieces of rolled chocolate. They look remarkably similar to twigs, but fear not…they're edible. "Peace offering. Though of course I'm going to keep the bowl." But it certainly seems like the dessert was specifically made to match the aesthetics of the bowl. "Hopefully you're not allergic to anything." What's that guilty flash in Sylv's eyes? Nothing. It's gone quite quickly. "Chocolate cake, a simple citrus frosting in the very center, and a melon-flavored glaze on top." No weird ingredients, fear not!
Hazel eyes flash back up towards Sylvarin even with that lid cracked and ready for the big reveal, and that face said it all. Mathis hadn't heard that maybe in there, no matter how strongly that it had been implied. Wheelbarrow rides? HAPPENING. But not right now, and he returns to easing open the box of something he'd been gifted with. Surprise is the first expression to grace his features, a twinge of sadness, and then greed. So, so much greed. He wanted that cake, all of it, in his face in the next thirty seconds preferably. As if to make his intentions perfectly clear, Matty's stomach growls loud enough to be heard by anyone within the immediate vicinity, tongue peeking out from between his lips. There was no denying that the cake was a lovely example of skillful craftsmanship, much like the bowl in which it resided, but the woodcrafter skipped lunch in favor of doing his best impression of the dearly departed. Plus, you know, kid. Looking up and then down again as Sylvarin speaks, he nods his head a few times slowly, greed slowly giving way to appreciation at last. "It's beautiful, thank you." Keeping the bowl? Mathis snorts in passing amusement, because yeah of course he'd better keep that bowl. He'd worked on it for like a sevenday with the baker specifically in mind. Be rude just to give it back, cake or no cake having spawned inside of it. "Uh uh, no allergies." All food belonged to his stomach, you see, it knew better than to reject anything that he put into it. A single bob of his head and the box is closed, the string tied once more so that he can set it aside, all in favor of the leaping squeeze hug about to envelop Sylvarin's middle. No words, just this as a thank you. That he presses his face in against the center of his chest and is all emotional and stuff? Ignore it. It's fine.