09:52 PM
You pull aside the curtain and step out into the caverns.
Lower Caverns (#1556J)
This central room of Fort Weyr's lower caverns is, while huge, nonetheless dwarfed by the main cavern to the northeast.
Stairs to one side lead up to a balcony that encircles the vaulted cavern; off the balcony lie the offices and private quarters of some staff, as well as into the spare rooms for Weyr guests. On the floor level, a number of folk operate looms underneath the balcony, while some of the children of the weyr play games nearby. Other archways lead further into the mountain.
You see Reiya here.
Jules is here.
Obvious exits:
Main Cavern STairs Infirmary General Dormitory Candidates Baths
Storage Caverns
Quivan comes out of the residential dorms.
Quivan
Dark red hair sweeps back in a closely cropped mop, still managing to give the vague impression of a wiry bristle of fur. Long, mobile face pulls down into features that are too strong to be called handsom, but more intreguing. The generous mouth does not excede the limits of proportion to edge into the grotesque. Pale blue eyes seem alight with something deeper. He is tall, but proportioned such that his true sized is not readily apparent. The only thing disproportionate about him is his hands, disproportionately large.
A simple brown and black knot hangs from his left shoulder.
Racillon regards you, perched atop Quivan's shoulder. Rashkae regards you, perched atop Quivan's shoulder. Rhiannon regards you, perched atop Quivan's shoulder.
Quivan is 16 Turns, 3 months, and 6 days old.
He is awake and looks alert.

Shel
Thick brown hair has darkened from plain dirt to something closer to loam. Haphazard locks find their way to tumble across this young woman's face, the single ribbon refusing to contain the entire mass, which tumbles to the middle of her back. Eyes as blue as the ocean endlessly rove, rarely focusing on any one thing for more than a few moments. The tall frame has softened over the turns and curves, muting some of the lankiness into a semblance of elegance, though she stands at least a head higher than most others.
Shel's normal knot has been replaced with the simple brown, black, and white knot of a Fort Weyr Candidate.
A daring, midriff-baring orange tank top sports an applique of a brown firelizard with glittering, beaded eyes. Under the tanned stripe of bare skin, jungle-print shorts button at the sides, slash pockets ready to hold the odd rock or shell or piece of string that children find so fascinating. Bare feet skip over sand or rocks or polished floor with equal ease and comfort. Bene regards you with a regal look, perached atop Shel's head. Neona regards you, perched atop Shel's shoulder.
Shel is 22 Turns, 3 months, and 20 days old.
She is awake and looks alert.

Quivan meanders out of the resident barracks hanging his oilcan from his many-looped belt and checking his various things. Squeaky hinges appear to be the first thing on the list for today. The red head is looking down rather than infront of him, not really paying attention to whom else might be in the hallway.
Shel stands almost aimlessly staring around the cavern, just outside of the Candidate area. Watching everyone going back and forth. Hands wrapped around the edge of a broom her fingers idly trace the nicks and dents along the handle.
Quivan starts as he spies someone, fortunately before he risks running into them. "Oh, hullo," A slight curious glance at the woman taking her in from head to toe but his eyes rest on the broom. "If that's givin' you splinters, let me know later, ma'am an' I'll see about sandin' it back down to something more managable." And backpedals a step to detour.
Shel looks confused for a moment before realizing what she had been doing, spurting off a quick reply "Oh, no it's fine, just was..." umm... okay, so not so quick of a reply. "I yeah it's just a nice piece of wood."
Quivan frowns slightly. "Are you alright ma'am?" He asks slightly concerned, this is not normal behavior in his experience... then again around here 'normal' isn't neccissarily the case. "Name's Quivan... might I ask yours?" His voice slightly cautious as the blue eyes inspect her more closely. "If you need any help I think I've got some time...."
Shel shrugs slightly, and quickly rests the broom against the wall, too bad she forgot her best carving knife at home, but then again the weyr probably does not want a carved broom handle. "I'm I'm fine. I'm Shel, great to meet you. I take it you work here?"
Quivan nods. "Mostly fixin' things, some tidying up if nothin's broken." Which happens more often than one might think. "I don't think I've seen you 'round her b'fore." His slopy speach more than a little speculative, and his eyes go to her knot briefly. "You here for the clutch? New arival." Yes, even Quivan eventually works out the obvious.
Shel ahhs and scratches her head slightly "I do believe one of the bunks in the barracks is a bit broken, but it's not having to be used yet, so no one's worried about it yet." she shrugs, besides it's next to hers, keeps the company down that way. "Yes, I'm standing at the clutch, it should be fun and a nice break from work."
Quivan ohs softly. "I'll get ot it later today, thanks. No one told me 'bout it. Can't fix what I don't know." He chuckles, though at the last coment starts slightly. "Most candidates I hear /complainin' about standin' and the extra chores 'cause they're harder to get out of..." NOt a concept he really understands, then again he's rare, he likes his 'chores'.
Shel nods her head slightly "Okay, that sounds good." not that it is her job here to make sure things get done, but to do them. "Oh, well, it's better to be doing the chores than having to be finding folks to do them, and do the ones you can't get help on." she wrinkles her face up something awful "Those tend to be the worst chores."
Quivan nods solemnly. "that's why the candidates and those of us residents who get in trouble usually get Latrine duty." He wrinkles his nose. "Really annoying to fix when they get clogged. There's nothing makin' that look /nice/ like y'can with a broken cot leg or table leg..."
Shel wrinkles her nose and nods "Very true that." she has to gulp for a moment just thinking about it. "Takes a lot of water to make it at least look clean..."
Quivan nods. "Clean can be done, normally is unless someone's been shirkin'. But doesn't make it any nicer t' deal with when things get clogged and there's only so much you can do with somthin' like that. no carvin' it to make the broken bit look nice. No decoratin' int /inside/ without riskin' clogin' it more."
Shel winces and nods settling in against the wall again. "True, clogs are just awful. I'd be happy to never see one again."
Quivan chuckles. "Havne't had one in a while, but if we do, I'll make sure I ask fer one of the other candidates . Sounds like you've dealt with more'n enough already... So where you comin' from? An' if you're used to tellin' folk ti do things, what was yer old job'n why'd they let you come /here/ off all places." Overly curious if not overly bright.
Shel heaves a sigh of relief, well nothing like talking one's way out of chores, even if that wasn't the purpose. "Oh I'm coming from down Boll, I was the Headwoman there, I hope things are going steady now, really hate having to leave like that." she just blinks a moment. "Well I don't know why they let me come here, just decided I was a good candidate for a dragon I guess."
Quivan chuckles. "Not often we get people of rank up here, most holders tend to hang tight onto a good headwoman. But..." He shrugs slightly and shifts his weight. "Ah well, good luck ma'am... can y'think of anythin' else as might need fixing." Falling back into his less precise speach as he gets a bit more nervous., politely averting his eyes.
Shel snorts, politely, if that is even possible to be done snorting. "Rank, shmank, just happened to end up headwoman because I'd had the training." she digs at one of her pockets and suddenly comes up with a carved bracelet, sticking that around her wrist, she absentmindedly fiddles with it. "Okay, but I'm sure the folks in charge around here will be telling you, I just happened to notice the bed first."
Quivan's eyes catch the bracelet and gleam apreciatively for a moment. "And I'm glad you did, the way we get candidates 'round here, it'll be needed soon enough and I'd rather not have it collapsin' on anyone b'fore anyone official /here/ notices it." Fingers fidget nervously with the oil can by his side, as the most convinient aparatus hanging from his belt.
Shel ponders for a moment getting an evil glint in her eye. now depending on who it collapsed on it could have amusing effects, after all, the fall would be cushioned... "Hmm... I wouldn't really know, I guess the barracks can get kinda full, wouldn't have all the beds there if they didn't." fidget, twidget, the bracelet twirls around her wrist slowly.
Quivan quirks an eyebrow curiously. "Yes, ma'am, though with a clutch this small it's not so lible to be an issue. Double candidates to the clutch wouldn't fill the barracks. They're set up for havin' double of cutches of thirty or fourty. Though some o' those'd overflow into other places like as not." Ramble, ramble, drum on the oil can.
Shel frowns for a moment before suddenly straightening, the bracelet falling to the end of her wrist but not slipping off. "Will you quit calling me Ma'am, I'm no more a Ma'am then you are a Sir, and if you keep calling me Ma'am, I'll have to start calling you Sir, got it sir?" she quirks one eyebrow up challengingly.
Quivan's jaw drops as he tries to protest. "But ma... well it's just not /polite/..." He stumbles over himself. "I've never been a /sir/. That's for people like the headwoman an' riders and... well most anyone with /rank/." And candidate or not she has rank. "An well, I was always taught to be polite an' if I didn't know what to call someone use sir or ma'am no matter what."
Shel shrugs, a smug grin on her face. "Well then Sir, you must agree with me than that a weyr would not run properly without a Handyman, any better than it would run without the riders or the headwoman." her hand waves out towards the bowl, the bracelet sliding up her arm and getting stuck momentarily near the elbow. "Besides, I'm only a candidate right now Sir, I'm much lower in rank than anyone but the other candidates here."
Quivan fumbles trying to dig her name out of his memory. "If I call you Shel, would you call me Quivan?" He's never had the tables turned on him like this before, most people never /complained/ about it! "But anyone could do my job..." He mumbles and scuffs his shoe. "Though you'll see some of the Candidates tryin' to pull rank, I warn you..."
Shel hmms and makes an exaggerated showing out of thinking. "I don't know Sir, I kind of like calling you Sir, just a nice simple, easy to remember word..." her blue eyes almost twinkle with mirth. "No... I've seen good handymen and they are a rank apart from everyone else." she laughs quietly. "Oh, that might be interesting them trying to 'pull rank' on me from prior rank." at that she just winks. "If any of them try pulling rank on you, Sir..." she elongates the Sir, prolonging the word a moment. "Then you just send them to me, after all, technically I doubt any of them would have ranked me prior."
Quivan chuckles. "True... we don't get many holder's kids..." He admits. "They tend not to let their Heirs go easy... but if you keep callin' me sir, I'll have t'keep callin' you ma'am and you'd still not be gettin' anywhere near's where you want to be..."
Shel coughs and shakes her head "I'm not anyone's Heir, don't know what you're talking about there Sir." she can't help but add the goad even as she tries to deny. "I'm just an adopted kid, nothing more." she shrugs slightly "Well I think you can call me Ma'am, if you want, cause I'm having fun calling you Sir, Sir."
Quivan doesn't quite whimper but it's close to the effect. "Please, Shel..." HOping using the name might jolt her out of it, but alas, suspecting it won't. "My name's not /that/ hard to pronounce, promise..." Fun he can't argue with, though...
Shel fiddles with the bracelet again before shrugging slightly "Well, I guess, I can call you Quivan, Sir." she looks down, trying to look contrite, but obviously failing miserably.
Quivan actually snickers. "Seems you found a compr'mise?" He suggets, vastly relieved. Didn't quite get rid of the dread 'Sir' but it's a start! "Good luck t' you Shel, ma'am." Barely managing to keep his face strait. "I'll be by later to fix th'cot, you'll be there yes? To show me which one." Almost puppy dog hopefullness in the blue eyes.
Shel smirks slightly before raising her head again, the laughter mostly hidden under the oh so diplomatic face of one much practiced, but still obviously young. "Sounds good Quivan, Sir. I'll be there, it's next to my bunk, but if I'mm not around it's the one with the purple quilt on the end."
Quivan nods almost solemnly, but that is only to resist the urge to giggle. If he smiles he will laugh. If he Laughs, he will giggle, and whoever heard of a /boy/ giggling? "Yes, Shel, ma'am." He's not so diplomatic, for while his voice and nod are solemn, that mobile face is working very hard /not/ to reveal his amusment.
Shel holds in her own smirk a bit longer. "Well I'd best be getting back to the barracks now." and on that she turns heal, her face dissolving into a smirk as she goes and skips towards the candidate barracks, forgetting completely about the broom left behind on the wall.
Quivan retreats and knows it for retreat. He has hinges to oil. Though he does back up until he can't see Shel any more only then scuttling off to get his work done. Now if he gets everything done fast he might be able to loiter in the candidate's barracks....
You walk under the staircase leading up to the balcony and push aside the large brown and black cloth with leads into the Candidates' barracks. Pausing only momentarily at the threshold, you walk in...
Candidate Barracks (#816J)
This is a large room with row after row of 'cots' for the Candidates of Fort Weyr's Hatchings to sleep on during their stay at Fort Weyr. Depending on the time of day and 'year' this room oscillates between an utter disaster and a prim and properly kept room. The residents of this room are always on the lookout for sudden headwoman or dragonrider appearances, scattering to clean up the major messes when someone indeed manifests.
Near the curtain, against the wall, is a large bulletin board and, underneath it, a slate with the list of current 'occupants'. There's also a 'chores' list, and a life-sized cutout of a suitably-dressed 'example' candidate.
You see SpaceVixen, Liette's Cot, and Old glow here.
Obvious exits:
Curtain
*** Disconnected ***