[Backdated RP] The Joys of Being a Weyrling (V'mel & Z'rik)

[DruidTigeress]

ShinosBee

Here you go! You can have V'mel hop in and be as helpful or utterly unhelpful as you please! xD

(( ~12 turns ago ))

As a late summer sun dipped beneath the walls of the Weyr, Z'rik sat alone by the side of the lake. Evening duties over, most of the weyrlings had already been released to what little free time they had. It must've been a candlemark at least since the last weyrling had finished the chore. Z'rik alone remained. He'd only been back in the weyrling barracks for about a sevenday, though he'd gone to a few lessons before that. He was still clumsy with his left arm. His right side still hurt like crazy. And he'd been given a bucket and a brush and tack like the rest of the weyrlings, but he had no idea how he was supposed to somehow hold two of these things at the same time with only one arm!

He'd started off trying to scrub the pieces against his knee, but only really succeeded in getting his clothes soaked. Now that no one else was around, he had resorted to more desperate measures. He'd been trying to pin a long leather strap between his chin and chest while he scrubbed the rest of it clean when he, once again, lost his grip and it dropped onto the sandy earth.

"Sharding shells!" he yelled in frustration, kicking the bucket (as the only convenient avenue for his anger) across the lake. Laying nervously nearby, Azmodioth was entwined around him before he could even take a breath to calm down. What? What is it? Who has upset you? he said, curling his wings around his rider protectively. "Nothing. No one." Z'rik grumbled, pushing Az aside as he went to retrieve the bucket, only more annoyed at having upset his dragon now too.
 

[ShinosBee]

V'mel was never really...moved, by the plights of his weyrlings. That wasn't to say he didn't try to help them overcome them, whatever they were, it was just that things had always been solidly back and white for him. You succeeded, or you failed. You did, or you did not. You lived, or you died. You impressed, or you didn't, and of course whatever color you impressed was the only thing you were meant for, and strictly dictated what you were meant to be. There was little room for anything in between, especially when you lived your life knowing that today, tomorrow, in ten turns or a hundred, that thread could, would return.

This clutch, of course, had been difficult. The loss of a green still on the sands was one thing, but easy enough to move past. She had died. The rest had lived. It had only been a green, after all. The bronze's boy though. There was a rub he'd rather oil, if he'd had a say. A sharding bronze. It was as close to a conundrum as the man had come. He'd only been weyrling master four turns, but his estimation for rank and right had been carved into him long ago. A bronze rider, weyrling that he was, was destined for rank. Purpose. Two good levelheaded bronzes when thread came screaming, burning panic into the weaker-willed greens and blues could make all the difference. But what did you do when the bronze lived, and the rider became incapable?

Aviroth had alerted him to the boy's distress, feeling it in waves off of Azmodioth, but he'd not needed to be told. The rest of his charges had finished with more or less acceptable results and been turned loose to the care of the assistants, and a bit of free time before dinner. This one, however, remained. The work wasn't done. And it needed to be. He'd watched the boy struggle through different attempts at cleaning the tack, and then sent the bucket careening away. The surge of temper was disappointing, if understandable. Perhaps another weyrling master would have patted the boy's shoulder, reassured him that sooner or later he'd get it right, and had him off to meal with the rest. But not V'mel.

If the boy couldn't summon up a solution to this problem, how would he ever determine how to handle assigning his fighting wing? How would he handle when a tithe was refused because of a new, stubborn lord holder? How would he ever be anything but a burden, leeching all the resources to feed and clothe and shelter a large bronze and rider, while giving nothing but themselves as a reminder and warning to the weyr of the dangers of improper candidate behaviors? No, no V'mel would not have it.

Heavy steps thudded, staccato and brisk, behind Z'rik, pausing just over his shoulder. V'mel's arms were folded, soldier-like, behind his back, though one unwound to reach, as he bent, to scoop up the still only half-clean tack. He regarded it for a moment, and then held it out towards the young man expectantly. "I can see you won't be needing time for a bath later with all the water you've spent on yourself instead of your task. Well enough, as you're already going to be working through dinner, Z'rik. I'll have someone feed your Azmodioth at least, as he isn't the one falling a bit short today." It was harsh, it was almost cruel, but it was the exact thing he'd have said to any of his weyrlings in this situation. V'mel was ever equal to his charges, if not entirely fair.

DruidTigeress

 

[DruidTigeress]

ShinosBee

Picking it up from where he'd kicked it, Z'rik stopped to fill the half-empty bucket with water from the lake. He turned around to see the weyrling master just behind him, stooping to pick up the harness he had dropped. Great. This day just got better and better. Holding back a sigh, he began to trudge up the hill back to where he was working. He was used to the harsh words by now, but the punishment was something else. He looked up when V'mel spoke and something like shock or dismay must have shown in his eyes for a moment. Extra chores, he could have dealt with. Push-ups, laps around the Weyr, shoveling dragon dung.. But someone else had been feeding Azmodioth for the last month. He'd only just gotten back to getting to do it himself!

It was only for a moment, though, before he was able to put back the hardened expression he'd learnt to wear these last few days. He wanted to argue, but he didn't. He knew no amount of whining would get the man to change his mind. But that didn't mean he had to like it! "Fine." he said through gritted teeth, none-too-gently taking the tack back from the older rider. But Azmodioth was not as willing to let the matter rest. Nooo! I'm not hungry yet. I want Z'rik to feed me. Azmodioth whined. The last month had been nearly as hard on the young dragon as it was for the boy who'd lost his arm. While Z'rik was in the infirmary, Azmodioth had been alternating between utter despondency and lashing out at everything and everyone that he perceived to be keeping him from being with His. Needless to say, he was more relieved than anyone that he was back.

Z'rik's hands tightened around the leather tack. His bronze's protests were the final straw. It wasn't Azmodioth's fault this was happenening! And shaffit, it wasn't his fault either! It's not like he wasn't trying. It's not like the reason everything took him so long wasn't obvious to everyone. This was pointless! He could stay here all night and it still wouldn't be done. V'mel was ordering him to move a mountain then getting mad that he couldn't do it.

He tossed the straps on the floor next to his bucket angrily. "Why do we have to clean this stupid stuff anyway? It just gets dirty again the next day." he grumbled, frustrated, as he went to look for the brush.
 

[ShinosBee]

V'mel knew despondency when he saw it, and he was frankly gladder to see anger, irritation, frustration behind the young weyrling's eyes than that. Anger could be a grand motivator, after all, and it meant that as much as he might have a fit that'd make a creche-child proud, he'd not yet given up. The bronze's piteous creeling had only slightly more effect on the stoic man—a bronze was a terrible thing to waste, and if they failed to bond properly it'd be on V'mel's head, at the end of the day. Still, the loss of health in the bronze would only further hamper the pair. Making sure he was properly cared for was a high priority.

"You'll eat when I tell you to eat, Azmodioth," It wasn't quite a scold, nor a threat, but his voice carried the weight of rank he knew he had over his weyrlings. His was the final authority, after all. Stern gray eyes tracked the sulking young man, a ripple of his own irritation at the lad quickly being stuffed away. "The reason you need to clean this 'stupid stuff', Z'rik, is because your sharding life is going to depend on it one day. I know you weren't asleep during the damn lecture, and given you can't exactly hold onto your bronze, I'd imagine you've more reason that others to care about the quality and upkeep of your riding straps." It was a fair point, to be honest. If someone's straps snapped mid flight, especially should thread return, they could be lost. Dashed on the rocks below, or thrown, leaving their dragon to panic and probably hurt themselves. The fact that the boy had all the tools he needed, but was letting his impatience and emotions get in the way of realizing it did not do to further build V'mel's regard for him. If only the blue hadn't taken so much, then would Z'rik have been that much more?

V'mel folded his arms across his broad chest, standing firm and watching with an intensity that almost carried physical weight. "You're the one who decided to stand on the sands, boy. You wanted a dragon, a partner, and you got one. Now that it's not quite the dream you were hoping for, you'd rather give up? A shame, Azmodioth, apparently Z'rik misses having two arms more than he's glad to have you. I didn't think bronzes were the type to pick someone so helpless either, but then, you're clearly a well-suited match in that regard." Let them hate him, if that was what it took to get the pair to realize that the easiest answer was right in front of them. Z'rik needed to get out of his own sharding head and remember that he wasn't alone. Azmodioth needed to stop treating his rider like a delicate invalid, and be the bronze he clearly was. They were a team, but so far the only way they'd come together was to wallow in their shared misery.

There was nothing like a good villain to unite people though, so let them hate him indeed.

DruidTigeress

V'mel is totally going to stand there, his own dinner and bath be damned, if that's what it takes. razz

 

[DruidTigeress]

"Right. Because they're really going to let me fly on a fighting wing.." he said in response to V'mel's lecture. He didn't know a single one-armed rider, but he knew that any candidate missing a limb would have been soundly rejected, with good reason. If he hadn't impressed Azmodioth, they would have kicked him out as well. And sent him where? Back to Nabol with no way to even work in the mines? With no craft and only the minimal education he received at the Weyr, he probably would have ended up a beggar on the street. And though three months ago he might have agreed with that position, it was hard not to feel like the Weyr was heartless.

Stirred from despondency to anger by a combination of the weyrlingmaster's rebuke and his rider's souring mood, Azmodioth eyes swirled red as he fumed silently. Though even the bronze knew better than to openly hiss at their teacher, Z'rik still felt his seething rage like flames on his skin.
Be calm, Az. he cautioned, the dragon's anger going some way towards abating his own.
He raged. He'd taken his rider's hospitalization fairly poorly, Z'rik knew, lashing out at those who were trying to help him. He felt bad about it, wishing he could have been there for him, but if he was too indulgent of Azmodioth's moods his dragon was going to wind up friendless. For Zrik it felt like his patience was never not being tested. With work, with his dragon, with people's comments.. He tried to take it all in good humor, but some days it was hard. He felt like he was facing a wall and either had to climb over it, or turn back.. But the thought of spending the rest of his life working ten times as hard as everyone else for just a fraction of the gain was a daunting prospect to the seventeen year old. Things that everyone took for granted, things like being able to hold the meat you were cutting to keep it from sliding around, or being able to write using your dominate hand, weren't just simple things for him.

"Can't you just leave me alone.." Z'rik muttered under his breath tiredly. He didn't even want any help. He just wanted a minute when he didn't have to put a brave sharding face on, on top of everything else. He would have finished the sharding straps. He would have found a way. But the thought of V'mel hanging around to watch him struggle just made him even more annoyed. He laid the tack over his knee, starting again from the top. Trying to ignore both of them, Vmel's callous insults and Azmodioth's angry complaints, he went back to scrubbing the thick leather with his brush, having to pin the rank to his knee awkwardly with his right elbow.

Somewhat calmer, though no where near ready to let this go, Azmodioth laid his head on Z'rik's shoulder, glancing at his rider.

It was harder to argue with him this time. Just what was V'mel playing at? His hand tightened on the brush. "What do you want me to say?" he asked, standing up. No one thought he deserved a dragon, he got that. But there was nothing anyone could do about it now. "That Azmodioth should have impressed someone else?" he said, though both their minds rebelled at the thought. "That it would be better if that blue just killed me?"
Azmodioth muttered, his eyes spinning yellow at his rider's dangerous line of thought. Unfortunately, Z'rik was too upset himself to notice.
"That he should have just gone between and let me die?" That's what everyone thought, right? If they are both dead live that green and her hotel at least no one would have to deal with a crippled rider wasting space in their weyr.  

[ShinosBee]

Shards and shells, this boy. V'mel wasn't even sure if he should be giving out points for stubborn grit at this point, because it'd gone beyond the useful level and become raw idiocy. "If you can't even keep your straps in order, of course no one's going to let you onto a fighting wing." He was still scrubbing away, awkwardly pinning the strap to his own sodden thigh. The bronze at least was reacting half-properly, angry at V'mel and clinging to his rider. What could he do to help them see it clearly? Was there any option beside just showing them?

And of course the shaffing boy was still depressed about the whole thing. V'mel didn't feel bad picking at barely-healed scars—the rest of Z'rik's life he'd have them being picked at, so better to get numb to the pain now, especially if he could use it to train him in the process. But ripping it open and bleeding them out would cost him the strapping bronze too, one of the few good things to come of the unusually savage clutch. He didn't miss Azmodioth's alarm, or that Z'rik was spiraling worse and worse. They really weren't going to give him a choice about this. Shards. Showing them himself would rob them of the benefit of figuring it out themselves. There was a risk they would grow more dependent on him than he wanted, especially for the dragonet in question being a bronze.

But a bronze that followed rather than led was better than a bronze that was dead.

"Enough of your wallowing, by Faranth's own shell." The swear rumbled up out of V'mel's chest like a half snarl. He was ready to tear his hair out, but instead, he reached forward to tear the straps from the soaked boy's hand. "I don't want you to say a damn thing. I want you to get your head out of the hatching sands, and listen to me. You. Are. Part. Of. A. Pair." His other hand, thick-fingered, rough, calloused, stretched out, wrapping around the little bronze's neck...and pulling, touch surprisingly light for all his fierce look. "...You're shouldering all this like you're alone. Azmodioth has been out of his hide with worry, and now he's got you back in the waking world, and you're still keeping him at arm's length." A poor choice of words? Or intentional?

From across the weyr, Aviroth, who'd been 'watching' through his rider, reached out to comfort the bronze. V'mel will not harm you. He is trying to help. Be calm, young bronze. His words felt entirely sincere, and hopefully the bronze would have kept his head enough to realize that there was no malice coming from brown or rider.

V'mel lightly but firmly peeled the hatchling away from the boy, pulling him around to stand in front of the dour young man, facing each other. "You lost a hand. You gained a dragon. A partner. So what I want, is for you to stop your moaning, and get over yourself. And to let him help you." He slid the straps through his hand to take the end, and push it into the baby bronze's mouth. "...The agents we use on the straps won't hurt him, but you'll want to calm him until he gets used to the taste. Don't let him chew them, of course." His tonal shift to being almost gentle, patient now that he was teaching was...astounding. Still firm, though. "He can hold them with his teeth, or his claws if you both work on his dexterity with them. Once he's bigger, it'll be easier. He can hold both ends at once, or you can trap an end beneath your foot to pull it taught.

He fixed the young man with a stoic stare. There was no love lost for the boy, there'd be no coddling. But V'mel wasn't here to punish him either. Just to teach, and to try his best to help him survive, maybe even thrive.

DruidTigeress