Here come 't3h boiz'. -- The Perches

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Date Posted: 11:40:11 06/05/05 Sun
Author: F'nlaur - Bakarith .. G'nen - Raghath .. L'meak - Marath .. B'mulf - Zeeth .. U'maro - Quaroth
Subject: Here come 't3h boiz'.

Two dragons jog speedily ahead of their Impressers, who trundle heavily behind. Glimmerings upon the first massive body mark it instantly as bronze. Though his colour is a bit unusual - he's a brassy shade of orange-green, though the colour seems to conform over his entire gargantuan body. Brass wings are flared up and forward, beating uselessly down at each bounding leap. Beside him, a much smaller dragon, the hue of fresh cocoa and topsoil. Pale at the back and wings, swirled with a colour darker than hot chocolate but lighter than earth. Speckles of reddish brown smother his chest and stomach and the fronts of his legs, like he's plowed into the cresting wave of a crimson sea. The brown throws back his head and bugles to the bronze, who trumpets in return. Together they charge into the warm lake, bodies positively glowing when the water hits them, a thousand jewels running down their young frames.

A good deal behind is a tanned man, flipping his long locks in the air. They shimmer pure copper, catching the light from Rukbat and casting it away again. His green eyes are reserved for only one right now - the bronze that cavorts in the clear water. F'nlaur's muscular chest is bare and bears a healthy, allover, and very dark tan that speaks of hard word. But you know and I know that he lazes outside to get it just right. Can you really blame him?

The other Weyrling is even further back, his fat and pasty body huffing and puffing and sweating buckets. His tight little curls bobble atop his head as he hits the ground with all his large weight. A flustered red-pink stains his cheeks with the physical exertion, but he doesn't seem to care. His own blue gaze is fixed on the red-smattered brown. An arm comes up to wipe moisture from a round, moony face, but the wooly fabric bristles a bit painfully.

F'nlaur hits the water and leaps at Bakarith, who squalls and topples over into the deeps. Worry pangs into the young man, fearing that the bronze would drown, but the young dragon's head pokes up and his limbs thrash, obviously fine, if a bit clumsy. Bakarith paddles back to the shallows and consents to a firm scrubbing to rid him of eggskin and sand and any remaining shards of shell. G'nen tentatively reaches the side of the lake and tests it with his toe, before kicking off both sandals and trotting in. F'nlaur glances behind to the unsightly boy and turns quickly away, a look coming over his face. The bronze shoulders him, demanding his attention, now ignoring his clutch mate.

Raghath croons peacefully and nestles against his rider, who watches F'nlaur and follows his lead. The unpleasant bits are cleaned from both bodies.

What happens now? G'nen asks his brown.

I am itchy. You see how my hide is peeling? That is from the eggskin and the sand.

Um.. um.. oh! Right! I think there is oil somewhere I can put on you, but I don't know where.

Ask that Candidate? Raghath tosses his head to the flipping orange-copper hair. But F'nlaur and Bakarith finish and leave the water, sopping wet. G'nen stares at the young man as they leave, blushing greatly and feeling a bit strained near his belly. When the bronze and new rider are gone, the brown creels, Why didn't you ask?

I, um, I don't know.. He hangs his head, the curls a bit loose from the water.

Something dark and hostile slides into the water nearby. G'nen jumps half a foot when the something passes him, green and fierce of eye like a horrible sea monster. She emerges from the water, allover a shady colour of murky jade. The green hatchling's head lifts and she hisses, though the noise almost sounds like laughter. Her Impresser stands at the bank until she points a violent glare at him, and he trails into the water after her. L'meak sneers at G'nen and starts scrubbing down Marath.

Okay, rumbles Raghath. Ask him.

No way. He is.. The brownrider shivers and continues cleaning his dragon, but the hatchling sidles away.

Ouch! I'm already clean, don't scrub me too hard. You may damage me. Just ask, please!

I'm so sorry! G'nen fumbles away from his dragon and almost into L'meak, who jerks and urges his own green away from them. But a mental push from Raghath turns the Weyrling around to address the greenrider. 'Erm..'

Frosty grey-brown eyes narrow and glare over one shoulder. 'What do you want?'

'Where do we go.. when they're clean?'

'Oil them,' L'meak spits, a careless arm waving towards the far wall.

'Th-thank you,' he mumbles and beckons to the brown, who arises from the water with a rush. They both seem hasty to be out of there.

Meanwhile, F'nlaur is rubbing a second coat of oil into his lifemate's brassy hide. Bakarith croons in pleasure, but as soon as the cloth goes over him twice, he backs away. Quite enough, love, save some for the other hatchlings!

The Weyrling laughs and claps a hand on his shoulder. Let's scoot, he murmurs, shooting a glance to the blonde-headed tubby boy that was coming closer.

Alright. Bakarith follows F'nlaur away, out to the Barracks where he and the other Weyrlings would find sleeping arrangements. The rag is dropped onto a small table beside the oil buckets.

G'nen picks it up again, five seconds later. It feels greasy and slick, not a really pleasant feeling. He frowns at it. Raghath glances to a bucket with green eyes. That might be it. The rider nods.

I remember this now. He dips the cloth into the oil. A stream of heavy liquid runs down his robed arm and drips off the point of the fabric. It's tossed onto Raghath before more can escape, eliciting a squeal. The rider then goes over the brown, rubbing every drop in, not missing a single spot. It requires many trips back into the bucket.

As he's about to begin again, Raghath shakes his head. This feels absolutely wonderful, I don't need another. G'nen nods, a little smile forming across his chalky face. They trail after the bronze and his rider, to the Barracks.

L'meak and Marath wait until the brown is gone to approach the oil. The rider knows exactly what to do. He dunks and coats, mechanically, going over his green's body with meticulous care. He associates it in his mind with cleaning a wound, to which the green snorts. I'm not a wound, she growls at him, darkly amused. To this, the boy chuckles. He finishes quickly and lets the green walk in a circle before nodding her consent, and they, too, stalk off.

---

A good deal later, another brown all but skips down to the lake and rolls in the mud. Dirt dirt dirt! It's good for ya, Mulfie!

B'mulf sheds his robes at the edge of the lake, giving his dragon a bemused look and a pat on the head. His lanky, yellowed body urges the dragon in. Zeeth is the colour of any tree in the forest, layered with greys and muds and so many shades of grown, all overlaid and blended with a sheen of pure golden. He was unusual - dark sworls of chestnut sprawling lazily over large, gangly wings and all down his back and spine. The brown lolls in the warm water, blowing bubbles and whipping his lengthy tail from side to side while his rider cleans the muck off. Then, B'mulf urges Zeeth out towards the oil, which promptly goes on in a thick layer, making the brown shine all the more. Me likies! he croons, head bobbing from left to right as if to some invisible music. The Weyrling chuckles, dark eyes crinkled happily, and gives Zeeth a push towards the Barracks.

---

The hatching is all but over. After a very long pause, a blackish, smallish brown trots to the lake and immerses himself quickly. His olive-skinned rider is hot in pursuit. They make a very slow, languid, and careful job of cleaning and oiling, as if very tired. That is a true thing. Quaroth's jaws frequently part in heavy yawns, his exhaustion spreading over to his lazy rider, making them both increasingly sluggish. At one point, U'maro simply folds over his brown's unnaturally shiny, near-black hide while they both doze, the oil spreading over his bare, hard, dark torso. He snaps awake at something or another, quickly finishes the job, and dawdles out with Quaroth in tow.

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