scrub up [c] [restrenon]

[Rom]

"Come, it's not much further."

The lower quarters of Tazum Weyr were dim and humid, rife with smells of cooking and laundering and cleaning. Rom and Restrenon had been walking for a few minutes now in relative silence, with the Blue rider quite done talking to the beast tending boy for now and possibly forever. He was grouchy and vitriolic, and Rom knew he had every right to be, having just been abducted from his home without ceremony or fanfare. But they didn't want to deal with it any longer. They were quite through with thinking about their place in these things.

Rounding a corner, the pair arrived at a door which led into a muggy storage room lit with sweet-smelling candles. In cubbies carved into the walls were clean towels and washcloths, with some spaces instead filled with the clothes of other bathers. Rom spun on their heel and regarded Restrenon, "There are changing rooms just beyond here. Take a towel to cover up with, if you're feeling modest, and go change out of those clothes."

With their orders out of the way, Rom themself collected a set of clean towels and headed for a changing room. To a degree, it was against their better judgement; they had to watch this new Candidate to make sure he wouldn't run off, which meant that they had to use the large group bath, which would have other bathers in it. One mouthy teenager, they could handle. A few ill-intentioned adults, however... but they were filthy, covered in sweat and dirt from their scuffling earlier and the tough ride to Baron Hold, and they loathed to be anything but well-groomed. It only made others' opinion of them worse to be dirty, and while they knew that the Weyrleader was at least not hostile to them, it would be rude to show up stinking of exertion.

Rom changed quickly and returned to the cubbies, wherhides under their arm and a towel wrapped around them from the chest down. There, they waited for Restrenon, and hoped that he was a quick bather.

[Restrenon]

Restrenon had no choice but to follow the dragonrider, further away from the blue skies and deeper into the mazelike interior of the Weyr. Even through his anger and fear, he couldn't help but become baffled and mesmerized by the business of its inhabitants. Nobody seemed to spare a glance for the strange boy who had been drawn so abruptly into it.

The Blue rider, Rom, didn't speak to him until they had reached the baths. The rider snapped some orders, grabbed some towels, and disappeared.

Restrenon looked about himself like an idiot. He managed to follow instructions purely by virtue of having been raised to snap to orders, and that part of him was still on autopilot. He stripped awkwardly done, took a towel and stared at it for a moment. He had no idea what level of nudity was the norm at the Weyr. The thinking part of his brain paralyzed into a stupor by the prospect of a bloody Hatching, he found himself stuck on this triviality. Ultimately he decided to err on the side of modesty, pulled a towel around him, and relocated Rom. He could hear the splashing of water and loud, joking voices, and he began to crane his neck before he could help himself. Were these the other dragonriders? Were they all like his captor, he wondered? What would they think of a runner-tender plucked ripe from his Hold? Ridiculously, he found himself almost hovering behind Rom, who at least he knew, if strongly disliked.

[Rom]

Tucking away their belongings in the same cubby they'd removed their towels from, Rom cast a sideways glance to Restrenon as they heard his bare feet shuffle along the stone. He was worried, which made sense. He'd just been foisted into a new environment and more or less forced to bathe, and Rom was the only person he had any knowledge of. For just a fraction of a second, Rom's expression softened.

"We won't be long. You'll feel better after a soak anyway," they mumbled, a meager attempt at a soothe as they stepped past Restrenon, past the walls that separated the public baths and into the men's chamber. In the water were other men of varying professions, sectioned off into their little groups where they chatted while they bathed. A few of them looked in the way of the new bathers and stopped their conversation, if only for a second, to share looks of disdain among each other. Rom kept their gaze on an unoccupied patch of bathwater and strode towards it perhaps slightly faster.

There was a moment of hesitation before they turned their back to the pool and dropped their towel, folding it again neat and square, and set it on the stone beside the water before slipping in. In profile, Restrenon could see a bit more of Rom's physique, and the other men's disdain suddenly made a bit more sense -- Rom wasn't like any man he had seen before. Perhaps their voice was a little high, their hands a tad slender, but seeing them fully exposed meant seeing that perhaps Rom wasn't a man after all, caught somewhere between the two sexes Restrenon knew. They were in the water before he would have time to dwell on it, grabbing a fistful of scrubbing sand and fervently washing the day's grime off of themself.

"Don't gawk like that," they reprimanded harshly, and yet somehow lifelessly. Rehearsed. Behind them, Rom could hear the conversation of the group of riders they'd passed before sink to whispers. The water didn't do them any favors when it came to their shaking, which sent little ripples out and away from them. Always, always, they thought maybe they could bathe in the communal pool, perhaps they would be able to make it this time, and every time they were wrong. The fear always set in, the self-disgust, the hatred for everyone that hated them on the basis of something they had no control over. They tried to conceal the echoes of their shudders by scrubbing harder, dunking their head under the hot water to soak their black curls, but it did nothing.

"Hey!" Came a shout from the corner they had passed, and Rom's shoulders shot up to their ears. A glance was spared up at Restrenon for a second before they pivoted. It was P'tas, a Brown rider with a penchant for bullying lower riders. Rom was an easy target. P'tas' flight, or most of it, were watching Rom expectantly. "Brought your latest catch, A'rom?"

Rom didn't deign to respond. As they began to turn back to face the stone, P'tas pushed off his corner and swam towards them.

"I'm talking to you, deadglow. Has your depravity brought you so low as to bring boys with you to bathe?" P'tas leaned on the stone beside Rom, attempting to force eye contact. Clearly, though, this was not about Restrenon; P'tas didn't even spare a look his way. His voice dropped to a lower register as he sidled sickeningly closer to Rom, "You ought to branch out and try a real man. W'lem would happily take something as strange as you."

[Restrenon]

Rom grumbled something at him, but they seemed too preoccupied with other thoughts to continue their trend of bullying Restrenon around. Bemused, the boy simply followed, trying to make himself discrete as they entered the room with the great pool. There were a number of men chatting in a corner of the water. They stopped their chat when Rom and their charge appeared. Restrenon assumed it was because of him, until Rom unwound their towel, and the reason for Rom's preoccupation and the riders' disdainful looks became clear.

Restrenon wasn't an animal, he had his manners, but he found himself staring at... he wasn't sure, exactly. Something different from his own anatomy and yet unlike a woman. He hadn't realized such a thing was possible. A number of thoughts sprang to mind, not cruel ones, but suddenly making him wonder what that meant for draconic Impression. Weren't they based on sex?

Rom snapped at him, and Restrenon realized his exceptional rudeness, and he jerked his head and his eyes away and flushed in embarrassment at his behavior. Rom had not been kind to him, but they certainly didn't deserve such gawking. Silently ashamed, Restrenon joined Rom in the water. He reached for a handful of sweet sand to mutely scrub the dirt from under his cracked fingernails.

The looks of the other riders made sense now. But Restrenon didn't understand it. He was a hayseed runnertender from a trading hold, but these were dragonriders. Weren't they supposed to be the best of men? Didn't Impressing a dragon require a certain amount of dignity and self-discipline?

Apparently not, for one of the men actually shouted over, and there was intentional malice in his voice. Restrenon's hackles raised.

The man abandoned his companions to come swim their way, even as Rom did their best to ignore him. The dragonrider's leer was repellant. He barely glanced at Restrenon, even as he insinuated that the boy had been summoned to some depraved end. He joined Rom in their corner as if he had been invited, with a familiarity that he hadn't earned, based on the evasive look on Rom's face. The blue rider didn't seem willing to defend himself. Having experienced Rom's wrath firsthand, Restrenon couldn't believe that they were taking the insults and lechery in such silence.

Before he could think of the ramifications of his actions, Restrenon seized the shoulder of the much larger dragonrider and managed to wrench him around probably by virtue of surprise. "'Real men'?" echoed Restrenon. "I hope you don't call yourself one of those. Here I was told dragonmen were folk to respect." He sneered openly. "'Dragonmen'? I think not. I know shit-shoveling drudge brats with more claim to that title."

[Rom]

As always, P'tas was utterly revolting. He was vile and lecherous and spoke only of horrors that Rom didn't wish to endure again, and so his approach was met with an utterly dead expression as they shielded their body from his view. He'd grow bored and leave eventually, and if he didn't, he would have Imith to deal with.

Imith, who was put off her meal in the caldera and utterly fuming that she couldn't fit into the human baths. She would never dream of harming a human, but frightening one didn't bother her one bit. She'd happily face off against his dragon, too, if it meant Rom didn't have to face this again. Rom was about to brush her away when they were pulled completely out of their own head by a flash of movement, their eyes coming alive again and darting to the source. Restrenon, scorch him, had grabbed P'tas' weathered shoulder and yanked it around to him, drawing the dragonman's ire away. Panic set into Rom's expression. The boy had fire, and that's why Imith had chosen him, but by the Egg, could he not think? If Rom had bested him in the stables, P'tas would thrash him within an inch of his life.

And indeed, within moments of Restrenon's little speech concluding, a very stunned and very furious P'tas reeled back his arm and leveled a hard, open-handed smack at the boy's face.

"Shut up, Holdbrat. What do you know about dragonmen when you've yet to meet a proper one?" Still flinging insults in Rom's direction while he accosted Restrenon. He truly was dedicated to his bullying. In the moments of Restrenon's confusion, P'tas grabbed a handful of the boy's hair and yanked him back up by it, getting a good look at him and deciding, "You aren't even a man yet yourself, and a Holdborn no less. It's a miracle you know your head from your ass."

"P'tas, leave him be!" Rom's voice was a quavering roar, as fierce as they could make themself sound. Up in the caldera, Imith was agitated into shrieking, helpless to protect her rider and his charge. Rom could hear her screaming her rage in the back of their mind as they shoved P'tas' other shoulder in an effort to bring him back around. "He's a Candidate, you can't just--"

"I can do as I shaffing please," P'tas spat. An insidious grin worked up his face as he stared at Rom. He could get a rise out of them now that he was mugging this brat, and he fully intended to. With a firm push, P'tas used the hand still tangled in Restrenon's hair to force him under the hot water and kept him under for a few seconds. "A Candidate, huh? He ought to learn some manners then. If he wants to fly with us, he has to learn the pecking order."

Now Rom was the one who wasn't thinking. In a blitz of uncontrolled anger, pent up after years and years of harassment, Rom's fist darted forward and met P'tas' aquiline nose much like how Restrenon had greeted them not an hour before. The shock of it sent P'tas reeling back, his grip on Restrenon's head loosening and a spray of blood flying into the water. Now the attention of everyone in the bath was on this brawl, including P'tas' wing, who began shouting and lurching clumsily through the water to defend their leader. But Rom didn't have time for regret now, even as fear sent a cold spike into their stomach. They were savaging P'tas, pushing him away from Restrenon and splashing water in his eyes and striking out. They'd only have these precious few seconds before the wing descended on them, and hopefully it'd be enough time for Restrenon to get out of the water so they could both make a retreat in time.

[S'ris]

The mood in the Weyr had been swinging from poor to exhilarating and back again for days, as it often did before hatchings, leaving the more sensitive of the Weyr buffeted by emotions. S'ris was no hear-all-dragons prodigy, but even he wasn't deaf to the restless pangs as his dragon received them.

Hilruth is agitated, remarked Urmath, as his rider descended the inner stair of the Weyr. As are Isbauth, Porath, Linfath... The list continued on and on it seemed, until S'ris reached the bottom step. ...Kiyath, Hezmenth, Imith, and Cath.

And when is Cath not agitated? returned S'ris.

Sometimes she is asleep.

S'ris smiled a smile that was a grimace.

Wait, Imith? He was well acquainted with that dragon and her rider (both were invaluable on Search) and she had always seemed a docile beast.

Very agitated, said Urmath, sounding very bored with the disclosure. There is a fight in the baths.

Of course there sharding was.

And you didn't feel the need to inform the Weyrleader?

There are always fights, grumped Urmath, irked by the rebuke in his rider's tone. If I told you every time two riders started hitting each other, you would never sleep.

That was probably true. But with so many dragons agitated, one of them Imith, and the baths involved--well, S'ris could guess what had happened.

That didn't make him any happier when he strode into the baths to see the chaos firsthand: his riders, some of them even Brown, all embroiled in a stupid, splashing brawl like a bunch of children. He could see the center of the chaos was Rom, just as he had expected, thought he hadn't expected to see the Blue rider apparently trying to pry P'tas's eyes out with his thumbs. S'ris knew for a disgusting fact that that attack was justified.

"To order," he barked. "The lot of you!"

His words resonated in the chamber, bouncing off the wide walls, and before the echoes had faded away the men had ceased their sparring and stood (or rather, swam) at attention.

A boy broke the silence, bursting out from under the water coughing like he was half drowned. Some Holdbrat of Rom's, S'ris had to assume, for he didn't recognize the boy. The result of his searchrider's diligence.

"Are you bored?" he asked his riders caustically. "Are you duties not enough, that you have so much energy to waste here? S'kam!" A man at the back jerked and straightened his back. A Blue rider, whose weyrmate had been crowing close to estrus for a week. "Don't you have a Green you should be flying? E'las!" Another rider quailed. "I've seen the revolting state of your weyr, do you really have time to do more in the baths than scrub away your own filth?"

He glowered at them all, knowing that Urmath was vocalizing his ire at their paired dragons, thinking that he would very much like to bend each man over like a difficult child and give them a belting.

"Those on you who aren't on Search, you can oil leathers alongside Weyrbrats until the Hatching. Those of you who are, you had best be on your way, and pray that you return with proof of your worth to the Weyr, for you will not find me in good spirits if you return empty-handed."

He dismissed them with a jerk of his chin, and the riders hastily began to climb out of the water to gather their towels and go, averting their eyes from him. Some looked properly ashamed. None dared show a hint of a sullen or resentful face in front of their Weyrleader.

S'ris threw out a hand to block the passage of the last of them. P'tas. This was not the Brown rider's first offense. Nor the first time he had found Rom the subject of his offenses. In a different voice from before, very casual, S'ris told him, "If you drown a candidate, in some moment of high spirits or cruel sport, I will drain and measure the water from his lungs, and I will personally ensure that you bleed enough to match it. Understood?"

P'tas was a head taller than S'ris, but didn't dare raise his eyes to meet his Weyrleader's. He nodded a mute compliance.

S'ris let him go. P'tas's footsteps receding swiftly behind him, he turned to regard the two left in the pool. One was Rom. They looked as though they had taken more than one beating today. The other was the boy. He was tall, gangly, the ugly age that most candidates were at Impression, as ungainly as the dragonets they would meet. But he was brawny enough to satisfy S'ris. He looked at though he had taken a battering as well.

S'ris looked at Rom, and then pointed at the boy. "Is this yours?"

[Rom]

The men's bath turned into a free for all. Men from P'tas' flight were scrambling, swarming, coming to P'tas' aid against a single foe. But Rom was a vicious foe, now clearheaded enough to not fight for their own survival, but Restrenon's as well. The boy's head was still held underwater as P'tas blocked and returned blows with his other arm. In seconds, Rom was overwhelmed by P'tas' friends, their face smashed into the rock as they struggled and screamed and screamed and screamed. The rest were pulling P'tas back, shielding him, even as he kept lurching after Rom. He'd forgotten Restrenon, for now.

A voice rang out, clear and furious and distinctive. All motion in the baths ceased other than the residual sloshing of the water, Restrenon spluttering and coming up for air without a thought for who was before him. Dozens of eyes turned all at once to lay upon he who had spoken: S'ris himself. Of course. Rom was suddenly sharply aware how Imith's squawking had ceased as Urmath lectured her and the other dragons in the caldera whose riders had engaged in this mess. Shame burned hot in Rom's chest, creeping into their face; their vision suddenly blurred as tears of embarrassment welled within.

Each scolding struck Rom even though none were directed at them. It was so utterly disgraceful for S'ris to see this, to see them like this, that even as E'las and W'lem released their hold on Rom, they let their head rest on stone and turned their face away. They should have thought about this harder. If Restrenon had run out of the baths, Rom could have pursued--

The others were filing out with tails tucked as Rom cursed themself in silence. By the time they straightened, only they and Restrenon remained in the water, and Rom glanced his way. He was breathless, half-drowned, but still alive. Hopefully it would be a valuable lesson about the pecking order in the Weyr, and something like this wouldn't happen again. Perhaps now he would know why Rom held their tongue. Rom grasped the boy's arm and pulled him out of the deepest water, to safety from terrors that were no longer present, to shield their own body from S'ris' view, to present him to the Weyrleader.

"Yes ser," Rom said as clearly as they could muster, nodding over Restrenon's head. "I-I'm so sorry, Weyrleader, this was my doing. I'd intended to clean him up and bring him to you. I should have been more careful."

They ducked their head again and noticed for the first time that they were bloodied again as it dripped from their lower lip, trickled down their cheek and over one eye, which was starting to swell shut. In the moment, they hadn't realised just how many blows P'tas had landed. They took some comfort in the fact that they knew he must look far, far worse. Rom cupped a handful of water to their face and rinsed some of the mess away before glancing up again.

"His name is Restrenon. I found him at Baron hold. He was a runnerbeast tender before today." This wasn't exactly how Rom had pictured the two of them meeting. They'd hoped to be clothed, for starters, and in the Weyrleader's quarters or somewhere else in the weyr with even an iota of professionalism. "If you'd like, m'lord, I can bring him to you for a proper review when we are decent."

[S'ris]

S'ris eyed his Searchrider more with frustration than with pity; he didn't understand Rom's physical quirk against nature, he didn't understand the mottled blue female they rode, but he understood the Blue rider's heart. A day in Rom's boots would have brought any of the other riders to crisis. It had to have been a quirk of physical sex that Rom Impressed their strange Blue, for if S'ris had been a betting man, he would have guessed Brown at least.

But these ugly days, the pairings were as often mysterious as they were predictable.

S'ris regarded Rom's candidate with that in mind. Strong looking lad. He was thrashed, they both were, but there was no fear or defiance in his face, only a mild sullenness touched with confusion. S'ris didn't have to think long. He had seen hoards of candidates, for years, and he knew 'good enough' when he saw it. The lad might die on the Sands, or he might Impress, but he wouldn't stand in the background and be funneled away back to... wherever Rom had plucked him from.

"You're back earlier than expected," said S'ris, knowing that Rom wanted confirmation of their quality, not pity. "As usual." He let the corner of a smile tug his mouth. Normally he would never let a candidate see a hint of a smile, but the lad was thrashed enough that it would probably only intimidate him, and he did like Rom. The odd rider almost always turned up workable material. "You may bring him if you like, though I won't begrudge you a break from your duties. I trust your judgment." He didn't say 'unlike the others', but he meant it. There were few in the Weyr he trusted thoroughly. His power had reached his height, and he could sense its waning. Perhaps even this new lad would be his usurper.

S'ris didn't sigh, or run his fingers through his hand, or contemplate a hot bath of his own.

He had work to do.

"I'll review the lad at your convenience," he allowed finally. To the boy, he fixed a severe look. "You've seen that the Weyr is no gentle home. You're a fortunate one. Many candidates don't learn the lesson until they see the blood on the Sands." With that, he dismissed them, trusting that Rom would take this 'Restrenon' in hand.