Log: Plowing
May. 10th, 2012 09:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
citlaliIt's currently mid-summer on the northern continent.
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 7th month, and 25th day of the 10th Pass.
Citlali may have just as well been here earlier, being the type to get up and do things as early as possible, and also flocking to anything that involves the one field of expertise she's really got: that being runners, not that she knows a bit about training them to plow. No doubt she wasn't around long, though, in the morning -- but after completing whatever other task she had set up for the day, she's trotted back out to the gardens to help keep the plow system going. Her hair's swept up in a bun, and she's got what looks like a smear of dirt across her cheek already. She doesn't /quite/ butt right in to Rylsar and Imogen's conversation, but when she stops walking to get the lay of the land she's standing very nearby.
It's lunch break, though that's slowly coming to a close -- Rylsar has a grip on his mare's halter, though she's stubbornly wanting to suck down a stomach full of cold colic water in .007 seconds. The broad-shouldered candidate is focused on Imogen to the point that he doesn't actually noticing Citlali's approach (though Summer sure does, pushing away from the water to whuffle in greeting). "Least when I'm gone you'll get everything back t'the way it was," he pitches in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"It'll never be quite the same," Imogen says, distantly. She pushes her hair out of her face and exhales all at once, pushing the tension from her before it can take up residence anywhere. "You've done a lovely job, you know." Her smile this time seems more genuine. "I'm sure it'll - I like the idea of the garden growing stronger." Citlali is more in her line of sight - the smile gets transferred to her.
"Hey, lady," says Citlali, reaching out to offer a hand for sniffings and noserubs in Summer's direction (and thus reaffirming that 'lady' isn't what she's calling Imogen today). The weyrwoman does get a smile back, though, in greeting -- she even uses the hand not preoccupied by the runner to offer up a salute. "It's looking different for sure," she agrees. When she was there before they'd barely started; if there's been enough time to take a proper lunch break it's definitely gone through some changes. "Good work." Okay, so most of the compliment? Still for the runner.
The big mare whuffles at Citlali's hand, lipping without nibbling at the hand. "No biting," Ryls warns Summer, as if the mare could somehow know what he's talking about. His body language does change in a subtle but entirely evident manner to the runner, who backs up from Citlali and eyeballs the Farmer in a bitch-please eyeball of wtfery. This accomplished, Ryls shoots Citlali a crooked smile and focuses on Imogen again-- "Thanks," he says, softer, after a moment. "I hope it'll feed people who need feedin'."
Imogen acknowledges the salute with a slight bob of her head. "We've never let anyone starve yet." She's trying hard for serenity and mostly managing - Hestiath must be involved. She watches Citlali and the runner with a tolerant, amused expression. "Does she bite?"
"She's never bitten me," is all Citlali can say on Summer's toothy habits, though she does seem amused by the mare's reaction to Rylsar. "Though I bet she would if annoyed enough, regardless of usual temperament -- my boy actually bites a lot, technically, but it's just nipping and we usually thwap him on the snout for it and he stops." She sounds terribly loving a runner owner, but the gentle thwap does, as a rule, usually serve fine. "Least he's stopped chewing his stall door. I'm sure he'd be jealous of all the attention she's getting, but his reaction to a plow harness would probably be 'run away.'"
"All runners bite," the Farmer replies in an echo of Citlali's words, with more affection than derogatory vibe to his voice. He reaches up to rub the mare over the bridge of her nose, and Summer's head drops back down to a reasonable level, relaxing again. Rylsar nods towards Citlali's explanation. "Cribbers." The word is uttered more like a curse than anything else. Abrupt return to another subject, to Imogen: "I don't think th' weyr would ever let anyone starve." It's said in almost-apology; he didn't mean it quite the way it came out.
"Oh, I didn't think you meant that," the tolerant amusement stays put as Imogen waves off Rylsar's almost-apology, "no need to fuss." She's watching the runner rather than the garden now. "I don't know a thing about runners," she freely admits. "I'd no idea they were so complicated."
Citlali's smile softens to a sort of bland affection that may be meant for Rylsar's runner or the species in general (after a quiet eyeroll dedicated to her own beast's taste for wood and Rylsar's understandable response). "Complicated and beautiful," she agrees, clearly and unabashedly biased. "I've worked with them since I was real young. Six or so. And I've noticed the Weyr really looks out for everyone here a lot -- it's impressed me."
Rylsar glances at Imogen, but for some reason he doesn't pursue what's obviously trying to wrest out of him-- some type of commentary. It's probably not runner related. Instead, he does latch onto the topic, taking a stance completely opposite from Citlali: his selfsame lopsided smile as he mildly disagrees, "They're simple, when y'think like one. Only complicated when you think about 'em from a predator point of view." He scruffs along Summer's neck and turns back towards the plows-- "I think it's time t'get back on it," he directs to Citlali, hesitating as his gaze falls upon Imogen again.
"Mm," Imogen takes in all this commentary on runners thoughtfully, though truthfully she'll probably forget about it in the next moment. Citlali's kind comments about the Weyr earn her another smile. "We try," she says, then, quickly, "I'll get out of your way," apparently interpreting Rylsar's look as a what will we do with this useless weyrwoman while we work kind of thing. She begins to drift away before she's hardly done speaking, off and into the greenery in the part of the garden that still has some.
"Tell me where you want me, boss," Citlali tells Rylsar, and it's not even really teasing -- he does, actually, know what he's doing a lot better than she does. She's great at stepping in and filling a task, but not so much an effort. As Imogen departs, the candidate offers one last comment -- "It's a lot better than at home, really," with no further undertones as to what exactly about the Hold she's insulting -- before giving a smile-and-wave for her exit.
Not, in truth, what that was about. But Rylsar will ride with it, 'cause it's easier. "You wouldn't be in th' way," he token protests, but offers a grin and moves Summer back towards the plow in acquiescience. "Help me with the traces?" he questions Citlali, gesturing towards the full harness that's casually strewn over a branch not-too-far-away. "I work her without a bit, on just one long line. She knows her business." He's already negotiating the big chestnut back between the shafts of the plow, shading one last look after Imogen before turning fully to his work.
Harness-wrangler is definitely a job Citlali can perform without much difficulty; it might be, well, large, but for all that she's kind of girly she's not /small/. Or dainty. "She's definitely got skill, I can tell that much; how long's she been at the job?" Asking about Rylsar's experience is for people-people. While Citlali might be cool with people, she's definitely more of a runner-person. "I never helped train for farmwork, just message runs and transportation, so I'm pretty clueless as to how it gets done." She is at least not pretty clueless with helping get the harness situated, though.
"She's fourteen," Rylsar starts out-- "Farmcraft don't let 'em pull for real 'till at least six. She strained a gaskin last spring which is why they let me take 'er-- this is her rehab." He carefully tightens the straps on his side of the deal, pulling her coarse tail up and adjusting the crupper. "So," in thought, "She's had, maybe, seven years at it? She knows her business." There's a fond pat for the amiable mare -- who is, even now, trying to snatch at a nearby strand of alfalfa poking out of recently-plowed ground.
"And hungry," Citlali observes, with a quiet laugh. "Or just in the mood for a taste test." She's mostly just observing, watching the way the mare moves after the clue-in about her health around actually getting Summer's harness properly adjusted. Having never done it before, she's slower at it than Rylsar, but at least seems to be competent enough not to have anything too tight or too loose. "Not that I can blame her; bet it's tiring work. If the humans get tired."
"Aren't they always?" Rylsar dryly comments. A nudge of his boot has her lifting her head with affront, but he easily ties on the long lead and throws the coiled slack back. Hooking the shafts to the harness requires a little help - it's a two handed job. "Hey, come hold this up for me, will y'?" he questions absently. "Yeah, this's hard as shit." He's frank. "But it's necessary, an' we'll be done before we realize we should be." What with ALL the extra hands!
Evidently, Citlali will -- even if she doesn't answer to the affirmative, simply because she does. "Unless," she eventually quips, "they're feeling particularly picky and then you have to suck up and bribe to get 'em to eat at all, or else that's what a lot of the Hold's stock are like." Summer has, apparently, made her good list, because even if she's busy fighting with hooking up a harness that may weigh around what she does, the mare still gets a pat.
"Right?" Rylsar's fingers fly on making good on the attachment of harness to shaft. "Damn finicky bitches," he comments, more to himself than to her - really - but at least has the grace to look up semi-sheepish. "Sorry." Summer still stands, patiently waiting her cue to go back to work. She even sighs, as if this is taking /entirely/ too long.
Maybe someday Summer will forgive Citlali's unpracticed hands; maybe it will come with bribes of redfruit and sugar cubes. Or just alfalfa. "Well, I assume you didn't mean me," she laughs, as a way of -- excusing, if not really /forgiving/, since she doesn't seem to have taken offense. "It's not like I mind swearing -- but if you /did/ mean me, I'll have to reconsider."
"No, 'course not. We already had /that/ moment of misunderstandin' with Hoary, aye?" Rylsar's grin is sudden and bright, possibly infectuous. He moves over to the other side: rinse and repeat. "Y'better than some of th' others, anyhow. Most of the others, maybe." His voice turns a little dark on this note.
Citlali laughs, so at least if the grin wasn't infectious by itself it resulted in something similar. "Well, he was charming; you've got a very nice ass," she can't resist saying, and it's in the entirely matter-of-fact sort of way that just brushes by any possible innuendo to be totally clear that she meant the draybeast and while she may be aware it could be taken another way, she's either ignoring it or deliberately lampshading it. "/And/ a nice runner. Other girls bothering you?" she dares actually inquire; she's not as nosy as others, but she's at least going to ask.
Rylsar may or may not choke on his own tongue over that comment; but he refrains from laughing. Somehow. "Other girls?" He's got a blank look, then-- "Oh, no, not at all. Not like that. As a matter of fact..." and now Citlali's in for it: over the next couple of candlemarks of hard work, Rylsar is going to cheerfully announce /all/ of the idiots and buffoons and ridiculous individuals that they agreed to Stand with. Dumb candidates. Dumb D'yce. Dumb snowballs. Augh!
The Starsmiths say it is the 19th Turn, 7th month, and 25th day of the 10th Pass.
Garden
With imported soil giving fertility to enhance Fort Weyr's diet the garden doubles as a small, quaint Eden. Priority of space is given to conventional rows of annual vegetables and herbs that must be carefully maintained during the brief summers. There's a central path where two may walk abreast, large enough for compost and harvesting carts. The small nearby lake provides a rudimentary form of irrigation with much manual labor. Several constructed posts support the wild growth of climbing varieties of peas and beans. This arrangement supports a small canopy of matted summer vines to present a sufficient screen for those who seek a carefully placed bench made of expired woody vines. The garden is no great expanse - a poor location and northern latitude limit plant composition - but it's a local piece of self-sufficiency and practical composure.
Citlali may have just as well been here earlier, being the type to get up and do things as early as possible, and also flocking to anything that involves the one field of expertise she's really got: that being runners, not that she knows a bit about training them to plow. No doubt she wasn't around long, though, in the morning -- but after completing whatever other task she had set up for the day, she's trotted back out to the gardens to help keep the plow system going. Her hair's swept up in a bun, and she's got what looks like a smear of dirt across her cheek already. She doesn't /quite/ butt right in to Rylsar and Imogen's conversation, but when she stops walking to get the lay of the land she's standing very nearby.
It's lunch break, though that's slowly coming to a close -- Rylsar has a grip on his mare's halter, though she's stubbornly wanting to suck down a stomach full of cold colic water in .007 seconds. The broad-shouldered candidate is focused on Imogen to the point that he doesn't actually noticing Citlali's approach (though Summer sure does, pushing away from the water to whuffle in greeting). "Least when I'm gone you'll get everything back t'the way it was," he pitches in an attempt to lighten the mood.
"It'll never be quite the same," Imogen says, distantly. She pushes her hair out of her face and exhales all at once, pushing the tension from her before it can take up residence anywhere. "You've done a lovely job, you know." Her smile this time seems more genuine. "I'm sure it'll - I like the idea of the garden growing stronger." Citlali is more in her line of sight - the smile gets transferred to her.
"Hey, lady," says Citlali, reaching out to offer a hand for sniffings and noserubs in Summer's direction (and thus reaffirming that 'lady' isn't what she's calling Imogen today). The weyrwoman does get a smile back, though, in greeting -- she even uses the hand not preoccupied by the runner to offer up a salute. "It's looking different for sure," she agrees. When she was there before they'd barely started; if there's been enough time to take a proper lunch break it's definitely gone through some changes. "Good work." Okay, so most of the compliment? Still for the runner.
The big mare whuffles at Citlali's hand, lipping without nibbling at the hand. "No biting," Ryls warns Summer, as if the mare could somehow know what he's talking about. His body language does change in a subtle but entirely evident manner to the runner, who backs up from Citlali and eyeballs the Farmer in a bitch-please eyeball of wtfery. This accomplished, Ryls shoots Citlali a crooked smile and focuses on Imogen again-- "Thanks," he says, softer, after a moment. "I hope it'll feed people who need feedin'."
Imogen acknowledges the salute with a slight bob of her head. "We've never let anyone starve yet." She's trying hard for serenity and mostly managing - Hestiath must be involved. She watches Citlali and the runner with a tolerant, amused expression. "Does she bite?"
"She's never bitten me," is all Citlali can say on Summer's toothy habits, though she does seem amused by the mare's reaction to Rylsar. "Though I bet she would if annoyed enough, regardless of usual temperament -- my boy actually bites a lot, technically, but it's just nipping and we usually thwap him on the snout for it and he stops." She sounds terribly loving a runner owner, but the gentle thwap does, as a rule, usually serve fine. "Least he's stopped chewing his stall door. I'm sure he'd be jealous of all the attention she's getting, but his reaction to a plow harness would probably be 'run away.'"
"All runners bite," the Farmer replies in an echo of Citlali's words, with more affection than derogatory vibe to his voice. He reaches up to rub the mare over the bridge of her nose, and Summer's head drops back down to a reasonable level, relaxing again. Rylsar nods towards Citlali's explanation. "Cribbers." The word is uttered more like a curse than anything else. Abrupt return to another subject, to Imogen: "I don't think th' weyr would ever let anyone starve." It's said in almost-apology; he didn't mean it quite the way it came out.
"Oh, I didn't think you meant that," the tolerant amusement stays put as Imogen waves off Rylsar's almost-apology, "no need to fuss." She's watching the runner rather than the garden now. "I don't know a thing about runners," she freely admits. "I'd no idea they were so complicated."
Citlali's smile softens to a sort of bland affection that may be meant for Rylsar's runner or the species in general (after a quiet eyeroll dedicated to her own beast's taste for wood and Rylsar's understandable response). "Complicated and beautiful," she agrees, clearly and unabashedly biased. "I've worked with them since I was real young. Six or so. And I've noticed the Weyr really looks out for everyone here a lot -- it's impressed me."
Rylsar glances at Imogen, but for some reason he doesn't pursue what's obviously trying to wrest out of him-- some type of commentary. It's probably not runner related. Instead, he does latch onto the topic, taking a stance completely opposite from Citlali: his selfsame lopsided smile as he mildly disagrees, "They're simple, when y'think like one. Only complicated when you think about 'em from a predator point of view." He scruffs along Summer's neck and turns back towards the plows-- "I think it's time t'get back on it," he directs to Citlali, hesitating as his gaze falls upon Imogen again.
"Mm," Imogen takes in all this commentary on runners thoughtfully, though truthfully she'll probably forget about it in the next moment. Citlali's kind comments about the Weyr earn her another smile. "We try," she says, then, quickly, "I'll get out of your way," apparently interpreting Rylsar's look as a what will we do with this useless weyrwoman while we work kind of thing. She begins to drift away before she's hardly done speaking, off and into the greenery in the part of the garden that still has some.
"Tell me where you want me, boss," Citlali tells Rylsar, and it's not even really teasing -- he does, actually, know what he's doing a lot better than she does. She's great at stepping in and filling a task, but not so much an effort. As Imogen departs, the candidate offers one last comment -- "It's a lot better than at home, really," with no further undertones as to what exactly about the Hold she's insulting -- before giving a smile-and-wave for her exit.
Not, in truth, what that was about. But Rylsar will ride with it, 'cause it's easier. "You wouldn't be in th' way," he token protests, but offers a grin and moves Summer back towards the plow in acquiescience. "Help me with the traces?" he questions Citlali, gesturing towards the full harness that's casually strewn over a branch not-too-far-away. "I work her without a bit, on just one long line. She knows her business." He's already negotiating the big chestnut back between the shafts of the plow, shading one last look after Imogen before turning fully to his work.
Harness-wrangler is definitely a job Citlali can perform without much difficulty; it might be, well, large, but for all that she's kind of girly she's not /small/. Or dainty. "She's definitely got skill, I can tell that much; how long's she been at the job?" Asking about Rylsar's experience is for people-people. While Citlali might be cool with people, she's definitely more of a runner-person. "I never helped train for farmwork, just message runs and transportation, so I'm pretty clueless as to how it gets done." She is at least not pretty clueless with helping get the harness situated, though.
"She's fourteen," Rylsar starts out-- "Farmcraft don't let 'em pull for real 'till at least six. She strained a gaskin last spring which is why they let me take 'er-- this is her rehab." He carefully tightens the straps on his side of the deal, pulling her coarse tail up and adjusting the crupper. "So," in thought, "She's had, maybe, seven years at it? She knows her business." There's a fond pat for the amiable mare -- who is, even now, trying to snatch at a nearby strand of alfalfa poking out of recently-plowed ground.
"And hungry," Citlali observes, with a quiet laugh. "Or just in the mood for a taste test." She's mostly just observing, watching the way the mare moves after the clue-in about her health around actually getting Summer's harness properly adjusted. Having never done it before, she's slower at it than Rylsar, but at least seems to be competent enough not to have anything too tight or too loose. "Not that I can blame her; bet it's tiring work. If the humans get tired."
"Aren't they always?" Rylsar dryly comments. A nudge of his boot has her lifting her head with affront, but he easily ties on the long lead and throws the coiled slack back. Hooking the shafts to the harness requires a little help - it's a two handed job. "Hey, come hold this up for me, will y'?" he questions absently. "Yeah, this's hard as shit." He's frank. "But it's necessary, an' we'll be done before we realize we should be." What with ALL the extra hands!
Evidently, Citlali will -- even if she doesn't answer to the affirmative, simply because she does. "Unless," she eventually quips, "they're feeling particularly picky and then you have to suck up and bribe to get 'em to eat at all, or else that's what a lot of the Hold's stock are like." Summer has, apparently, made her good list, because even if she's busy fighting with hooking up a harness that may weigh around what she does, the mare still gets a pat.
"Right?" Rylsar's fingers fly on making good on the attachment of harness to shaft. "Damn finicky bitches," he comments, more to himself than to her - really - but at least has the grace to look up semi-sheepish. "Sorry." Summer still stands, patiently waiting her cue to go back to work. She even sighs, as if this is taking /entirely/ too long.
Maybe someday Summer will forgive Citlali's unpracticed hands; maybe it will come with bribes of redfruit and sugar cubes. Or just alfalfa. "Well, I assume you didn't mean me," she laughs, as a way of -- excusing, if not really /forgiving/, since she doesn't seem to have taken offense. "It's not like I mind swearing -- but if you /did/ mean me, I'll have to reconsider."
"No, 'course not. We already had /that/ moment of misunderstandin' with Hoary, aye?" Rylsar's grin is sudden and bright, possibly infectuous. He moves over to the other side: rinse and repeat. "Y'better than some of th' others, anyhow. Most of the others, maybe." His voice turns a little dark on this note.
Citlali laughs, so at least if the grin wasn't infectious by itself it resulted in something similar. "Well, he was charming; you've got a very nice ass," she can't resist saying, and it's in the entirely matter-of-fact sort of way that just brushes by any possible innuendo to be totally clear that she meant the draybeast and while she may be aware it could be taken another way, she's either ignoring it or deliberately lampshading it. "/And/ a nice runner. Other girls bothering you?" she dares actually inquire; she's not as nosy as others, but she's at least going to ask.
Rylsar may or may not choke on his own tongue over that comment; but he refrains from laughing. Somehow. "Other girls?" He's got a blank look, then-- "Oh, no, not at all. Not like that. As a matter of fact..." and now Citlali's in for it: over the next couple of candlemarks of hard work, Rylsar is going to cheerfully announce /all/ of the idiots and buffoons and ridiculous individuals that they agreed to Stand with. Dumb candidates. Dumb D'yce. Dumb snowballs. Augh!
