Not difficult, to find these rich, sandy inlets, along the southern coast, but to find them so free, and unfettered, is a rare thing indeed. Black as night, scintillating with sparkles of gold and silver fire, the sands of the stretch out in gentle curves and eddies into the rich, crystalline blue of the ocean, the outline of the inlet like rich, handstrewn filigree. A soft, flowing breeze carries in from the sea, blending salt-air with the gentler sweeter scents of the land. The beach itself, stretches along the coast for as far as the eye can see, and then, more deeply, in towards the jungle for a scant two dragonlengths. At the middle-left edge of the inlet, a larger, natural beach has been deposited by wind, and salt-water, a full ten dragonlengths, in a nearly perfect circular indentation, from frothy waves, to the small dunes just beyond, the gradient so mild, that it's a simple enough task to walk it. Past the dunes, and over a gentle rise, the jungle that follows the coast seems to have ebbed, a bit, expanding out in flat sheet, into a field of what looks primarily to be a field of numbweed, with various and sundry plants scattered throughout.

A temporary camp, has been constructed in the center of the beach. Cooking fires have been set, wherry and hedbeast roasting to provide a meal for the harvesters. Under the cover of a small open-face tent, klah and juices as well as water are available for refreshment, carefully kept warm, and alternately cooled cy the addition of ice. A final section holds a selection of pies and other desserts. At the far right of the camp, barrels and bowls have been set out, to allow for the application of redwort and oil before harvesting, and well as a small healer station for any unfortunate incidents which might occur. A small series of open-face tents for relaxing under have been set out as well, though the main portion of the beach has been left for the dragons to make themselves comfortable on.

The healer stationed on duty at the moment, offers a friendly glance to Cymber, and then to Dakar, as he accompanies her, assisting both in dipping hands and arms into the redowrt bathe, and then, demonstrating the proper technique for the application of oil.

Newly arrived themselves, the green rider gracious enough to cart them here already back at the weyr, Cymber and Dakar have gathered themselves enough to meet up with a healer. Empty baskets are loose at their feet in the sand, and with a wrinkle to her nose, the lady, at least, is busily applying redwort and oil to every inch of skin below her rolled-up sleeves.

All the while, the troops continue to move, in haphazard lines, from camp, to fields and back again, proper distance given to the dragons appearing and landing to the edge of the camp to deposit their passengers, and to collect the already gathered leaves.

Dakar rolls up his sleeves as he kneels nect to the bathe, before he follows suit, dipping his hands and arms into the stuff, Hair hangs in front of his eyes and he absently notes to himself that a trim might be in order, as he glances over to Cymber to see just how she applies the oil, and follows suit.

T'rrent wanders in along with Shansi, having just recently arrived themselves, with his hands shoved idly in his pockets, and a smile decorating that face of his. There's an odd gleam to that smile, though, whose genisis becomes blatantly apparent after the man speaks his first words to Shansi, "Here we are. You can't sit around doing nothing all day, everyone's got to work sometimes." Oh, Vecica would love this.

Llilian drops off her basket, wandering back over towards the cooking tent, Nutmeg crooning as piteously as he can, well, pretend to be. And so, she pauses, long enough to pick up ahandful of berries which she begins to feed to the growing brown, picking up a meatroll for herself, a wave, and a soft, "hello", offered to those she knows, and those, well, she'll know before the end of the day, as well.

Shansi has her arms crossed firmly over her chest -- yep, she's upset. Full lips are even drawn into ... not a pout, but a tight, unhappy frown. "I don't see why I have to do *this*. Someone else could." She pivots slightly, then withdraws one arm long enough to point, "See. Those people. *They* are workers. I am not. They like this, probably. I most *certainly* do not." A quick glance at the Weyrleader -- whom she's been refusing to look in the eye up until now -- then, "I could go get more ice from up north of 'Reaches? Wouldn't that be useful, too?" Her nose wrinkles, gaze flicking again to the people beginning to gather. "This is not appropriate work for me. My clothes will .. stink."

Ooooh.. another lizard? Ember perks right up at Nutmeg's sound, angling his lean little body around on Cymber's shoulder and driving his head through her hair to find it source. Whirling eyes are slanted, for he's twisted his neck, but he offers a chirrup of low greeting when they land on the target of his search. The young lady's oblivious though, taking more time than normal to demonstrate proper application techniques to the smith. "Don't coat it well enough, and you won't feel your fingers for a week, Dakar. Can't have that in that forge of yours, can we now?" Her eyes lift to the man, before she looks toward Shansi, smiling faintly at the sight of the lord holder's daughter.

High above, a blue dragon pops out of Between and spirals down to dump off another handful of helpers, Valin among them. Thus /another/ firelizard is added to the mix; another bronze, to boot. As for Valin, he dismounts last and most shakily of the bunch, it actually being his first time a-dragonback and Between.

That same grin, only much more sinister this go around, creeps up on T'rrent's face once more. "Yes, they will," he remarks. "You clothes will stink. They'll smell absolutely horrid, actually. But that's just something you're going to have to learn to deal with, Shansi." He rolls his eyes and grumbles something in a rather frustrated tone to himself.. Something about banishment..and Morpheth being really hungry, it sounds like.

"I suppose not," comes the smith's rather vanilla reply. He moves to stand beside Cymber, arms crossing--or starting to cross--over his chest, before he remembers himself, and lowers them to his sides, afraid to mess up the protection afforded by the preparations.

Cymber can be thoughtful at times, and she quells the bright spark of good spirit that comes to life in her eyes as she strides sedately to the pile of empty baskets and makes a small show of selecting the biggest one. "Here you go, Shansi, let me help." Her feet are near swallowed by the shifting sands as she strides over and offers it to the other girl, smile nothing but friendly and bland. A nod for T'rrent, more than polite, her eyes finding his for a moment, but then she merely awaits some sort of reply.

The cooling headwind, coming off of the ocean, is a welcome addition, to the warm midday air of the coast, and the fires at the camp flicker with life, as meat is carried from the fire, to the cooking tents and beyond. The harvesters now rising from their breaks begin to move back to the fields, the off-shift now entering the sands, for their break.

Llilian pauses, just about to pop another berry into Nutmeg's mouth, when the brown here's Ember's chirp of greeting, and instead, she hands him the berry, and with a flit of wings, he whirrs off towards the bronze in question, berry offered as a friendship offering.

"But what a waste of new clothes." Sigh. Shansi picks at her sleeve, then purses her lips, "Well. Newer ones can be bought, I suppose." She then tilts her head in acknowledgement of Cymber's smile, just faintly, then murmurs, "Well, perhaps *Cymber* doesn't enjoy the work so much as the company. I don't know. But anyway, she's happy. She's smiling. I'm not. I want to go back. I'm not really needed here." A pause, as something soaks in. "Did you say your lifemate is hungry?" She's all charm. "Doesn't that mean he should get back to the Weyr? We could go back with him, you know, and I could tell other people to come help.." She nods, quickly, emphasizing this grand idea of hers, "Wouldn't that be nice, too?"

Valin staggers on the sands for a few seconds, shaking off the disorientation of flight and utter nothingness. Eventually the stablehand-turned-Candidate recovers, and he shrugs out of his borrowed flight jacket, dumping that at camp. Given just a few minutes, he seems steady again. A quick drink of water so he doesn't dehydrate out there, the putting-on of his shade-giving hat, and then Val tromps over the sands to find a basket, joining the rest.

T'rrent offers a smile in return to Cymber for her help - a kind smile, not the demonic sort he's been giving Shansi lately. "Ah yes.. Baskets. Oh, and we can't forget the redwort. Here, Shansi... You need to dip your arms in this," nasty looking stuff, "to keep the numbweed from numbing your hands when you pick it." Pause, and he turns that smile on the spoiled little brat again. "Yes, he is hungry, but we don't need to go back. There's plenty of food right here.." And he patpats the girl's head. He clears his throat next. "Now, let's get to work, shall we?" Oh, that can't have been a threat, can it? Of course!

Light shimmers copper from out of the neat patchword of metallic hues that comprise Ember's hide as the little beast crawls his way through a veil of raven hair, and with a chitter to his mistress, spreads elegant wings and takes flight. He meets up with Nutmeg about ten paces over the sands, and spends a few seconds in sizing up this new friend before crooning a single soft note and accepting gift. Berries are one of his favorites.

"But wait.." Cymber's 'extremely' helpful today, she widens her smile solicitously at Shansi before turning around and beckoning with one hand. "Dakar.. can you bring some of that oil, too? We can't have her hands and arms numbed right up to the elbow." The curve of her lip's retained for the Weyrleader, some sort of peace obviously having been made out of past situations, but her eyes, they slide right on back to the holder's daughter. "You need a -really- thick coat for it work." Offer denied or not, she deposits the basket next to the other girl, just where she can reach it first.

The soft sound of a harper's voice wafts in from the fields, carrying the soft strains of a seahold song, the sounds of the already working crews joining in. Loud enough over at the beach, it's going to be a fair fight once you get to the fields.

Dakar doesn't have a firelizard, and so is out of the loop on a bit of the interplay which goes on between those which have come here. So he walks off to one side of the group, a look to Cymber to see that she's allright, as always, before he looks for something to do. Some way to be helpful. That's precisely when Cymber calls to him, and he lifts eyes to look upon her. "Hmm?" he intones brilliantly, "Oh..yes. Of course." That said, he fetches said oil and brings it over to Cymber.

Nutmeg, well, he's been taking lessons, from a certain cousin, and he hands the berry over, with polite daintiness, a bright, friendly sound in his crooning as he hovers in the air, watching Ember intently. And then, da rt back to Llilian, for two more berries, one of which he pops immediately into his mouth, the other, going back to the bronze.

Valin, it can be noted, foregoes oil, 'wort, and all that jazz. His own brand of reasoning, rather simplistic, is such: Wear gloves. Therefore, the ex-Southerner brought gloves. Who needs grease? Who needs to smell like an infirmary? His firelizard, however, /does/ like the oil. It's not that Val doesn't take proper cade of Cid... the firelizard just likes to shine and get into trouble. The metallic critter therefore practically /dunks/ himself into an oil pot, using it as his own personal bathtub, as it were.

Shansi frowns at Cymber -- look what you've done. "Oh. Oh, of course." Again, a wrinkling of nose -- this time at the ... hmm... stuff which she's supposed to spread. And then a hint of uncertainty. "I should?" An intake of breath: "No, that would be awful. Numb hands, imagine that!" A slightly nervous pitch of laughter. Turning straight to Cymber for, perhaps, the first time, she asks, "Really thick? I didn't see you do yours." She whirls, facing T'rrent again, and accuses, "Or you. If I have to do it, you do, too."

By the time Nutmeg's made that short flight, Ember's gobbled down his berry in a series of three bites. The quiet bronze has a neat streak to him, that's well-exhibited in his gleaming hide. He's got a knack for keeping his 'pet' in line when it comes to oiling. His delicate wings flicker inward, assuming use of the sea's breezes to drift back and away from the beach's center. Soft chittering invites the brown to follow, as he spirals down to land on a dune which overlooks the massive forms of whatever dragons have been left to laze in the sun.

"Oh, of course," says the Weyrleader, rolling up what little sleeves he's got on that shirt he's wearing as he awaits the offering of said oil. "Don't tell me you've never done this before," he says to Shansi, a mocked look of shock dominating his expression now. A really obvious fake, too. The sarcasm in that remark was so thick it'd snap a beltknife in two.

Cymber's smile undergoes many subtle changes, though doesn't increase in a size a lick as she gives her murmured thanks to the smith. "Shansi's never done this, I don't think," states she the obvious before angling a brow at T'rrent. "Yes.. -thick- good and -thick, Shansi," she chuckles softly around those words, demonstrating again, on herself, just how it's all supposed to happen with redwort and oil.. the latter of which she eventually offers.

Llilian sighs, "Little porcine. Well, at least you'll be out of my hair, right?" And so, Llilian wander over, a bowl of the berries in hand, enough to keep both Ember and Nutmeg busy...she hopes, setting it down a few feet from the pair, as Nutmeg takes up his poist right close to his new friend, face already liberly smeared with berry juice.

Shansi isn't a dimglow. Just a brat. She huffs, "No, of course I have *not*," and bends toward the basket. "Come on, Weyrleader. I think you need to make sure you get plenty of oil on, too. You *are* planning to help with the rest of us, aren't you?" A spark of challenge flickers briefly in her eyes, before she looks demurely down again. "And I could never go before you. Here, by all means..." A flashy gesture of invitation. "Use the oil."

T'rrent has no qualms with this, see - he's done this dozens of times in the past. Shooting another thankful smile at Cymber and Dakar, he dips his hands into the oil, and starts slathering on a thick coating. Thick. Really thick. All the way up to the elbows. When he's finished, he turns his smile back on Shansi again. "There.. Just like that." And he pats the girl on the shoulder...with his dripping oily hand. Heh. Smile.

Ember's stopped to watch Llilian's approach with eyes that slowly spiral down in speed at the sight of that bowl. Not a sound does he make until she's about ready to leave. Then his rich voice croons the softest of thank-you's, music in its lower register. Berries in hand, he wastes no time, communing, however lizards commune, with Nutmeg again. He postures, molding himself to whatever positions are assumed by the bronze(s) below. And so, he'll happily pass the entire day if left on his own.

Well, Dakar wanders off to speak with a few of his smithcraft compatriots, leaving Cymber enough time to collect another empty basket. That's silently set down near T'rrent, who is gifted with an amused little glance, before she heads off, over the sands, to join those already at harvest.

Shansi doesn't hear that. Nope, Valin did *not* speak, so far as *she* is concerned. Watching the Weyrleader in something akin to dismay, she finally starts rubbing her own arms -- she's a few steps behind, still on redwort. At the oily touch, she ducks her head to hide a snarl, then looks back to T'rrent with an overly sweet smile, "Would you *please* stop that." Okay, so that low-voiced demand was just short of a growl, and anything but a question.

T'rrent has an infinite supply of patience...except when it comes to spoiled young people. He's seen too many of them come and go, you see. And so, smile still lighting up his expression, he leans down a touch closer to Shansi. "Look," he intones softly, and far too calmly. "You've been sitting around being lazy for far too long. You're going to help harvest this numbweed, and you're going to like it. If you don't, I'm going to speak personally to Ismaye and make sure she gets you the least desirable job possible..." He doesn't elaborate. Yet. He just smiles.

A good thing Cymber and company have moved away from the healer's area, as a young man arrives, one of the many who tend the herdbeasts, for those who might know his face, hands held out and away from his body, red splotches of skin evident, the blisters that result from ovexposure to the raw sap of the plants already beginning to rise on his skin. Barely a moment, before he's crowded around by healers and aides, soft chattering accompanying his treatment.

Cymber's got her faults, doesn't everyone? Shirking of duty and work isn't one of them. And gathering herbs.. numbweed included, is something she pursues on an almost daily basis. She's in her element, humming a little as she pauses, pushing hair off her cheek with one shoulder. Then she just moves over to an unoccupied patch of the arrow-leaved plant, and sets herself to collecting.

Shansi just holds herself that much more erect in response. "Hmph! I helped shave ice." Yes. Once. "And what does liking it have to do with anything? Are *you* going to like it?" Semantics, my dear. Even as she speaks, she reaches for the oil. Slap. Slather. Scowl. "I won't like it." *Now* she smiles right back at the Weyrleader and rubs her arms quickly -- fingers, hands, wrists, lower arm, elbow. Back down. Smile still in place, she murmurs through her teeth, "This feels disgusting." Movement catches her attention, and she looks toward the healer group. "What happened over there?" Arrogant, spoiled, and unhappy, yes.

T'rrent nods over toward the group of healers, noting, "That is what happens when you don't slop that stuff on thick enough." Smile. "Now come on.. There's a lot of numbweed to harvest, and I'd rather not be out here all night, hmm?" And, at that, he motions over to the Fields with a grandiose sweep of his (oiled) arm.

Note the quick glance toward the oil. Note the sneaking fingers. Note that Shansi's arms are now that little bit more coated. "Fine. Fine." As she starts walking forward, Shansi can't help but ask, "Wait. Not be here all night? Aren't we just going when it gets dark? Or do we have to just fill the basket?" So she asks, even as she moves into the Fields. At least she *is* finally in motion.

A smooth, gentle leveling of the dunes leads out, as sand turns to soil, into a field that seems, at first glance composed of naught but a lush, rich carpet of numbweed. The field itself, is set into a roughened shape, not quite circle, not quite square, like a field, left in ages past to run to its own devices. And here, a small patch of mushrooms, there, the delicate lace filigree of wildflowers weaves through the darker patches of the weed. At the far right edge of the field, a small copse of citron trees seems to have taken route, untended, save by wing, rain and weather, to a lush, inviting canopy, heavy fruit-laden branches curving groundward. Citron blends to a copse of ging trees, tall, and eager to reach the sky, needlethorn bushes clustered around the base of their trunks like suppliants at worship. And finally, to the far and left of the field, a thicket of bamboo stalks, deep yellow, crisp, wind rustling invitingly through the stalks, promising a mystery to be found within. The way back to the beach is a simple one, but that, only the closer you are to the dunes, but oh, black sands and bright blue seas beckon.

Llilian continues to work at the edge of the dunes, as the next caravan, as it were, of dragons begin to plod over, baskets carefully secures to straps, that itself a task, when you have to climb up onto a foreleg, get the dragon to lift you to it's back, and then, a precarious perch as you look for a strap to utilize, but with many hands, make like work.

Cymber discovers that reason unknowingly, for she keeps mainly to herself, a habit she's been developing lately. The soft sound of her throbby voice lifts from a cluster of plants that clings to the earth at the edge of the shaded ring that extends from a stand a citron. She's crouching, head tilting this way and that as her eyes track the lay of the leaves, and her own hands, made deft by practice, collect the greenish-greyish things.

T'rrent strolls on in a step behind Shansi, basket in hand, and apparently still explaining this whole concept to the girl. "We stay out here until there's enough numbweed," he tells her. "One basket is just the beginning." And, with that he leads the girl deeper into the fields to start this joyous task.

Valin maintains silence and solitude as he works, carefully stripping the spade-shaped leaves from the plants and dropping them into his basket. He seldom pauses, his hat catching the sweat that beads on his brow, but every so often he turns his head to wipe the salty perspiration from his upper lip, dampening a portion of his tunic. There's always the temptation to use a hand, but the thick gloves covering his digits are a good reminder and deterrant -- as was the sight of that beast-tender with the splotchy red hands.

Serriena reaches out snagging one of the persons working carrying the redwort antiseptic. She cleanses her hands and arms thorougly in the stuff making sure its everywhere. Then she follows it up with a good slathering of oil all the way up her forearms. Feeling more oiled than a dragon who's skin is patching, she proceeds to reach for the numbweed plant nearest her pulling a leaf off gingerly and carefully, leaving only the stems and branches behind.

"Oh, you want to fill both of them? That's so kind of you to offer, Shansi," comes the Weyrleader's reply. He gladly hands her his basket, leaning down to pick up one for himself as well. Oooh, this is fun.. Anyway, he leads her to a grouping of the green-grey plants, and kneels down, motioning for her to do the same. "Ok.. You strip the leaves off like so," and he demonstrates.

A handful of workers pick the leaves humming, talking, and doing anything to keep the heat of the south from reminding them of their grueling tasks. A young person darts from the inlet to the fields offering drinks of water to help in the sweltering heat.

She's not really paying any heed to where she's going. Cymber just works her way steadily down the cluster of plants she's been attending. Little of use is left in her wake, bushes stripped with admirable efficiency. This is something she's good at, much better than harvesting tomatoes. The basket she brought's half full by the time her backwards moving path nearly intercepts that of Valin, the man's only warning the soft lilt of her continuous hum. A tune from home. Shansi would recognize it if the lady were close enough.

Shansi glances down at Valin. Ugh. And then glances back at the Weyrleader in bewilderment. She's got a ... He's got a .. Any trace of a smile disappears. "You want me to .. to kneel? In that? You mean my clothes won't just stink, but they'll be ... dirty?" She pronounces the word slowly and delicately, and with utter disdain. Finally, she drops her basket. "I need a .. a blanket. Yes, a blanket. To kneel on." She gestures toward the ground, then to her knees, with a slightly flourishing hand motion.

Not seeming to mind the heat of her home one bit, Serriena continues to pick leaf after leaf of the numbweed, as if she's done this sometime before. She pauses her eyes closing as the scent of her homehome continent rises up off the ground beneath her. She smiles and then opens her blue eyes proceeding to pick more of the necessary plant.

T'rrent doesn't even bother turning his head to glance at Shansi. He simply reaches up with his right hand, grabs hold of her left, and yanks her down toward the ground, though not enough to hurt her...yet. "No blankets. You can clean yourself off later. Just kneel down and work." His voice is no longer amused - it's firm. That is an order. Disobeying it is probably a horrid idea.

Valin isn't as familiar with the task as a healer might be, but he's had to provide for a cothold and farm's needs before, including all kinda of veterinary care. He thus /knows/ what he's doing, even if he's a little bit out of practice. When done with one clump, he looks it over and plucks off the leaves he missed. Then he lifts the basket and trudges on to another stand. This time he drops to one knee. Nevermind getting his trews dirty and sweaty, but he just squished a few grubs, if someone was looking intently enough (/why/ someone would be is anyone's guess). He takes a deep breath as he continues to strip (leaves), and exhales on a quiet, sad sigh, just as he's made aware of Cymber's proximity. He pauses in his work and looks over his shoulder.

Margareete quickly finds her way out to the redwart and scrubs up. "Where's the oil?" she asks, head turning to reguard the person nearest to her. "Sorry I'm late, had to wash up a few extra dozen towels for tonight." Soft smile enhabits her lips before she turns to reguard all the commotion.

As the dragon convey wings off for their delivery to the weyr, Llilian moves away from the dunes, and in towards the fields, a soft word offered to one of the man hands making their rounds around the field, quick easy motions ensuing as she applies redwort and oil, both, seeming to have some experience with the stuff. It does grow at Nerat as well, after all, and then, empty basket in hand, she descends on the hapless plants. Here's to hoping they don't go the way of the weeds she spent the morning plucking in the weyr gardens. But no, she's much more careful, this time, as she begins to devest a nearby bush of its leaves, flicking them into the basket set down to her side.

Dakar enters the area, having parted company with the conveniently-placed smith friends. He walks over to the group, picking Cymber's form from amidst the others, and being pulled in by the unspoken gravity betwixt the two. Silently coming to a halt, he stands there.

The stalks are tall this year and the numbweed sways in the breeze of the wind coming from the oceans near by. The swaying seems to invite the pickers to gather more from the stalks everywhere. There is an amiable mood as all share in the dirty work.

Cymber doesn't realize that she's close to anyone though. She's on her knees, utterly oblivious to the very dirt that seems to disgust Shansi so. It's as she's forced to stretch, leaning back over folded knees and slowly turning her head from side to side that her eyes land upon Valin. Startled they are, and she all but jumps before rising upward and turning around. "Sorry. I didn't see you there." Level voice, hardly at all inflected for the candidate, with whom she -absolutely- never flirts. "I guess, I'll leave this patch to you, didn't know you'd claimed it first." Faint smile, very pale, and she turns to move away from him and nearly walks into Dakar.

Margareete smiles to the oil offer and makes short work of the pot, lathering it generously upon her arms. A little insight to perhaps her thoughts on wanting to be able to feel tonight. Gentle gaze watches those around her for a moment, then she finds herself an open patch and basket away from the massive crowd. Idle fingers soon find work as they begin to strip the surrounding stalks one by one of their leaves.

When it seems that one of the youngsters running water to those who are thirsty would get too close to the stalks that can numb limbs in seconds, an older adult was there to remind them to slow down, be careful and watch what they were doing.

Shansi whimpers, all the same, at being tugged down to the ground. Call it surprise, or call it pain. Whichever. (or, call it a display). "But.." She trails off, recognizing the tone instinctively. And probably from having heard it once in a while at home. "Fine. You can buy me new clothes if the dirt doesn't get out." But she reaches for a leaf as she says it. "So, I just .. snap it off?" Rip. "Like that?" Of course, she just pulled off *half* of a leaf.

T'rrent just eyes Shansi for a few minutes... Wait.. He's not done yet............ There. Now he draws in a deep breath, letting it out again as a soft sigh. "The WHOLE leaf, Shansi. The whole leaf. And go quickly. I expect you to fill those two baskets twice over, at least, before I'm even going to CONSIDER taking you back to Ista again."

Shansi just pouts as she is 'eyed.' And, at the announcement, she sniffs. "Fine. The whole leaf." With a little more care, she pulls off an entire leaf. "Four baskets?" The whine is picking up a little. She takes a deep breath, soothes her voice back to its normal calm arrogance, and murmurs, "Fine. Fine. You're helping, right?" She doesn't dare look at T'rrent as she asks this, so she just reaches for another leaf. She's going to be doing a lot of that, it seems.

Just as she's reaching for another stalk Serriena hears a low and familiar whistle. Her head snaps up. Pursing her lips she whistles back in a rapid skipping beat. Suddenly a girl pops up through the bushes. She has long dark black hair, olive complexioned skin and almond shaped dark eyes. "Menami!" Serriena cries. "Serri!" Menami says back. The two girls run towards each other and hug. Serriena backs away but not before some of the oil rubs off onto her friend.

Margareete finishes with one stalk and begins on another, smile grasping her lips as she spies Rilque. "Ah, long time no see," she murmurs behind the man, causing him to jump. "When did you get out here?" he asks, holding up his almost filled basket. "Working in the laundry." He nods back at her as the two begin to converse and work together. The laundress's eyes do however dart momentarily towards the Weyrleader and Shansi, her hands idly begining to move a tad faster.

"I've got my own basket to fill," says T'rrent with a near lack of patience in his voice. Oh, and lots of irritation, too. Lots. Anyway, he continues picking the leaves from the plants, tossing them in his basket (which he's filling up at an appreciable rate, too).

"I'm fine. Some people aren't worth the breath it takes to talk to them." That terse remark is the only attention she gives to the departing Valin. A fact she doesn't notice, since she'd already looked to Dakar. "Now we need to recoat our hands, smith." Mood shifts tug the morose from her expression and draw out a smile again. "But -this-" she lifts both linked sets of fingers, "was worth the effort that'll take." Luckily there are plenty of assistants running about, and it doesn't take all that much time to procure more redwort, and oil, of course.

"How did you know I was here?" Serriena asks Menami. Menami grins, "Renald's firelizard Pooka, sensed you. He was quite making a fuss. He remembers how you spoiled him when he was a wee one." Serriena giggles at the memory. "And I wanted to see you. I have not received one letter in weeks," Menami scolds. "Tell me what you have been doing. I get a letter last week from you asking for your dress to be sent and no reason as to why!"

A group of people slip up into the fields, working through the harvesters to begin to gather the filled baskets, leaving empty ones in their wake. With so many already in the fields, and more arriving with each flight, there's no end to hands to help, and the work moves smoothly along.

"I say he ought to keep well enough to himself I do," a woman passing by utters. She pauses speaking to her companion and then the two continue talking and picking numbweed. More conversation drifts to ears that are listening as everyone picks something to talk or gossip about while working in and enduring the southern weather.

Valin plucks, rapid-fire, drawing the green-grey medicinal arrow-leaves into his basket, leaving bare stalks swaying in his wake. His first brake comes when the one of the designated waterboys finds the kneeling Val. Since the basket /is/ mostly full, the Candidate decides a brief rest is justified. He draws off a glove and accepts a waterskin, taking a sip, rolling it around in his mouth, then swallowing. After that, he tugs off his hat and dumps some of the cool stuff onto his head. As the water drips down, the Candidate looks less than impressive, but then again, he's Shansi's utter opposite. And hey! Regarding Dakar and Cymber...he neither spoke nor left. He just...worked, as most probably would have expected of him.

Margareete lifts her head, leaving Rilque to pause in his chatter a moment to listen to the gentle voice. "Lovely," she murmurs, hands slowing only for a moment. Soon she and her companion are humming along with the tune. "Well, are you going to stay at Ista?" Maggie asks finally. Rilque pauses a moment to consider this. "Perhaps. If my traders don't need me to come along for their next run, I could stay a while. Just long enough to get you settled in. How are you doing by the way?" Smiling, Margareete nods. "Very well actually. I've made a lot of new friends. And no one is saying diddly squat about my height. In fact, there's a lot of tall girls around here. Makes me feel less...noticable is a good word for it."

"See him?" Serriena points Menami's gaze to T'rrent, "That is the Weyr Leader of Ista Weyr. His dragon who is out there," Serriena points through the cluster of trees to the inlet, "Morpheth has mated with Weyr Woman Alyssa's Trynith. They clutched a while back and if I am still at Ista for hatching I will need a dress for the occassion."

Shansi sighs, but never let it be said that her shoulders slump -- *that* would be more undignified than kneeling in the dirt already is. So, posture erect, the girl pulls leaf by leaf. Frowning still. "I don't like this," she states, unnecessarily. She sighs. It's a good thing she isn't *noticing* the little kids -- and others -- who are enjoying this a bit too much. "It's degrading, and it feels nasty." She's getting a slow pile of leaves, each torn, now, almost delicately from the plant.

Cymber does the slathering for the both of them, loading up Dakar's broad palm and calloused fingers before smothering her own. "We shall," she says, nudging her first filled basket with the toe of the boots she's donned for this particular activity. "You'll have to pick fast to catch up, though." Fleet smile, soft smile comes before her eyes turn to survey what's left of the field and she picks a direction, weaving her way through bushes that've already been denuded.

Vesta moves slowly into the fields, looking about her with a look of resignation. Her walk is stiff and halting, and she favors her right elbow. She shakes her head slightly and looks about for a job that doesn't require lifting or bending...

Corrigan finds a place amongst anyone else who holds the colors of his Hall, his thumb hooked in the wherhide strap of his gitar as it leans gently against the curve of his back. He watches people with a mildly thoughtful look on his face, saying, in a tone that is musical and colored with amusement, "Ironic how people pick what they will soon need.." He's not critisizing in the least - no, not Corrigan. He just finds it interesting, and that can be expected.

T'rrent's just started ignoring Shansi, really. Well, what she says, anyway. He pays close attention to her actions, making sure she continues her work. T'rrent finishes off his first basket, taking the empty one left afterward. "You know, the faster you go," he says, finally, to Shansi, "the quicker you'll be done. The quicker you'll be able to go home, and get cleaned up." Maybe that'll work.

"You will tay and help won't you?" Serriena asks Menami. Menami nods her black hair tumbling about her face. Serriena grins. "Oh," Menami says pointing, "Your requested articles of clothing are back there in the woods. I suggest you retrieve them before tunnel snakes get into them." "You didn't!" Serriena protests. She runs over to where Menami came from. A minute later she comes back with a black bag. "You did!" she accused, "Menami!" Menami just laughs.

Valin tosses the waterskin back to the boy with a grateful nod, jams his hat back on, and slips his hand back into his glove, preferring that over the oil and redwort. Wordlessly he picks up where he left off, taking perhaps a single full minute to get back into the rhythm. With few distractions and no true friends to talk to, it is not long before the Candidate stands and picks his way back down to the beach.

Shansi sniffs again. She's moping; why should she hurry? Why, indeed... Oh. Yes... The methodical pick & pull gathering speeds up just slightly, as T'rrent's words finally sink in. Only slightly, though. And, when she seems to have gathered what she can from the spot just in front of her, Shansi stands. A bit of a glance to make sure she can't just sneak off now, and then she steps daintily over and sits again. Basket at her side, and only half full, the leaf selection begins anew. As does the muttering. "I hate this... why I'm here is just ... don't even ..."

A yelp, soundly trounced before it can announce her position, as Llilian moves backward, right into a needlethorn plant. But that doesn't last long as all as she hurries forward, an accusing look given to the plant. Lucky for her, it's autumn, and her pants have a heavy nap. Still, she's MUCh more attentive now as she moves along the edge of the field, to begin on yet another one, handing off a full basket for a now empty one. And then, a chagrined smile, towards Serriena and her friend. Farath grant that they didn't just see that debaucle, "Well met, Mnami, welcome to the fun."

Margareete whistles with the music, offering Rilque a smile here and there. Crisa gets a wave after the laundress squints and recognises the approaching face. "Hey there!" she calls, finishing up with her basket. Rilque has all ready started working on his second.

It can be assumed that the smith falls into the work as Cymber finds a thick patch of the weed that hasn't yet been touched. Grimacing, she gives up on the shoulder, and let's slick fingers tuck back the persistant tendrils of hair that are determined to get in her eyes. It works for the moment, and down she goes to her knees again, setting to work on loading up a second basket. Whatever had originally halted her humming, bars the act not now, and its soft sound rises as she moves to pluck off all the leaves of the stocky bush in front of her.

T'rrent offers a smile up at Vesta for her offer, but shakes his head. "No thank you," he intones softly. "Those two over there look thirsty, though." And he points toward a couple of workers farther down the row. Yep, that's right. Skip Shansi. Speaking of which, T'rrent speaks once more to the brat - er - to Shansi, noting, "You're here because it's your duty as a resident of Ista Weyr to help out, escpecally with something as important as Numbweed."

"Thank you. Well met Llilian," Menami replies back. Then she pulls a handful of leaves from one stalk copying Serriena and Llilian. It seems Southerners do this quite alot. "Serri," she whispers as she works, "Who is that handsome boy over there?" she nods towards Corrigan's direction.

Vesta nods at T'rrent and takes her waterskin down the row. She stops to share water with two young candidates that look a bit wan in the damp Istan weather, obviously not of tropical origins. She watches them both take long pulls and then moves on towards Dakar and Cymber. She limps over to them and offers her waterskin, "Heyla. Thirsty?"

A smile, oddly enough, is Shansi's response to the pointer. She looks away from the numbweed to, yes, *smile* up at the Weyrleader, "Oh, of course. How silly of me." She turns back to the numbweed, eyes downcast, then abruptly spins back, again, to T'rrent. A moment's hesitation, then she opens her mouth to ask, "The others are getting drinks. Don't you think I should get...?"

Margareete just smiles, and turns in her first basket to those receiving the full ones, only to take an empty in return. "Thank you," she states, glancing back over towards Crisa, aware that the noise must have drowned out her greeting. Rilque anxiously awaits the girl's return. "What do you like best about Ista so far?" he querries, eyebrows drawn together as he wipes his nose; realizing only too late that now it's numb.

Corrigan lightly plucks at the chords of his gitar, but quietly enough so that it doesn't interrupt the beautiful music already being made. He smiles in his quiet, enigmatic manner towards the lady singing it before his dark green eyes shift back to everyone in the field, a dreamy-thoughtfulness coming over his features. So far, he doesn't notice the looks he is getting. Not him. Blissfully oblivious for the moment. Still, his fingers move easily over the chords of his gitar as he continues to listen.

Diligence pays off, and it's not too awful long before Cymber's struggling across the length of the field with another full basket. Starting to look hot--she's actually looked hot for quite some time now--her flushed features compose themselves into the warmth of a welcoming smile. "Vesta.. you have the best timing. I swear.. I am about to melt." Smile turns into a full-blown grin as she nestles the container at her feet and takes the waterskin.

The laundress responds without much hesitation to the question. "The waterfalls. They're so pretty. Was commenting to someone just the other day about the rainbow it makes at the right time of day with the sun shining." Margareete turns and looks practically greatful to Crisa. "Thank you so much. My throat's been parched for the past few minutes now." She takes a long sip and then hands it back. "You going to try some harvesting?"

"The others are working hard," comes T'rrent's sharply snapped, and interrupting reply to the Holder daughter. "The others aren't complaining every three seconds about how horrid this is." There's a pause, before he pipes up again. This time it's, "Did you honestly expect to get through your time here without ever lifting a thumb to help out?" He's now finished two baskets...

Darker brown, and sparkling bronze catch Llilian's attention, as she looks, first to Iskandith, and then, to Morpheth, a smile crossing ehr lips to both, and then, to the brownrider who comes with his lifemate, and then, a moment to reapply oil and redwort, before she's back to her task. No time to daudle.

Shansi hears a sudden burst of conversation behind her. Her eyes narrow. Someone is having fun. Certainly not her. That, and T'rrent's snapping, soon have the girl biting her lip. "But they're *used* to this miserable work!" Can you believe it? Tears well up in her eyes, before being blinked away. "I can lift a thumb, but in ladylike affairs. Like," she sniffs, "Organizing things. Or carving ice. Or arranging hair. Don't you need someone to throw a party, or host something?" She whines, "THAT's what I know how to do." She looks down at her oil-slickened arms, "I'm not made for this ... this ... filth!"

A sudden breeze whips up from the ocean inlet, rustling the trees fiercely the leaves sounds like a bird rustling its feathers. The wind batters at everyone, human and dragon alike whipping hair about and causing a nuisance. Just as suddenly as it came, the breeze dies. However it has done its job in cooling off the overheated workers.

"Hoo boy!" Menami glances at Shansi complaining, "Bit high headed isn't she?" Serriena shushes her. Menami grins, "Serri lighten up girl. What have they been doing to you at that Weyr?" Then Menami snaps her fingers, "I know what is keeping you there.." she says, "It must be that lovely hunk of a man over there!" Menami points to Dakar. "Look at those women hanging about him."

Dakar ponders the waterskin lasciviously, but he is polite enough to wait for the thing to be handed to him. He reaches up to wipe the sweat from his brow, used enough to heat, and to sweat..but he's also used to having enormous amounts of water at easy reach. When finally offered said skin, he takes the thing to his lips and drinks deeply.

Valin sets down his baskets, about to kneel again, but before he can truly get back to his job, this incredibly loud outburst comes from over...there. He draws off his hat to fan himself, then spots the shrieking Blood, frowning. He shakes his head and, once again, utilizes his own frustration. Any anger resulting from being called something along the lines of a filthy drudge is put to good use: he kneels and, with jaw set, strips the bush before him with ruthless efficiency. Good thing he /did/ bring two baskets.

Cymber makes good use of the wineskin before extending it out to Dakar, and nearly smears her forehead with the disgusting combination of wort and oil in a vain attempt to rein in her hair. A sigh comes at the stuff, that's all.. that and a poof of breath from her lips that doesn't affect it at all. "Bout time for another basket I'd say, smith." Deciding to ignore the raven tendrils, she lowers her gaze toward the ground, and the harvest the man's collected.

Vesta stands still in the momentary breeze and revels in it. She closes her eyes and opens them to find a bluerider tugging on her waterskin. She smiles apologetically and releases the skin for him to pull from before looking back at Dakar. While he and Cymber take their fill, she smiles, "The thought of all this stuff being stewed makes me consider catching a ride back to Southern in the morning." She winks to show she's teasing.

Shansi doesn't hear Menami, thank Faranth. She does, however, take note of the wind, however brief. And she smiles. Of course, the smile is also only fleeting in appearance -- she's just been complaining, and it wouldn't do to be grinning so soon after. But that *did* surprisingly feel nice, to her thinking.

T'rrent just sorta sits there brooding whilst Shansi goes off on her little rant. But just when he appears ready to reply - mouth open, and finger raised in the air..he stops. He stops, and shoots the strangest look anyone has ever seen from anyone. This look is given not to Shansi, but to Morpheth. He stands, and bellows out over the fields. "You're sharding INSANE!" That's right about when he's knocked flat on his behind...right NEXT to a patch of numbweed. Thankfully, not on it. He doesn't stop speaking, though, not even to speak to Crisa. "No way. No shardin' way!"

Margareete blinks at the Weyrleader's proclamation before handing in her second basket of numbweed, Rilque along side her. "Well I'd best be getting back now...care to escort me? I have to wash more cloths no doubt for those returning after tonight's ordeal."

Cymber's freckled nose wrinkles up, and she's not teasing at all as she flicks a grin to Vesta. "Got room for a few more? I can't think of anything worse in the entire world to fill up a day than what looms for tomorrow." Course, T'rrent's bellow cuts her next thought off, and her eyes dart, rather quickly to him, brow lifted in question.

Vesta swings her head about to peer at T'rrent. The Weyrleader seems to be discussing something extremely important...and possibly replusive...with the air. She knows, however, its actually Morpheth, but the sight is still very interesting.

Shansi blinks, clearly not expecting *that* response. Or, one would say, lack of response. "Is he okay?" is the overly docile query, referring either to Morpheth *or* to T'rrent. And then an amused glance to Crisa. She hides a smile, swallowing, and asks, this time, "Are *you* okay?"

Dakar is as startled as everyone else, and turns about to look upon the Weyrleader. Amazingly to some, perhaps, genuine concern comes to his face as he stalks over to the man and prepares to offer a hand if the fellow needs it. He decides that T'rrent does, and extends a sizeable paw. "You okay?"

Llilian's brow wrinkles in consternation as the bellow sends her right off her track, and nearly losing her balance, which would be rather unfortunate, comsidering the needlethorn is still right behind her, but, she's not close enough to offer help, so she simply ducks ehr head and settles for plucking amiably.

Corrigan doesn't even bother to ask the question that his been asked and re-asked multiple times, simply turned dark green eyes lit by amused concern on the fallen Weyrleader as he quietly strums his gitar, a pale brow lifting in sheer curiosity as he watches the going-ons of the obviously stable, and instable, people.

T'rrent clambers to his feet again, still peering at his lifemate. He points a long finger at the end of a long, muscular arm directly down at Shansi. "But she's a whiny little Hold brat! She'll quit! It's a waste of time!" He wrinkles up his face, then, and sighs at the inevitable, still ignoring everyone at present - no offense. He stands there, towering over Shansi for a long moment, looking none-too-pleased. At length, he finally speaks down at her with a tone that bespeaks of his utter lack of expectation. "My stubborn lump of a lifemate would like to know if you'll Stand for his and Trinyth's clutch." Grumble.

So the Weyrleader is getting attention. So what? Higher-ups tend to do that; look at Shansi. Valin glances over, but then snorts. Quite practical, he simply gets back to work. The numbweed leaves aren't exactly jumping off the bushes on their own. Oh, Search. Well, that happens. Happens to the strangest people. Besides, the spoiled Blood will just refuse, anyway.

Margareete glances over her shoulder with a smirk towards Shansi and the Weyrleader, but her focus is currently on her duties. Rilque nods to Maggie, idly watching Shansi. "Sure I'll walk you back. You all could probably use an extra hand down there to eh?" Margareete nods and continues off towards the Weyr offering only a sincere smile to Shansi before the pair of them dissapear.

J'sen just laughs and laughs and laughs. "Oh, T'rrent, this one is definitely on your head," he calls out shamelessly, getting a good deal of amusement from T'rrent's grumbling. "That's just priceless," he still laughs, turning back to plucking leaves.

Cymber can't help it, though she does manage to keep her laughter very, very quiet, confined to the hearing of those just round about her. "Oh, her father'll -love- that. And just imagine her at all the chores. Poor Shansi." For all her smile as she gestures off toward the woman in question, she doesn't look half so disappointed in the candidate as does the weyrleader.

Said brat's eyes narrow as she is described -- she knows it. Lips pursed, she just watches the Weyrleader, looking .. tense, shall we say? At his final, admittedly unexpected offer, she releases the breath she'd been holding in a slow hiss. And turns to look around them. Oh, they've attracted some attention, hm? Or, T'rrent has. Slowly, she responds, eyes half-lidded, "Could I .. could I go back to the Weyr right now, if I said yes?" Tentative, hopeful. Interrupted by laughter -- She turns to J'sen. "I resent that, I do believe.."

T'rrent's eyes narrow dangerously, and an odd little grin curls his lips upward again. "Sure," he says, voice light again. "If you say yes, I'll take you right back to the Weyr again." He'd laugh maniacally, but that'd just scare the girl off - where's the fun in that? Anyway, the Weyrleader still just stands there, glaring down at Shansi... Waiting... Grinning...

Corrigan swings his gitar around in front of him as the other harper's song ends, casting her a smile that could be called charming for some mysterious reason before his chords played along the gitar become a bit easier to hear, starting with an exotic darting up from medium scales to a higher one, then a very quick and blood-pulsing tune ensues, true to an old Islander somewhere. He says nothing - yet.

Llilian blinks, as she watches the scene unfold, leaning over to stage-whisper to Serriena, "You know, I thought so, when J'sen Searched me, but now, I know...they take anyone." And then, a bright grin. She's just teasing after all. Already had a lecture from the Weyrlingmaster -and- the Weyrwoman on dragon's choices. But it doesn't stop her from teasing.

Vesta looks over at Cymber, one eyebrow raised. Then she begins to realize that people are a bit amused at the aspect of Shansi being a candidate. She obviously hasn't encountered the girl so she doesn't really understand her personality. She just shrugs and is beckoned over by an apprentice healer to bring the waterskin.

Serriena blinks at Llilian and smiles but Menami lets out a full throated chuckle. "They sure do let anyone. Even Miss High and Mighty over there. Are you sure she won't be scared of the dragon's droppings and cleaning them?" Serriena puts her hand over Menami's mouth effectively shutting her up. "Leafve off," she whispers, "Shansi isn't so bad."

Dakar is oblivious to the goings-on away from the field now, kneeling down with basket to one side, pulling numbweed with both hands as sweat rolls off his brow and down his hawkish nose. The basket is nearly full now, and he can go when it is.

Still grinning to herself, Cymber moves to join Dakar, though she lifts her eyes over the bushes to watch for the holder's daughter answer. With her help, though she's not utterly devoted to the task, that basket'll get fuller quicker.

Shansi pouts, "It was Morpheth who wanted me, not *you*, anyway." She turns, collecting her basket. "But... yes, Weyrleader, I will Stand. How could I resist such a chance?" Something makes it seem she doesn't just mean the chance to Impress a dragon. She tilts her head to the side, still smiling, "Give me a hand up?"

Corrigan continues playing his song (which sounds like a Spanish/gypsy tune for anyone wondering), his fingers running with practiced ease over the different chords to produce the smooth, quick chords. Then, the singing begins, his voice a smooth and rakish baritone:

Yeah.. Right. A hand up.. That's funny. Anyway, T'rrent just rolls his eyes again, picks up his basket, and walks past the girl. She can get up on her own. "Come on, then. Take your basket, and let's go.. We've got to move your things to the Candidate Barracks."

"Sure," Cymber's worked her share, and now that the work seems to have progressed through most of the field, she doesn't much mind escaping the last of it. "Three baskets? Four? That should be enough to buy us a ride home, and then.. a bath." Her sweaty face smiles at that, and unfolding her legs, she pulls herself up from the ground and walks over to Dakar with one last grin for Shansi.

Vesta hmms softly as the young healer finishes off the last of the water in her skin and she moves back to the edge of the fields, moving slowly and jerkily, but she makes it without too much trouble. She passes Cymber and Dakar and grins at both of them and then waves at Jalani, "Hello greenrider."

Serriena turns to Menami and both girls look instantly sad, "I have to go back," Serriena says, "My aunt is still not up to full speed." Menami nods. "I shall miss you until you return Serri," she says tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Then seeing Dakar leaving too Menami says, "Wooh, I would go with you just for that!" Serriena gapes at her friend then laughs, "You are incorrigable!" she baps Menami's shoulder. The two girls hug tight and fierce.

Llilian shakes her head, to Serriena, and her friend. And then, she decides to give the pair some time to say goodbye, as she gathers up all three baskets, stacking them one on top of the other, and then, the trek through the weeds begin.

Shansi is not happy with that. Her own eyes narrowing, again, she stands on her own -- even bringing her basket up with her -- then strides quickly after the Weyrleader. "Just don't forget. You promised. No more numbweed gathering." Well, for the next day. "Hey, ah..." She lowers her voice, "I wasn't ever a Candidate for High Reaches..." I wonder why. She simpers, "Perhaps it's just all for the best that I came down here."

Serriena wipes the small tears that suddenly come to her eyes. "Give Ranald my best," she ruffles Menami's hair. Menami nods. With a wave she says, "I'll be looking for a letter from you!" Then she turns and say, "Good-bye Llilian!" to the one girl she did meet of everyone.

Workers start to leave the fields, smiling hearing Corrigan's song, tired and hungry from all the work completed. The Southern Continent Numbweed Harvesting fields seem barely touched but many leaves were collected that day and much of the blessed Numbweed oil would be made from this batch. The day is done and tomorrow starts the boiling of the weed.

At Jalani's arrival, the caverns folk that seem to be running the operation offer a welcome greeting to the greenrider, and then, "Alright everyone, I think we've done as much as we can for today. I'm certain we'll be coming back soon enough. Now, some of the staff will be coming aorund to help you out of the fields, and into the camps. The riders are already waiting to help you with the baskets."

Dakar leads the way, strong arms carrying a few baskets without the man having to miss a step. Cymber follows, relinquishing the toting to him to lift a wave in Vesta's direction. "See you back at the weyr," she says, that's all before she disappears over the dunes in the direction of transportation.

T'rrent doesn't make any comments, he just wanders up to Morpheth, and ties the baskets to the bronze's straps - Shansi's included. And, with that, he climbs up the bronze's forelimb, and settles himself into the straps. No, Shansi gets no help here, either... See what happens when you irritate the Weyrleader?

Livid orange creeps upward from flanks, consuming a glowing bronze hide with flickers of yellow-crimson flames, leaving the darkened shadows of charred remnants in its wake. Tendrils of ebony caress powdery fingers over the depth of his cimmerian form, dusting his broad shoulders and back with soft dapples of midnight as though singed by a passing flare. Hungry tongues consume the dry, flaxen-bronze that dance across his chest - invisible sighs of breezes rippling the sunbaked hues as they waiver down the sinuous, proud curve of his rounded belly toward the glowing coals that color his haunches.

From the spade of his long, serpentine tail up along circuitous path of his spine to the very end of his blunt muzzle runs an inferno-bronze caress. The same fiery hue licks across to delineate the strong bones of his wings, igniting them into a conflagration of hues that range from the darkest of midnight to the palest of pre-dawn. Threads of flame leak across the sails of his wings, emblazoning them with tiny infernos that threaten to overtake his form in its entirety. Uncontainable and entrancing, the incandescent display envelops every wisp of this inflamed dragon.