Knots in Our Laces, Heart it Races [OPEN]

Hakotep had been taking poorly to Dalibor. He had only arrived a few days prior, and immediately the location of the Weyr itself was proving itself. For a moment, he had doubted that his decision to leave Kirrok Hold was a good one. The deserts of Igen were a far cry from the cloudy, weepy wet-snow climate of Dalibor in Winter. Where he would normally be comfortable in a roughspun tunic and breeches at this time of the Turn, Hakotep could not live without a heavy jacket, scarf, and fur-lined boots. These he had only acquired out of charity -- a persistent visit to the tannery acquainted him with a frustrated, cyan-riding journeywoman, who had begrudgingly let him have a botched jacket. "One of the apprentices can't sew worth dirt," the tanner Osine had frowned. "You can have this one." And Hakotep was grateful, but all he gave her was a sly smile before leaving. He heard her call him names under her breath.

Warmer, at least, Hakotep could manage - but the difference in time was bizarre to his body and he had trouble sleeping. In the dead of the night he would be up carving by glowlight; in his lessons in the middle of the day, he would barely be on the right side of consciousness. He endeavored not to be a nuisance in his new home, so he kept quiet about his troubles for the most part, but he had already ditched a chore to take a nap. He blamed it on illness or having misread the schedule. Still, though, he considered its effect on his track record, and meant not to keep it up. It would be easier once he adjusted, after all.

Bundled up so well, the only things that stood out about him as he meandered about his duties were his legs, skinny and still thinly-clad. He shuffled along with his odd, nonchalant walk, back slumped and eyes lazy. Inwardly, he was, in contrast, the image of grace. He passed by a similarly jacketed fellow in the hall but did not care. He shuffled onward and checked the bulletin; having mentioned his willingness to share his room, he was curious to see the whereabouts of new batches of candidates. Secretly he had wanted a roommate from Igen, but the other native he had been Searched with, Requezzia, was female and therefore inapplicable.

Next to his name, he saw a new one - Ghris - and yawned. Ghris. Hm, he thought. Sounds fine. Whatever. He pulled his long hair out from under his scarf and tugged at it, still regarding the board mildly.

Hakotep turned a sidelong glance to Ghris, quick and disinterested. He ran his tongue around his teeth behind his lips; chewed idly on the soft inside of his cheek. His hands tied his hair into a new, more well-behaved runner's tail and let it drop, limp and shiny.

"Hakotep," he said, with the correct emphasis on the 'koh'; the name evoked very clearly the consonants of the desert. The other boy's name slipped out of his lips second. "Ghris." Why else would the boy have sloshed through his name? Ghris. Sounded fine - fine and humble. Something generic. It spoke of no region specifically, and Hakotep took a little pride in that. His name implied his heritage beyond his parents' names. Although, even if one missed it, his skin and features boasted it without fail. 'Igen.'

He yawned again - shards, he was tired! - and shoved his hands into his pockets. They felt warm and safe there. The humidity of Dalibor was strange to them, though; they were used to being sapped dry by the sand in the air. His carving callouses felt softer. It concerned him. But in any case, he turned and shuffled further into the candidate barracks.

"Room's this way," he said as an afterthought. The curly-haired beast behind him had looked a little lost. He clenched back another yawn and his eyes almost watered at it. The idea of getting to his warm bed, even if it was still unfamiliar, was a very nice thought.

Hakotep lifted the top of his chest with his foot as he passed. From within, he snagged a knife and a half-emerging wooden figure, then curled onto the messier of the beds. By the small collection of wood shavings beneath it, it was clear which cot was occupied. He shed his jacket and scarf; kicked off his boots. Beneath, his average body was clad in naught but his trousers and an airy, long-sleeved tunic - a token from home.

"Well," he mimicked, nestling some room for himself among the linens, bedfurs, and winter clothing. He folded his legs and curved over top of his latest project. His spine protruded where his neck bent harshly over the carving. The pose was familiar and comfortable to him, but felt lacking without Andril stroking at the vertebrae. He pressed his lips together at this realization, but distinctly rejected it. Why should he care about Andril? He was gone now, far off under the sand of Igen. Probably mining at this hour. Probably wondering why he hadn't gone with Hakotep to the Weyr, or else cursing Hakotep for his recklessness. 'Have you no concern for your own health? The Plague's all over Dalibor!' Andril had said. Hakotep had simply shrugged.

The block of wood Hakotep cradled in his hand did not look like much yet. He picked at it with the knife, slowly but deliberately. Then he straightened up and turned it around, looking at it - and then gave a silent sigh and tipped back against the wall. His tools rested loosely in his palms.

He had left his new roommate in silence until now. "You're allowed to settle in," he said to the shy boy. His lips parted in a thin smirk. "Word is we'll be holed up in here for a couple seasons yet." Or more, was what the candidatemasters were saying; that gold Callistath had just hatched a clutch and there would likely not be another for some time. The wombs of dragons, apparently, had no sense of urgency even with the numerous plague deaths. Hakotep did not find it reassuring at all, but tried to make light of it. He at least felt like he was better off than the scared creature that had followed him home.

He looked over at Ghris from where he lounged on the cot and let his gaze linger.

"Only three," Hakotep said. "Or so I hear. Big clutches seem to be few and far between." He was a little disheartened by this, and so he dropped the topic. It was absurd to be disappointed because he thought that he was owed some sort of immediate Hatching for his move to Dalibor, but he was, and he didn't want to talk about it. He turned his carving idly in his hands.

He held it up and peered at it. "Four days," he said to the unpacked Ghris. Long enough to know his way around and have heard some things, but not long enough to be truly homesick. Just a little irritated at the weather. Ghris had clearly only just arrived, but even if he hadn't, Hakotep wasn't interested in boring measurements of time. He pressed his dark lips together and started to cut away at the wood again. He had remembered what he wanted to make out of it.

Despite his outward disinterest, however, Hakotep did want to know about his roommate. He was not sure why. Perhaps it was the sweaters and the curly hair, or else the hesitancy with which he had slunk through the hallways. Maybe his stupid bag. Maybe the way he held himself. Though, Hakotep wanted more just to look at him than question him. He didn't know what sort of questions to ask. 'Where are you from?' 'What do you do?' 'Are you excited about being a candidate?' They were all generic and boring. He heard them too often in the halls, same as he heard too much talk about 'oh I hope I Impress well' or 'I can't wait to be a dragonrider.' Though Hakotep was impatient, he figured he could wait to be a dragonrider. There were a great many things about the profession that he was in no hurry to do.

So instead, he settled for a few curt words to entertain him while he whittled. "Tell me about yourself," he demanded, his voice level and clean. He stole another look at Ghris, then focused back on his carving.

Ista. He made a little 'hmm' to himself. He wouldn't have guessed Ista. Then again, all the islanders he had ever met were the Gather-going type - innately extroverted and charismatic. Usually, they were at the Igen Weyr Gathers selling fish and beaded jewelry. Hakotep's entire understanding of the world came from his tiny homehold and the Ista Weyr Gathers. He guessed, though, that Ista could produce shy boys like Ghris, same as any place.

Then, Ghris asked if he carved often. A big, dazzling, smirk of a smile lit up onto his face, and he laughed.

"Yes," he said, drawing his lips back together. He licked them, still smiling. "Yes, I do. Primary source of income." He shifted himself so that he was on all fours and facing the end of his bed, where he reached down and plucked a small wooden amulet from his chest. He tossed it to Ghris. It was small and the wood had split down the grain at one of the far edges, but it showed a very rough image of breaching shipfish.

"That one's no good," he sniffed. Still smiling. "You can have it, if you want." He went back to gouging the wood he held in his hands, the steady strength in his hands making it look nearly as easy as shredding herdbeast's cheese. He leaned back against the wall.

He was aware of Ghris' stuttering reaction to the amulet, but was not all to interested in it. Partly, he was surprised that anyone would want to wear such a rough-hewn piece of junk, but admitted that he had high standards. Ghris could wear it if he wanted. Hakotep would not argue, because he didn't have to take any ownership for the disc of wood anymore. It was off of his hands and out of his trunk.

He was more content to whittle and talk about himself than offer false condolences. The truth was that Hakotep was not roused by Ghris' loss. They were just beasts. He himself had not truly had to leave anything behind. As of yet, he felt little remorse for having left Andril, and he had left his mother emotionally when he was still quite young. Then, yes, he could take the only thing he deeply cared about with him, and it was really nice.

"It is," he said. "Gives me something to do." That was all he needed from it. The potential for earning marks from it was just an added bonus.

The wood he held was slowly taking shape to his eyes, but still did not look like much to anyone other than him.

"Chores will keep you busy enough," he said to Ghris. It was only meant to be slightly comforting.

Hakotep brushed a collection of wood shavings off his legs and bed and onto the floor. Then he went back to carving and was only partly paying attention to Ghris. It wasn't that he had a carving sort of mindset - it came naturally and fluidly to him. He could pick up a piece and carve whatever time of day and set it down just as easily. He found no need to be emotionally invested in every piece he made. Rather, his ignoring of Ghris came simply from the boy's blanketed bashfulness. Hakotep's carving was a better subject.

Still, he heard Ghris speak, but it had a similar effect to being spoken to by multiple people at once: it took him a while to register, and when it finally did, the answer his brain dredged up was quite plain. The best he could do, or wanted to do.

"I'm a carver from Igen," he said, flaking off a piece of wood. "Small mining hold called Kirrok. Not much to it." There was a little more than that, though, but Hakotep didn't want to tell Ghris. His mother's shortcomings and the evolution and devolution of his relationship with Andril were very private. Very few at Kirrok even knew the full truth of it. 'A carver from Igen,' though, was an apt description that he quite liked. It was very simple, very true, and very quick to tell. No time wasted on details. But for whatever reason, Hakotep just let the simplicity of it hang in the air. He had nothing different to talk about.