The Three-Eyed Fish of Pern [Open (Candidates)]

(( NRP: Basic premise is that the Candidates are going to be fishing on the ocean, supposedly as a learning/bonding exercise. 2-4 to a boat. Kyril gave permission to have Candidatemaster S'rial and Duareth there as spotters. Wher Candidates can come too if they don't mind a little daytime activity. :o) Once there's enough people for any particular boat you should probably mind your post order according to who is in your boat, but you don't have to wait for everyone in the thread to post.

This is not something you are required to post in. It's basically an open thread. I just thought it would be fun and something every Candidate can reasonably participate in. Technically other people could come too, but since S'rial is there, coming just to pester Candies would perhaps be unwise. This takes place after Risk's clutching. And here are some enlightening articles on hypothermia: 1, 2. ))

It was the Rest Day that wasn't. An anomaly on the assignment slate directed Qosis out of Weyr Bowl, down the icy path to the docks lining the southern edge of the island. There had been no snow for several days, though he still saw resolute clumps from earlier storms in the shadier areas. The temperature had pumped itself back up to Autumnal levels, but he could see why he had been warned to dress for a full-on blizzard. Outside the Weyr walls, there was no guard from ocean-born winds, and each time one gusted past all illusions of warmth departed. Luckily he had let his hair dry after the morning's wash, or the bits sticking out from under his hat might have turned to ice, and his beard-- better not to think about it.

Of course his very practical grooming attentiveness had cost him his treasured place of being the first one there. He noticed a few people already milling around on the docks, standing above rows of little boats that worked by oar and manpower alone. Each boat had been painted white, with a couple stripes of color down the middle to differentiate it from its fellows. Though small, they all looked new, and seaworthy. He turned his attention to the ocean, which was scattered with pinks and pastel blues rather than its usual swarthy navy, mimicking the cloudy morning skies. Qosis noted the clouds were all high enough to give a dragon pause, and white, signifying they were not ready to release any new snows onto Dalibor any time soon. The water was untroubled and smooth, rocking in that sickeningly slow way he hated but still preferred to whitecaps.

An arm waved frenetically in his left peripheral, and Qosis turned to find a Fishcrafter flagging him toward a dockside hut full of tackle and broken boat mechanisms. No sooner had he stepped across the threshold then a mug of klah was shoved into his hands, and a sunhat fitted over his winter cap. Blinking, the Candidate peeled back his scarf and sipped from the klah, watching a fisher lad stick the tray full of mugs back inside a potbellied stove for safekeeping. The man who had waved him down was much older, enough so that his skin hung off his bones in wrinkly wattles, and his bright blue eyes had sunk back into his head till their glimmer was barely visible. But from what Qosis could see, the old man's demeanor remained entirely mischievous, and smile-lines had been written a hundred times around his lips and shallow cheeks. He was wearing overalls with the straps undone from his shoulders and sagging around his waist, and a thick but curiously sleeveless beige tunic.

He waited for Qosis to down his klah, then stuck a bucket of something small, moist and wriggling into the Candidate's view. Qosis stared at the wigglers over the brim of his klah, then carefully took the bucket in his other hand. The fisherman's fingers darted out and snatched the empty mug from his mitten, replacing it with the handle of another bucket. Qosis looked into it: empty.

"That one's yer fish bucket, the other one's yer bait. Try an'not get 'em confused," the fisherman drawled, the lad nearby snorting with barely contained giggles. "Anythin' ya get bigger 'n' that bucket you lay in th' middle o' th' boat, not th' prow 'r' stern, y'hear? Y' don' go past the buoys, nor'n jump in the water t' see wha' i' feels like." Qosis said nothing, mind occupied with deciphering the man's speech pattern. Traders had their own dialects and degradations, but it was not-- not this. He nodded though, whenever the man seemed to be pausing for his input. "Y'can't hover n'r th' docks neither."

"Tha's cheatin'," the lad put in as he took a fishing pole off the rack at the back of the hut and passed it to his senior.

"I'm tellin' 'im!" the fisherman barked. He handed off the pole to Qosis, who managed to coax his mitten around both it and his bait bucket handle. "So go 'bouts halfway to th' buoys an' y'll catch s'nice big fish. The li'l 'uns went out to the deep already, b' th' big 'uns are slow t' follow. Now, bear mind tha' y'shouldn't be haulin' anythin' th' gives you too much trouble. There's things'll pull you clean overboard. Or even worse, y'll tip th' boat and then we might lose th' boat. So, y'know anythin' 'bout fishin'?" Qosis shook his head. "How 'bout rowin'?" Qosis blinked, then reluctantly shook his head. "Well aren' you use'n?" Qosis...nodded. The fisherman laughed. "Alrigh' well maybe go fin' yerself someone who knows what they're doin'," he said, and waved the dragon Candidate out.

"Ah wai'!" the lad piped up almost immediately, stopping Qosis in his tracks. "Y'gots one o' them baby flits? No flits on th' boats! I'll take it fer ya!" He showed Qosis a heavily blanketed basket. There were some bumps shifting around underneath the blankets. "They love 'em fishheads," the lad happily informed him.

"I've nothing for you," Qosis said with such steely finality that the lad did not bother to question him further, as he might with others. Sometimes people tried to sneak flits under their clothing-- woe to such creatures when the boats flipped!

"Oh," the fisherman grunted when Qosis had gotten about three steps further. The Candidate turned around, holding his breath. "Whiche'er a'you catches the biggest gets a magnificent prize!" the fisherman announced, waving his white palms in the air and pronouncing the final two words in the expected manner: mawgnificent prawzzz!