Fewmets and Dust [Chores/Open]

[rii]

"No, you can't eat them."

Quintrell was lounging up in the loft above the stalls housing the dark-runner beasts below. Most of them being.. asleep (he assumed), the others being an odd mix between curious and afraid of the dark brown Wher currently peeking into their stalls. There were enough glow baskets hanging around to distinguish his color and even the subtle red stripes winding smoothing along the brown's slender frame. Three months old and Quintrell could already see his wher was going to be on the big side–not awkward like his bronze clutchsibling, but already Quintresk was out growing the oddities of a hatchling and developing into a more lithe creature. If there ever was an attractive wher, it would be Quintresk.

What about the small runner–no one could possibly ride that little thing. Not even His.

"Hey, I resent that comment. And that's just a baby. It's going to grow–" Maybe Quintresk would eat it before it could grow. "No, you will not. I'm more than sure someone is going to notice their cute little runner gone missing and all that is left is a bloody hoof." Cute? It wasn't that cute. "Cuter than you." Hmph.

Quintrell flipped over onto his hands and knees and crawled over to peer down at the wher–who currently sat outside the pin holding in the mare and her foal. Quintresk looked so patient there, calmly perching back on hindlegs with his long tail idly swaying through the air in front of his foreclaws. His gaze never wavering from the small creature inside. "I fed you, why are you so hungry?"

The brown tilted his head back to peer up at the thief, no response, just a well narrowed gaze. Trell wrinkled his nose in response, sticking out his tongue in a childish show of rebellion. Yes, he was skirting his chore duties–but honestly, without actually being shoved into a room with a rag in hand, having his ear chewed on about doing work.. well.. Trel just wouldn't do anything. It was nearing the middle of the night, who was really going to say he did chores or not? He had fed a couple redfruit to the runner beasts. Even picked up a pitchfork to pretend he was going to clean their stalls–seemed a good enough idea for general weyr duty–no one liked a dirty, smelly stable! Best of all, no one came out there during the night.

.. And then Quintrell had promptly crawled up into the loft to nap for an hour or two. That had been the plan, anyway. Except Quintresk's predatory presence was starting to stir up the more nervous of runner beasts. Odd, Trell thought the runners would be use to such presence being around the dragons and all that–but it probably didn't help that Quintresk was seriously considering eating one of them.

[Requiem]

Braid. Pft. He could feel Dmisk's decidedly long-suffering presence in his mind. The hair was a nuisance. This way, it didn't get tangled, and he could still get the attention of His should the need arise. "There are other ways," Dmitri murmured, partially to hear his own voice in the quiet darkness. He didn't actually need to speak aloud. Well, yes, of course, but DemiHis had a habit of ignoring ways that didn't involve uncomfortable positions. Seeing as how it was hard to argue with the truth, the harper-turned-wherhandler continued on in silence.

Had anyone been able to see well enough in the dark, they would find a most...unusual...sight in Dmitri. The two had tried, time and again, various things to help the teenager adjust to using Dmisk's night vision, but only one thing had worked. Over his eyes, the tall blonde had wound a strip of cloth, securing it tightly so as to block out even the dimmest of light. At first, the difference in angles had thrown him off and caused many scrapes and bruises, but Dmitri was surprisingly adaptable given how difficult he could be. His natural grace was very clearly in evidence as he moved effortlessly through the trees, Dmisk's pale hide glimmering at his side.

The wher paused, Dmitri stopping as well. For over two months now they'd been doing this, and Dmisk was pleased with his acquisition. The music maker was very responsive. Young ones had more malleable minds, which was one of the reasons he'd chosen his clutchmother's couch. His hand found the wher’s shoulder, warm against the blue’s hide, and again he spoke needlessly. “What is it?” The four-legged human bearers were restless. Likely because Quintresk and His were there. “What would they be doing in the stables?” Dmisk could hardly tell Dmitri what his clutch siblings were thinking.

He padded forward, confident that the boy would follow. Slipping in through the entrance, Dmisk paused, his powerful frame silhouetted in the doorway. Dmitri followed not far behind. “Trell?” His head swiveled toward the brown handler, though it was obvious he couldn’t possibly see him, at least in the usual sense of the word. “What are you doing in here?” The runners seemed quite upset. Well, of course, the clutch brother Quintresk was eyeing them like he was about to… “Shh.” The blue huffed softly. Couldn’t think when the wher was ‘talking.’ Well, he didn’t have to talk if Dmitri was going to put up a fuss…

[rii]

Quintresk's attention shifted from the nervous beasts to the wooden latching that kept the stall closed. It only took him a moment to figure out the mechanism, and because he had to prove that it worked as well as it did in his head, the brown shifted closer to the gate and nosed the sliding latch away.. pleased as the gate slowly opened.

"Quintresk! Honestly! I said leave 'em alone!" The thief flailed his hands dramatically at his wher, but made no show of effort to get down from the loft and correct the problem. The brown in question merely pushed at the gate a bit more. What he didn't care about the runnerbeasts anymore, he was investigating the construction of the barn and the simple locks. Trel rolled his eyes, yes, the brown was apparently quite pleased with himself. Natrually the thief wasn't against the occasional tomfoolery.. but when he did it, he would get away with it. Whatever Quintresk did.. well, Trel ended up responsible for those actions.

It wasn't a prank. He really was just figuring out the mechanism..

"Whatever you–" The thief paused when the two noticed their visitors. For a moment Quintrell continued to hang, arms limp and dangling beyond his head. He blinked over at the blindfolded harper. "What does it look like I'm doin'?" He snickered, swaying his arms back and forth as he grinned at the other wherhandler. Before he could shout more scoldings down at Quintresk, the brown had raised up on his backlegs, one front leg resting against the wooden post while the other pulled at the gate. He nosed at the wooden slide.. then pushed one claw against it.. much hard to get it to close than open it.

Gripping the edge of the loft, Quintrell slipped over the ledge. His body swayed back and forth a few times as hay drifted around his hanging legs. The thief shifted his grip before dropping, landing lightly on his feet and instantly bobbing up to bounce over to the musicemaker. Guru snorted from his clinging position under the collar of shirt–he didn't hear any music. "Look'it that. You decided to braid your hair. Not bad, not bad."

A few quick strides took him around the harper, investigating said braided hair before returning to his starting position–reaching over to slide the wooden latch into place. The brown didn't much care (he already knew how it worked). The wher pushed away from the post and moved around to continue his thorough inspection of the stables. A brief greeting went to Dmisk, but the brown was far more interested in his survey. Pressing both front claws against one wooden railing, Quintresk rose to sniff at one of the more curious runners that had come forth to do the same to him. Oddly trusting creatures.. even though he wasn't going to eat one of them.. or maybe this one knew that?