Ficlet #3

At the request of tayefeth:

Character: Encil
Topic: Socks
Line: "Of course not! They'd shred them."

For those who don't know, Encil was the first character I played online. He was a member of the Smithhall on PernMUSH, who went from apprentice to master rather quickly, and ran the hall until he more or less went insane. Kind of fun to play, for a while, and I do have a sentimental attachment to him.

"And in here," continued the greenrider with a wave of her hand, "is the famous living cavern of Fort Weyr. Why, if we tried to list every historical event that happened here--every concert of a Master Harper, every marriage of two dragonriders, every discovery of the next goldrider--why, we'd be here all afternoon and into the night."

The small cluster of teenagers looked appropriately awed. Jalin rolled her eyes and looked away, nonplussed by the utter mundanity of their reaction. Yes, yes, historically exciting, and yes, drudges bustling everywhere with trays of klah, and riders coming in from the weyr with the sounds of dragons echoing from the bowl, but five years as a weyrlingmaster and she could reliably predict their expressions at each stage of the tour.

"Kitchen's down in that direction," she said, pointing; "those are the crafter's quarters, as well as the tunnel leading to the Headwoman's. If you come this way, you can--"

"BLAST!" Jalin looked not at the tunnel from which the cry came, but at the startled candidates. Some of them took a step or two back as a man came running out, his white hair uncombed and his arms flailing. He was barefoot and draped in a rough unbelted tunic with a complex red and white knot at the shoulder. The tunic fell to his knees, which were bare, as he was wearing no pants.

"You!" he bellowed, and grabbed the nearest candidate, a serving girl from Benden. Jalin watched bemused as she froze, unable to speak or look away. "Where are my socks, apprentice?"

The girl's mouth barely moved, and no sound came out. The man sighed and pushed her gently back. "Useless," he said. "All our apprentices, useless. You, journeywoman," he continued at a conversational pitch, facing Jalin. "My socks. Where are they?"

"Master Encil," Jalin said with a decent facsimile of respect. "You got them wet when you went out in the fields yesterday. Didn't you give them to your firelizards, to dry them out?"

"To my firelizards? Of course not! They'd shred them." He paused, looked at the ceiling, and muttered to himself, "Utter disaster. Can't have my socks shredding my firelizards. Fine socks, you know. Best metal the Smithhall has seen in years." Then he looked back at the candidates, who seemed to be trying to hide behind one another. "I'm not wearing pants, am I?"

The oldest of them, a boy of fifteen, said, "Um, no. Sir. Master."

The smith nodded. "Right. Good, good. Then why are you?"

There was a pause. Jalin worked to stifle a laugh as the candidates looked at one another. One or two of them actually reached for their belts and tugged at them uncertainly.

"Journeywoman, you shouldn't have this gaggle of apprentices wandering around like this. Put 'em to work. Got to be something useful they can do. Have 'em report to me when they finish; I need to go get my socks. Probably left them with my firelizards." He turned and walked back down the tunnel he'd come from, talking to himself in a voice that carried through the cavern. "They were soaked yesterday, after all. Can't have that."

The candidates looked at each other, and then at Jalin. Desperation, she noted. About typical. "If you come this way, you can see the gates and the road to Fort Hold," she told them, and began to walk across the cavern. Mastersmith Encil, she thought to herself. And these children thought the dragons were the scariest thing in the Weyr.

I may be in Maine, but keep requesting. (I know I still owe you one, Saxi.)