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Okay, so here's the thing -- how was Lorrox supposed to know that the squirrely little b*****d who knocked him into a plate of mashed roots was the son or grandson or some magical relation to one of the best crafters in the kitchen? Was there some secret hierarchy BEYOND the Weyrleader and Weyrwoman and Weyr...etc, etc that he could get written down on some hide or something? Lorrox did the same thing he always did when someone shoved him, accident or not: he knocked the kid in his face. Like a man.

And if Lorrox was being honest with himself, or if he was capable of being deeply reflective on his actions, then he may have realized that, even if he had known? Probably still would have done it. Controlling his impulses had never been a strength.

That was probably why he had seen himself sent packing from more Holds than most people had even visited at his age.

So on this seasonably warm day, Lorrox found himself doing something that he was actually pretty accustomed to from his time in beastcraft: shoveling s**t. A lot of s**t. He had been given a broken shovel and a host of stalls to clear out as punishment, and if the smell of s**t was not enough, the sweaty heat pouring off of him was even worse. Atleast the runnerbeasts were decent company. They didn't mind his farts.

As he winged another shovelfull into a wheelbarrow, another scent hit his lizard brain. That of a woman. Turning in a circle, Lorrox stabbed his shovel into the hay-scattered dirt and found his eyes lingering on the curved a** of a woman standing a few lengths away. Nice.

Lorrox did the only thing he could think of, the impulse really, which was to drag his eyes up her body -- the baby swaddled there, it seemed, invisible -- and finally come to rest on a face that was maybe vaguely familiar from passing through the Weyr for the last couple years but otherwise a stranger. "I can think of plenty of things I could need," he said plainly. His tone lacked the overdramatic hurr hurr hurr that the words may have implied. It was as if he may have said, Lovely weather today.

"Were you looking for something? I can be very useful. I have endless uses." The 19-Turn-old leaned against the shovel in what may have passed as a seductive pose to a partially blind woman, flapping the loose shirt (streaked with animal s**t, naturally) so that it hung open slightly. The threat of A'ral was plainly ignored.

"More than a few uses," Lorrox said, as charismatic-ly as he was capable of. He raked a dirty hand through his dirty hair. He didn't wink, per se, but his body gave all the nonverbal suggestion that a wink would.

But then the pretty woman was asking about old leather. Well, that was less exciting. "Finding the old leather, that's a euphemism I haven't heard before." Don't call him a quitter, okay. "And if I find it... what do I get?"

Again, there was no eyebrow waggle, but something about his stance suggested an eyebrow waggle. It was waggley.