The following is a log of roleplay on Star Stones MOO, logged by D'ney.
All references to the world and characters of Pern™ based on Anne McCaffrey's fiction
are copyright© 1967 by Anne McCaffrey, all rights reserved. The Dragonriders of Pern® is
registered U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, by Anne McCaffrey and used here with
permission.
Eastern Curve of the Bowl
The weathered face of the northern curve gently melds with the smooth slope of
cliffwall that comprises the eastern curve, steepening only towards the
jagged peaks of the bowl's rim. Activity is comparitively lessened at this
end of the bowl where the golden hides of queens dominate the view and only
increases during Hatchings when hoardes of people gather at the entrance in
hopes of getting a good look at the eggs.
A steep set of steps leads up to a large rocky overhang which, in turn, leads
to the various queens' ledges while another set of steps leads down to the
shadowy entrance of a small cavern.
It is a bright, cheery day. It is a winter midday.
Fiana and Tss'a are here.
The following dragons are here: Nhaeth
From here you can go:
Sky
Stairs Down
Central Bowl
Feeding Grounds Hatching Grounds
Stairs Up Northern Curve
(Nhaeth) Tss'a is fully dressed, but more because she's double-checked before
she's allowed out. Not a whole lot of leeway when one's main outfit is the
weyrling uniform, with its strict and formal appearance. Wandering across the
bowl, this weyrling appears both tired and content, but her attention is
definitely not on the people or dragons around her - it's a million
dragonlengths away.
(Nhaeth) Tss'a just looked at you.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth slinks in from the other end of the bowl, lanky tail dragging
merrily along behind him, wings slightly unfurled to balance his waddling
passage. He stops, shifts, to accommodate the movements of a landing dragon,
a silent exchange takes place, and then the brown dragon's paused right
there, neck crooked towards the ground. The dragon adjacent to him has a
dismounting rider--perhaps only she'll notice the two tiny figures on his
back, small as they are.
Inky dollops of dusty rose salmon coalesce the creases of his vast expanse of
seasoned black cherry hide, cluttering into gangly extremities seeped in
sepia before vanishing beneath a facade of dusky darkness. Sleek sheets of
lengthy mocha-washed wings drizzled with an ethereal edge of frosty pink
coral veins engulf him, cluttering the smooth, rounded ridges that bud from
his elongated neck and rosewood headknobs, leaving only a whim of the large,
expressive eyes that light his nervous triangular head. Hints of deep well
metallicy limn his soot-smudged physique, creating golden glimpses that
overshadow the disproportions and discrepancies and glitter the lengthy
starscape frame from rich hazelnut tail to clever ebon talons with heroic
motes of succulent, suffering incandescence.
Leather as brown as his dark hide winds over his bony length, whorling
patterns where the ridges shrink into nothing and girding his underbelly's
frail jet.
Nhaeth is 4 Turns, 4 Months, and 8 Days old.
(Nhaeth) Fiana stops at the base of the stairs to adjust her belt's buckle,
fingers pat it into place. She looks up and around, a grin splits across her
face. The sky is clear, the firelizards are flitting about, the air is crisp
and fresh. "What a beautiful day," she announces to no one in particular and
everyone all at once.
(Nhaeth) Tss'a shields her eyes from the sun, watching the dragons both waddle
and land, admiring their size and motion. The landing dragon causes her to
step back, almost into the weyrwoman whom she has not seen until suddenly
brushing near to her at the same time that she speaks. Startled at the
unexpected closeness, the weyrling glances over, interpreting the other's
knot with only a glance. Authority! She salutes smartly. "Good day,
weyrwoman. It is certainly a beautiful day, isn't it?"
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth has attracted a flight of those firelizards to him. Beautiful
creatures, also. Green and blue and bronze cluster around his blinking,
globular eyes, while brown melts right in. He tilts his muzzle leisurely,
genially, to watch the /people/. Above, a burst of short, quick movements
occur as the riders climb haphazardly down -- and down -- it's a long way to
the ground.
D'ney dismounts from Nhaeth.
Fiana holds her hands up to brace Tss'a if need be, then sidesteps out of her
way. The weyrwoman grins, "Mm, yes. I prefer warm weather over cold, but
when it's noon and mild like this..." She trails off and shrugs, smile still
in place. With her eyes, she follows the fair of 'lizards flying around the
brown dragon nearby. "I wonder who that is," she murmurs, squinting.
Fiana
Tall and slender, Fiana is all feline's grace despite the look of awkwardness
in long limbs and skinny body. Cropped curls of fiery red blaze up and around
a pale face, drooping tendrils softening the angles of high cheekbones and
sculpted jaw. Clarity crests through the fuzz of red, snapping azure eyes
look out beneath the short coils, regarding the world with detached
amusement. The gentle slope of a petite nose is childishly smattered by a
spray of freckles, button tip tilted up slightly above her thin, blushed
lips. Slender neck coasts down to rounded shoulders, frame slipping into
petite bosom, trim waist. Tiny flare of hip and long, slender legs merely
hint at hidden femininity beneath the tomboy exterior.
Billowy white fabric swirls around her in a cloudy haze. The shirt sleeves
clasp around her wrists, and the tail is belted around her waist. A brushed
leather skirt lies underneath the tail of the gauzy blouse and black belt
combo, hemmed subtley about her booted feet.
Double looped and doubled corded--Telgar's black and white twines about
Fiana's shoulder, dancing in with a golden slip of sisal; a junior weyrwoman.
A faint feathering of wrinkles hide at the corners of her eyes and mouth,
though she is by no means old in appearance.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for a minute.
Calm and cool, she's well-collected today.
D'ney thumps into the ground. And immediately shivers reflexively, shielding
it with a bright grin to her companion, a boy younger than herself and
dressed in simple Telgar clothing. "Scorching weather," she complains as
part of the ongoing conversation, then starts to rib him about some chore or
another, both drifting towards the caverns, and presumably Tss'a and
Fiana-wards.
D'ney
Igen-burnt, Igen-born, dusk shades her in, settling over shoulders broad in
comparison to her slight build and tanning arms a rusty brown. Vigilant
angles heighten the harsh peaks and abrupt gullies of her face, accenting
pinched features drawn by a miser's brush. Below forehead's darkness, a
primal acidity informs hazel eyes, capped by stubborn mahogany curls shorn
ragged at ear-level, but flaring freely, fiercely, into a rider's easy
agility and a controlled drawl.
Smooth, once-shiny hide covers her, a casement against high winds and
treacherous Falls. The original light brown material has been scuffed by
time and scarred by work, reducing the sheen of weaver-made wherryhide; the
leather itself is warmly lined, with a stiflingly high collar and a panel
that slants down the front, secured with tarnished pips to her shoulder.
Around her waist winds a broad, thick belt of wine-red, studded with small
rings. Long, thick sleeves disappear under slightly oversized gloves when
the latter are worn and flutter out extravagantly when they are not, a match
for the flamboyance of tan leather that reaches to mid-thigh, hiding dyed
hide trousers tucked into high boots.
Double cords of maize and jet intertwine in a single loop, trailing into a
tail; a brown ribbon plays accompaniment beside.
She is awake and looks alert.
Prickly is as prickly does.
Tss'a certainly could use the helping hand; she's not the most graceful person
in the world. Once stable, through, she replies to the goldrider. "It always
seemed to be cold at the farm. It was only warm when you didn't want it to
be." Like when you had to slave all day outdoors in the fields under the
burning sun. "An Igen rider, I think?" the weyrling offers as the individual
approaches. "I can almost see the one's knot; wait, the other's Telgar, I
think...?" Hard to tell, and she's hardly an expert at knots yet.
Tss'a
This young woman is perhaps slightly more than five feet in height. Lean
muscles hardened from several turns of willing hard work have left her slim
and strong. Trim fitness shapes her limbs and stomach, and no trace of
awkwardness marks her movements. Subtle and attractive curves have blossomed
on her chest and hips, offering softness where until recently only tough
musculature stretched. Piercing green-brown eyes gaze out from over a
sharply-defined nose, and her thin lips are almost always set into a defiant
smile. The clean and unblemished lines of her prominant chin sweep gracefully
back over angular cheekbones and dive down through the hollow of her throat.
Short-cropped hair of a medium blond falls to just above her ears, slightly
longer in the back but neatly trimmed and layered by expert hands.
A close-fitting white shirt gently grips Tss'a's torso and arms, buttoning
securely closed at her wrists and throat. The shirt is partially covered by a
comfortably fur-lined wherhide vest of a deep ebony and held at her trim
waist by a thick black belt. Her trous, expertly stitched and crisply clean,
are as black as the vest, as are the resilient, thick-soled boots that cover
her feet and calves. The whole outfit is arranged with precision, neatness
and pride, for this is the traditional uniform of a Telgar Weyrling.
Her knot itself is simple - two cords, one of pure white and the other of
midnight hue, loop once down over her shoulder. A thin ribbon of
heather-green reveals the colour of Aiswenath, her lifemate.
She looks to be in her mid-teens.
She is awake and looks alert.
Excited, exhausted, elated - Tassana, now Tss'a, can hardly believe or fathom
what has happened to her.
Nhaeth simply is, still and quiet over where he's stretched near safe bedrock,
tailtip coiled to himself, gaze twinkling at his rider from afar. Mount Ahoy.
Bran wakes up from his nap.
Fiana nods and hmms, studying the pair as they walk by. "In what area was
your family's farm?" Fi asks Tss'a. Turning her body towards the living
cavern and taking a step thataway, she starts to follow in the Igenite's
footsteps. Perhaps it's merely curiousity that guides her, or perhaps klah
was her original intent all along.
D'ney does wear faintly golden, vaguely black cords on her shoulder, but
they're twitching with her jogging movement, slowing when the pair does.
"Lousy tubers. Shave 'em all day and have them for breakfast the morning
af--" D'ney sways a foot aside for a moment, to touch fingers to her
forehead; a salute, if you please. The Telgar boy bobs a bow, lower, deeper.
Unfortunately, he has to stop in his tracks to do so, earning a poke from the
leather-clad rider.
Bran dozes off...
Tss'a falls into step with her; herself watching the recently-landed pair.
"It was just not far north of here, Jowl's Farm," the weyrling explains.
"We're beholden to Telgar."
Fiana recognizes the landmark instantly, nodding. "Ah, yes. I myself was
raised in Crom, relatively nearby." She catches the salute, the bow, and
grins merrily, returning a salute to each. Gotta love propriety. "Have you
travelled much, yet?"
D'ney lets the talk flow over and above her, these two are going for klah,
after all. Were, actually -- for the boy suddenly blushes and turns tail,
making a face at D'ney in parting. He's gone, and she's left outside. Brr.
Tss'a offers her own salute to the landed rider; not someone she recognizes.
The young greenrider's weyrling uniform and knot are proudly worn and crisply
clean, the white-and-black making for a stark contrast in the Telgar sun. "I
have actually. I was a candidate at Igen before here, so I've been around
more than most of the people at the farm."
Fiana is impressed by Tss'a, "Really? Before I Impressed, I had been to Crom,
and to Telgar. I led a very small life." Her gaze casts over the huge
expanse of the living cavern, then drops to those who mill outside of it. To
D'ney, she questions amiably: "Are you delivering a message?"
D'ney belatedly shuffles back behind manners: familiar trappings. A smile
creeps up, quirking reluctant lips up. Speech comes next, and a hasty glance
over Tss'a and Fiana. "Igen's duties to Telgar and her Queens," she intones,
rock-solemn, to accompany the partial salute that was given. Respectful,
under habit's guise, she snaps out smartly, "--No messages today. Just
visiting. Expecting anything?"
Tss'a stays out of this; this is above her area of both expertise and
knowledge. However, she does take the opportunity to study both rider and
knot, to familiarize herself with it. Not too long passes, though, before she
can't resist quietly inquiring, "Excuse me?" of the Igen rider.
Fiana smiles, "Telgar's duties, as well," then shakes her head, "Not
personally, no, but the Weyrwoman is. No matter, of course--I was more
curious than expectant." The caverns call and she excuses herself with a
bright grin, and a squeeze for Tss'a's shoulder: "Pardon, I must go speak
with the cook. Good day, to the both of you."
D'ney slips too easily out of her pose. One hand hitches up to clutch at a
snap on her riding jacket, the other sags as she eyes Tss'a. "What?" Some
rapid throat clearing and a blink later, she adds a more polite query, "Why?"
She nods at the goldrider as she leaves, but her head doesn't turn away much.
Fiana goes home.
Tss'a says, again quietly, "I was wondering how the recent weyrling graduates
are doing - have they all ben assigned to wings yet?" She pauses, then
explains, "I was a candidate with them." Funny how times change; now she's a
Telgar rider-to-be.
D'ney doesn't ask questions often; T'ssa has been honoured with two already.
The beady-eyed, intent gaze wavers slightly on receiving a reply, then loops
back to the weyrling obliquely. A grunt emerges first, a hiss of breath
wafting into the air. "I haven't been working with the weyrlings. Seen them
flying overhead, though, and they look fine," she skims, "They were graduated
a while ago. Haven't seen you around Igen." But she's a weyrling here. Now.
Tss'a shakes her head. "I've not been there in..." she furrows her brows,
counting back the months. "Well, since their hatchings. What's that, a turn?"
Seems like three. Probably around two. "So it's been a while. I was a lot
younger then, too. Had longer hair."
D'ney isn't good at months, turns, or decades, if she ever learns the word.
"Oh," goes the reply, uttered in between one scuff of a boot and another.
"A
turn or so, I don't remember. Neither does /he/." Scowl. "Might have seen
you around, don't know." The next question gets stuck in the roof of her
mouth, and emerges as a jerking finger pointed towards the caverns. "Are you
going in or coming out?" It's /cold/ out here.
Tss'a wasn't really planning on doing either, but since she's not been /in/
yet today, and her lifemate remains comfortably asleep, she replies simply,
"in." With that, she deliberately moves out of the way to let the senior
rider take the lead. "After you?"
D'ney has few ounces of sympathy in her, and even less tact. She moves on in,
without apology. "'Kay."
Northern Curve of the Bowl
A symphony of sounds resonate off the weathered face of the cliff as raucous
activity dominates this side of the bowl. Wisps of conversations can be heard
as weyrfolk to and from the living cavern while riders, brandishing full
stomachs, head back to restless lifemates. Shallow grooves, made by powerful
talons, mar the sandy floor and make walking a bit tricky as you try to
navigate through patchy crowds of people in search of your next destination.
It is a clear, crisp evening It is a winter evening.
The following dragons are here: Nhetoth, Zorath, Lyssath, Khaleth, Yveseth,
Dezaith, Aramyth, Daemoth, Njordth, Paenth, Azraeth, Liuth, and Agalith
Tss'a strides with determination and purpose in from Eastern Curve of the Bowl.
Main Living Cavern
Melodic laughter rings throughout the spacious cavern as riders socialize with
one another, boasting of adventures a-dragonback, and gossiping about stodgy
wingleaders and sordid affairs. Drudges rush past you, their arms laden with
dishes and mugs of Klah, desperate to relieve themselves of their burden
while pesky 'lizards inhibit their progress.
The light from the glows warmly illuminates the domed cavern and shimmers off
the walls as miniscule mineral particles reflect the soft lighting like
twinkling stars blanketed in a wintry gray sky. Numerous tables lie scattered
across the room, some large enough to hold a whole wing of riders while
others were made only for two. Towards the back, a large hearth breathes
soul soothing warmth into weary bodies as its flames dance with hypnotic
grace and puppet flickering shadows across the spacious stone stage.
Sultry, mouth-watering aromas float in from a small archway that leads to the
kitchens while chattering can be heard emanating from a wide hallway.
You see S'am, Telgar Weyr Menu, A small runnerbeast carving, kitten carving,
and Reni here.
From here you can go:
Lower Caverns Bowl
Infirmary
Kitchen
Gaming Room
Tss'a has arrived.
Tss'a doesn't have a lot of tact either, but recognizes at least in this rider
less aggression and less disrespect than she gets from many riders. "I'm
Tss'a, by the way." She speaks the 'T' sound only quietly, and doesn't quite
seem used to this version of her name, yet.
Fallon wakes up from his nap.
Determination D'ney doesn't have, not now, but purpose she does, and selects a
table towards the back, winding through table after table to find that
precise place where elbows aren't sticking out over glasses of wine. She
offers a seat, roughly, "S'ssa," she stutters in return, "Name's D'ney,
Nhaeth's rider. The brown lump outside, with tails all over him."
Tss'a seems to think that's close enough; her lifemate's chosen version of her
name isn't the easiest to pronounce. "Aiswenath's rider," she says back.
"Well, rider-to-be. I've not actually gotten on her yet..." A bit sheepish
there. "She's only three months old."
D'ney slides into a seat, slightly stiff at the spine -- then slumps over the
table, elbows propping her up. It's fortunate she makes the height of the
table-top at all. Eyes peer at T'ssa from that level. "Aiswenath," she
repeats with incorrect prounciation and emphases; shakes her head. "She's
young. You'll learn. You both will. We were all weyrlings once."
Tss'a nods emphatically and energetically; the prospect of learning, and its
eventual benefit, fires her up out of the exhaustion that so marks these
months of constant training and exercise. "Aye, we'll both learn. We do!" She
rubs her hands together. "Aiswenath," she says the name carefully, to help
the other pronounce it right but without making it obvious, "loves to learn.
If anything I have to temper her enthusiasm a bit so she doesn't overexert
herself."
D'ney is according the weyrling gruff courtesy, to be exact, and turns some
more of the same to a mousy drudge who totters past their table underneath a
stack of dirty plates. "Klah. Please. Want anything?" she asks of T'ssa,
straightening faintly in the seat. She doesn't try the dragon's name again,
however. "Nhaeth was the same. Too enthusiastic, he wanted to walk to the
bowl on the very first day. Has she tired herself out yet?"
Tss'a nods knowingly. "Almost every day, yes. She doesn't sleep much at any
one time, though that's getting better over time now. Every single day she
flaps her wings as long as she can, trying to make herlself stronger."
D'ney is sadistic. Blame her parentage. In the way of knowing more gory
details, she tosses out, "Flapping might help. They told us to do it every
day, anyway, and it worked. Not sleeping much -- doesn't that /bother/ you?"
It bothers Dallan.
Tss'a shrugs. "It's the way she is. She doesn't sleep a long time at one go."
Blind acceptance of this, one of her lifemate's quirks. "And she does... she
has these /amazing/ huge wings. She's going to be a great glider."
D'ney's face crumples. It's not a pretty sight, even with the tan and the
raised palms hiding her from T'ssa's view. "But--but--the voice in your
head, doesn't /that/ bother you?" She insists on one point, and one point
only. Never mind wings just yet.
Tss'a blinks, perhaps a bit stunned. "Well, no, actually..." she seems
actually confused, this being the first rider who has said anything like that
to her. "No, we get along really well. It's like ... it's like ... there when
we need it, but she doesn't communicate as often as the others seem to..."
D'ney has seen weary weyrlings, tired riders, and has been through those
hair-raising days herself. So, she nods deeply at T'ssa, twice. "She talks
to you when you want to. Good for you, then. Very lucky, compared to some
others. Nhaeth," she inhales, "Liked to chatter." Talk about
understatements.
Tss'a thinks about that for a long moment. "Ais talks when she has something
to say - which /can/ be a lot, if she has a lot to say. But she's a watcher -
she likes watching people and things happen around her. Usually she's then
asking me questions about what's going on." Speaking of which, her eyes
suddenly go out of focus for a moment. "Like for example, 'where are you, I'm
awake'." The weyrling makes motions to stand. "I'm sorry, I have to go."
D'ney has but a sniff of sympathy to offer; the rest of her exhalation is
pointed towards the mug the mousy drudge has returned with. Dipping her nose
into the receptable, the brownrider basks in the fumes while nodding at
T'ssa's words. "See you," she mutters in the weyrling's direction, then
returns her attention to the mug and its welcome /heat/.
Tss'a strides with determination and purpose toward Northern Curve of the Bowl.
D'ney forsakes the caverns too, after some time.