The following is a log of roleplay on Star Stones MOO, logged by Dallaney.
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.
Main Living Cavern
The careless glitter of rose quartz reflects and refracts the light from within its bed of
granite, each beam bringing a new shifting, a new subtlty of sight. Rows of long trestle
table are seated in orderly awareness under the carven vault of the ceiling, centered
around a great dais upon which sits the best-made one; this, too, shows the roughness of
the others, but a roughness smoothed by time, and accented by the complexity of beams that
show Turns-taken tesselation in their upward arch. Neither tapestries nor coverings mar
the marbling of wild beauty, leaving unadorned grandeur that in naturalistic simplicity
provides comfort to the occupants of the cavern.
One archway, the only covered by a drape of black and gold, shields the entrance to the
bowl from the blow of sand; another, almost unobtrusive, marks the entrance to the lower
caverns through a short, winding and uncarefully-carved tunnel.
Perched somewhere up high, you see Zippo, Pick, and Chisel.
Nalarken is here.
From here you can go:
Bowl Lower Caverns Infirmary
The current weather report:
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IgenW: Center Bowl Area (#5491)
The sky is clear and bright without a cloud to be seen. It is a winter
midday.
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Savaryn walks in from Lower Caverns.
Savaryn
Thick black curls wisp free to frame a stubborn-boned face, hard-lined and well tanned to
a richly shadowed bronze, though much of the shade seems to be her natural color.
Savaryn's physiognomy harks back to the look of the Romany and Native Americans, evidently
a bloodline strain: a hawkish profile, dark hair, dark eyes against shaded skin,
knife-edged nose and cheekbones are her heritage. Her build echoes them, sharp and
slender; precise. Striking, as a word, suits best. She could never appear gentle, and
would likely be out of place in truly dressy clothes. Though her look could be forbidding
in the right mood, more oft than not she wears a merry grin, emphasized by the very
narrowness of her face; when she grins, it really is almost ear to ear.
She wears a light, near-sleeveless tunic of off-white shade, bereft of anything resembling
embroidery or decoration -- attractive, really, in its starkness, sharp-lined and clean as
the sands of Igen itself. Over that, a vest of the thinnest leather, and this bears
workings well-pressed into its substance, a fanciful twirling and twining of craft without
rhyme, reason, or particular pattern, here and there accented with dyes, a crazy quilt of
edges, with the wider swaths left bare. Her loose fabric breeches have seen their day, but
are nonetheless pristine, if threadbare, tucked into similarly well-worked boots.
Stitched neatly to her vest is a brand new knot, double-corded with the single loop and
long tail of a Jr. Journeyman; its colors are the white and brown of the Tannercraft,
threaded with the orange and black ribbons of Igen Weyr.
She is awake and looks alert.
Savaryn emerges from the lower caverns tunnel with a light flip of the drape, a small roll
of leather tucked under one arm, a satchel hooked over the other. She pauses to check the
room, head tossed to clear her eyes, then starts determinedly for one of the few
less-occupied tables. Doesn't do to work in a crowd.
Dallaney is seated at one of the lower tables, mulling over an empty plate on which are a
few leftover crumbs. Face as usual is smeared with food goo as she turns to check out the
newcomer. Brief flick of curiosity passes the hazel eyes at another often seen but
unmarked stranger, but weyrbrat returns soon enough to her plate, peripheral vision warily
noting various weyrfolk.
Dallaney
A thin child, a literal burst of lanky limbs and untidy muddy mahogany curls mass into a
boyish tangle compressed into her young body. Ragged lines of grit and scratches rake over
a darkened brown face, thick lids fluttering open on beady eyes also hazel and oft-times
alertly wary. The small face sharpens into depressed cheeks and pursed lips, altogether
not too pleasant a sight. Remnants of babyish flab plumpens the sturdy girl's body only
slightly at waists, but arms vise-like, are as thin as lengthy legs.
A pair of pants, knees scrubbed bare and patched are bunched up at her waist and held by a
hide belt, the leather adhesive to skin and showing off thin and athletic legs. Slippers
on her feet loosely sewn hang by a thread or two, and her shirt tucked in tight is covered
by a miniature jacket similar to the ones used for flight. Emblazoned on the jacket's
collar are the unflattering letters spelling out her name-- "Dallaney" in a
glaring white that even layers of dune dust and smeared bubblies fail to hide completely,
only obscuring its last two letters.
She is awake and looks alert.
Slightly grumpy and ungraceful.
A scrape of the bench, a flop of hide, and Sav's claimed her spot, rolling out the leather
after brushing the tabletop for stray crumbs. The other cavern residents get hardly a
glance or more, she too distracted with whatever's claimed her attention today.
Dallaney clinks her cutlery, already finding the close contemplation boring. Unfolding her
feet nimbly, Dallan hops off her seat, heading randomly to a bobbing head. The hide is
eyed as she nears the tanner from a side that is hopefully in the dimmer light.
Savaryn, unwarned and unguarded, doesn't even notice the scrutiny. The hide in question is
just thick enough to be clothing leather, but someone's ruined the dye job quite badly.
Streaks and runnels track the skin-side surface, and not even in a way that could be
called unique: only ugly. Seems Sav's using it for design practice, for patches and bits
are marked up with leatherworkings, from runner heads to dragons to mountain peaks.
Dallaney grins in secret humour, doing the sneak along the bench's side. "Hey!"
she calls in as loud and carrying a tone as kidlet manages when she gets just /near/
enough to tanner to be heard. "What's those drawings?" is continued in a
conversational tone as she moves up alongside, lips upturning into a variety of smirk.
Savaryn's extremely surprisable when sunk in a working concentration, so leaves the bench
several inches behind in her startled jerk. "Faranth's -arse-," she gasps, and
promptly chokes off the rest, eyeing you. It's a moment before she can brush back her
hair, impatient as always, and shake her head. "That," she says, "was not
very kind." Ignore that twitching at the corner of her mouth. It's a facial tic. No,
really. "What do you mean, what are they? Isn't it obvious?"
Dallaney peers at the hide, forehead just slightly wrinkled at the response. Not that it
surprised her in any way. "I know." Girl smirks again, acting the boy with feet
apart. "I meant what- are those? I have never seen the like. Ugly." she adds in
a snide comment, unfazed certainly.
"Practice," is Sav's simple reply, as she reclaims one of the leatherworking
tools from where it's rolled partway down the table. "Wouldn't do to practice on good
hide, would it?" She twirls the tool, a narrow-headed drawing implement, then huddles
over the piece she was working on... before. It's hard to tell yet what it's going to be,
just a few curves and twinings. "Surely," she adds, "you've seen runners
and dragons." Mild; snide in her own fashion?
Dallaney nods matter-of-factly. "Runners and dragons, of course." she retorts
sharply, nose tilting defiantly at Sav. Can't be thinking that Dallan's stupid, no.
"They have always been around, I know. But what /will/ that be?" she insists,
jerking dark head in that direction, persistently and a somewhat irritated light in her
eyes.
Savaryn's mouth curves gently, as gently as one can on so angular a face. "Wait and
see," she suggests, reaching for another tool to add another curve, another twist.
Right now it looks rather like the outline of a misshapen pancake.
Dallaney squeezes her mouth into a mashed line, then leaps onto the bench beside the
tanner with an easy effort for an eight-turn-old. "Hrumph." she grunts tensely,
locking her ankles and arranging lanky elbows on skinned knees. Thus settled, weyrbrat
lets her glance roam over the hide, critically of course.
Savaryn slides a glance your way, no little of surprise in it, but says nothing. She turns
back to her working, edging the metal bit along to crease a line. Occasionally she dips a
rag in a small bowl of water and swipes it over the leather, darkening the ugly dye-work
to a uniform brown. "Interested in tanning, are you?"
Dallaney ponders that with a frown along jagged little forehead. "No." comes the
wary answer after darting a quick glance to the young woman's face. "New to me."
Reluctantly, she forms the words, then lets them hang while frowning some more at the
work. "Is it dirty work?"
"Oh, terribly," Savaryn says, all cheerful as she reaches for another metal
tool. Now the picture's taken on... well, it still looks like a pancake. "You have to
scrape down hides, bind them out, soak them in tannin -- which is terribly smelly
stuff," she comments aside. "Then beat it soft, dye it... it goes on, and
on." And she doesn't even mention the /really/ icky stuff.
Dallaney scrunches her teeth together to produce a thin clack-clack. "Shards, that's
a lot of /work/ all right." Obsessively clamping down on that word now. "I
wouldn't want it." Fairly dismissive, head is cocked a bit more towards Savaryn. And
coolly, "Why do you keep at it?"
"Because I enjoy it." A turn here, a touch there. Isn't it looking rather like a
knot? Savaryn discards the newest tool in favor of the one she started with, the
all-purpose. "I like making attractive things." She taps the end of the 'pen' on
one of the runners etched into the leather, rearing, head thrown back and hooves catching
at the figurative air. "Wanted to practice my animals a bit when I did that one. It
came out rather nice, I think."
Dallaney notices the runner and nods. "Not bad." she comments, but remains
curled up as protectively as before. A moment and tiny blue comes spiralling in to claw at
the weyrbrat's shoulder, sending chitters trembling through the wild flop of hair.
Ignoring it, she simply rocks back and forth slowly, unwilling to volunteer more.
"Yours?" Sav questions, with a nod to the 'lizard. She abandons the knot, if
such it is, turning the hide around to a partially completed firelizard. "I think it
wants you."
"Mine." Dallan claims, pointedly not looking at the blue. "He's prolly
hungry. He bothers me for the strangest reasons." This longer sentence is uttered
carelessly, whilst she flaps her hand at the 'lizard. "Go away."
"I'd bother if I were hungry, too." Savaryn sits back a little, elbow propped on
the table, and frowns at the 'lizard. "I need to get one to sit for me, one of these
days. Dragons hold still plenty long enough to sketch, but firelizards...."
Dallaney snickers quietly behind an upraised hand, fingers spread to wrap partway around
her face. "No firelizard would sit, except tame ones. My blues never stay still for
food, even. Maybe get one of your own to do it." she suggests, tugging at collar and
half-consciously trying to goo up her name. Typically.
"If I had one," Sav says reasonably enough, "I would have." She
wiggles the end of the tool at the little blue, brows arching. "Hey, little fella.
Would you sit?"
Rake thin and arrow-straight, he dashes from point A to point B with little more than an
eyeblink's notice. Small, even for a blue, his lack of physical stature merely emphasizes
his speedy physique. No scrap is safe from his darting jaws; no Thread can escape his
flame, nor green his grasp. His hide is an even pale blue - or at least, no discernable
markings can be seen, as he rarely holds still long enough for any kind of examination.
His tail is long, long, LONG, easily doubling his length with its reach.
Zippo is 5 Months and 12 Days old.
Streaking along blue skies.
Zippo whips his tail from side to side, proudly stalking along Dallan's shoulder.
Intelligent orbs blink at the speaker for one -short- moment, before the blue flutters his
wings indignantly and turns, talons hopping deftly on and off the girl's shoulder in quick
movements. A good poser, yes? Weyrbrat herself just chortles silently, turning to the
tanner in amusement.
Savaryn grins, quick, and shakes her head. "Was that a no?" she inquires of you,
tugging the leather back over in front of her, elbows both on the table again. "It
sure looked like it."
A smile licks broadly over Dallan's lips at this. "What do you think?" she asks
wryly, "He's...jumpy." She concludes, hand flicking out to swiftly catch the
smooth neck ridge and stroking the blue.
"Cute, too." Sav shrugs, tapping the firelizard half-finished again. "Well,
maybe one of these days I'll find one that isn't. I've seen a few that seem only to want
to sleep, but they're /never/ around when I have time to sketch."
Dallaney shrugs. Other firelizards aren't her business, except in find-the-egg games.
"Check the most unlikely nooks." She sniffs derisively, continuing with the
jealous, busy caress. "They sleep anywhere."
"I'll do that. Maybe you could tell me if you spot one." Sav turns the leather
again, back to that pan-- err, knot-in-progress. "What do you think, does this look
like a Journeyman's knot?"
Dallaney glances over it. "What would that be for?" she blinks, staring at the
pattern. "Maybe. Yes." Slight frown is directed at it and at the Journeywoman,
perhaps only now noting her knot. "You are a Journeyman Tanner?"
Savaryn reaches up to tug her knot lightly. "I'm trying to remind myself," she
says, slightly wry. "But yep, just last sevenday." She smoothes it down
self-consciously and goes back to peering askance at the detailed one. "Figure it
can't hurt to learn to do knots. Sometimes people want... um, portraits done, and they
need knots on them too." In leather? How often?
Dallaney nods. "Mm..." Um, yes, knots. Dallan doesn't have one, it seems, or
isn't wearing it anyway. Impatience shows in slight manoevring of her grasp to the
irritating collar piece, that she tries to pull off, however in vain.
Savaryn just looked at you.
Savaryn hasn't missed the collar, only neglected to focus on it. Of course, all the
fidgeting has precisely that effect. "Dallan, is it?" she says, offering a hand
in the typical palm-up way. "I'm Savaryn. Just Sav, or Savvy, really. I suppose you
ought to call me Journeyman," she adds with a sheepish sort of grin, "but I
won't tell if you forget."
Screech wakes up from his nap.
Screech dozes off...
Dallaney snorts at some length. "Sure, Sav." she says impishly, wicked eyes
gleaming with glee. That, after having chosen the unconventional form of address- Dallan
never notes titles. "There's no one to tell." She adds helpfully, conveniently
skipping over the unimportant nanny-figures in the process.
"I doubt that. You like Dallan, or just Dal?" Sav flips over the leather,
running a finger down a much-flattened seam, disguised on the other side as just another
drizzle in the dye. "Or something else?"
Dallaney nods, satisfied with the name. "Dallan will do." The disgruntlement
easing somewhat as she stretches out her feet flat out onto the bench. "The bad names
were given to me."
Savaryn turns back the leather, nodding as well. "Bad names? I don't mind mine, but I
suppose parents don't always choose just right." She laughs, re-snagging the
all-purpose detailer and hunching over her work. "I had a lot of friends when I was
little who didn't like their names at /all/. Mostly it was 'cause they were their parents'
or someone else's in the family."
Dallaney starts slightly, keen eyes glaring avian-like up at Savaryn. "You don't read
minds, do you?" She shoots out in a dim mutter of quick words, blinking quickly. How
had the woman known that at all, when she had merely meant the scoldings of harried
weyrfolk. Jaw is not dropped really, just hanging slightly open in dumb protectiveness.
Pure dumb luck, dontchaknow. Sav peers back, looking a bit bemused. "I certainly hope
not, especially if everyone's mind is like mine." She taps the tool on the leather,
and presses another line or so in. "I guess your name /is/ from your parents'?"
Dallaney begins to shake her head, but switches to sudden nodding instead. "From
relatives I don't even know." She retorts, not angry at the tanner now, rather
staring beyond the trestle table, fists clenched childishly on her lap. "How would
/you/ like a name like Dallan-ney?" She drags the syllables out sarcastically,
frowning ghastly. "Dimglows."
"Dallaney?" Savaryn tries it, flowing it together rather than fragmented apart.
"I suppose if -you- don't like it, you don't like it, but what's wrong with it?"
Dallaney sneers, pushing forward her face towards the tabletop. "Dallan is good. But
the-that. Its- girly!" Dallan at last protests aloud, ruffling her hair in
frustration. "Its got no dignity." And she tries her best to pick faults.
"Nor ...a nice ring to it." is muttered with fierce scowl to Sav.
Savaryn bites on the end of the detailer, frowning. "Girly? No dignity?" She
mulls this for a moment or three. "Dallaney? To -me- it sounds like it could be
either, but that's not saying it doesn't sound girly to you. My ears probably don't work
the same way as yours."
Night wakes up from his nap.
"Of course they don't." Dallan nods, indignant despite knowing nothing of
ear-anatomy whatsoever. "They were /wrong/ to call me that." And wrong in many
other respects, is the unsaid, implied in 'brat's angry tone and fist's pounding on the
table, knees securely brought up to her chest. The calm reaction simply brings her
slightly muffled mutterings to greater length; distinctly unconcerned of other activity in
the caverns for once.
"Shouldn't get so upset about it," Sav suggests, leaving off on her etching
again for the moment. "Really, now, you can have people call you what you want, can't
you? /I'll/ call you Dallan, if you like that."
The weyrbrat nods slowly, surprise showing in the quirked eyebrows she presents to
Savaryn. But then a voice calls for her, a male's baritone from the direction of the
bowl, and she has to leave, somewhat reluctantly. "Later, Sav," is
hurriedly muttered, a hand raised in farewell; Dallan disappears behind the drape.