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.
From Feeding Pens, K'ryn is leaning on the fence, watching his Rioth
cavort amongst the herdbeasts. "No Rioth...RIOTH! You don't really need to toss those
that high. Oh..oh. Oh come on now! You think D'rek really wants a severed head in his
weyr? Well yes, it was a good shot, but still!"
Feeding Pens
The cupric tang of life's energy hangs heavy in the air and whirls with a nauseous glee
across the wide expanse of feeding ground that takes up half of the southern end of the
bowl. The startled cries of herdbeast and wherry alike are quickly muffled by the rapid
descent of dragon bulk, soon to be silenced forever, leaving behind a mottled pool of
blood, the only testimony that they ever existed. A twisted barrier of wood surrounds the
outer perimeter, keeping the beasts within the corral and, conveniently enough, providing
a perch for both human and 'lizard.
Soft fluffy clouds are gathering idly overhead. It is a winter evening.
You see Baby here.
K'ryn and Taera are here.
The following dragons are here: Fyseith, Rioth, and Iyrith
From here you can go:
Bowl
Watering Hole
From Outside the Feeding Pens, Dallaney walks toward Feeding Pens.
Taera is quiet as she approaches, hands coming up quietly to push strawberry blond waves
back behind her ears, before one slender hand is quickly clamped over her mouth at the
bronzerider's comments. "It was well aimed," she offers, coming to a halt behind
him, her voice low, and quiet.
Dallaney trudges by, guarded by evening's shades of lengthening greys. A nimble leap takes
her onto one rung of the fence; a leg hikes up to elevate her to a perch while the other
scrabbles to find purchase on the wooden fence. There's a show: she watches that, and the
flying head, mouth forming a silent 'O'.
Dallaney
Gaunt, Dallan is, grown into a gawky adolescent sturdiness. A mass of indifferent mahogany
curls crisps defiantly from behind her ears, huddling to straggle over sharp eyebrows that
cap equally hazel eyes in a thin face. Her nose is sharp, her chin well-defined; dark
brown cheeks and lips naturally pursed make her no pleasure to look upon. Uncertain growth
has given the slender limbs wiry strength, with a simple agility of motion, but she
remains shorter than most others her age.
Rust and bronze hues mingle liberally in the folds of her fur-lined tunic, its trimmings
inconspicuous but suitable for the cooler months. Dirt-stained with use, the secondhand
attire has been stripped down by its most recent owner, hence gives a tattered appearance
even when clean; her black belt with its grey buckle complements the ragged look, while it
in turn supports knee-length wherhide trousers. The sandals she wears are comparatively
inconspicuous: russet, sturdy and under a perpetual coat of grit; the one old rebellion in
the new ensemble.
On her shoulder, a single white cord chokes and twines ruggedly upon itself, purity's
epitome.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Rock
Possessive, regressed to former manners.
K'ryn turns about quickly, popping a meatroll from a sack in his hand skillfully into his
mouth and munching. "Yes, he's getting better. A far cry from lst winter when he
knocked that weaver apprentice out with the femur." He smiles at first one and then
another observer. He would cut a rather dashing figure if random herdbeasts parts weren't
flying up and down behind him. "Want some?" he asks, offering the sack.
Dallaney pauses on that fence, an eerie figure outlined by the fuzz of her tunic and the
bunch of hair bobbing vaguely as she surveys the immediate surroundings -- certainly more
boy than girl at this distance, she waves a hand in quiet greeting as the other limb
agilely clutches a worn, over-large jacket to her chest -- dangling thus on the fence, she
eyes the other side, gaze flicking to the occupants of the playing field ahead at
intervals.
"Ooh, thank you." Taera's quick to accept, and she leans against the fence idly
with her new prize, observing the dragon's playful hunt. "I don't suppose you could
ask him to leave a leg, could you? We'll just butcher one, if we have to, but it does seem
rather a waste. We're going to do muscles, tendons, that sort of thing with the
apprentices. Need something to pull part for them."
From Outside the Feeding Pens, Marion walks in from Center of the Bowl.
Iyrith yawns widely, stetches oversized wings to full length and lets out a sharp aquilan
cry as he is awakened.
K'ryn looks over to Dallaney and waves, always glad to see the candidates learning and
observing. "Al leg you say? Let me see." His eyes unfocus for a moment,
returning even as two legs, one front and one back...narrowly miss the Bronzerider's head
to land off to his side. "Those do?" he asks cheerily, muching on another
meatroll. "I think he's trying to learn how to juggle."
Wisps of conversation drift back to Dallan on the perch, and she's in the process of
giving up her seat too, dropping to the other side with nary a scrape. There's a soft
'thump', though, as sandals hit dirt and vice versa, and she takes her time, preferring to
lean on the fence to watch the draconic activities. Violence can be constructive,
sometimes. The draping jacket slips, to hide that dread knot.
Taera laughs, crouching to inspect the legs with no sign of being put off by such gory
souvenirs. Rather, she rolls one over, poking at it for a moment, before she rises,
nodding. "Lovely. I'll have him do amputations for me, next time the need arises. Hes
very neat." She regains her place by the fence, and resumes her watching.
"Taera, by the way. You are..." And her voice rises in query.
Taera
A disorder of soft strawberry blond waves frame a thin face, dominated by mist grey eyes,
large and expressive. High prominant cheekbones, covered by a soft hint of rose blush and
long dark lashes combine to present a not unattractive visage, dusk lips completing the
picture. A slender figure, built to move easily, stands at about 5 3. Slender fingers are
permanently redwort stained, nails carefully manicured nonetheless. Small frame is held
tall through every movement, and a certain jutting of the chin suggests self sufficiency.
Pale mauve trous are loose, and sit low and comfortable on slender hips, a pale cream V
neck jumper of the finest wool worn over them. A pair of grey weyrhide boots complete the
outfit, feet insulated from the cold.
Taera's knot is a horrifyingly complicated affair, sitting rather large upon her small
shoulder. A double cord is wound in a triple loop with two tassles tumbling down below,
the whole affair bound together with gold thread. To those who know their knots, it is
indicated that the wearer is the Healer Crafthead.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Nobility
Whimsical, forgetful, ever unpredictable.
From behind K'ryn a claw raises, cruel, razor-sharp talons visable through the gore. Rioth
is good at what he does, and what he does isn't pretty. "I'm sure he'll be perfectly
fine with that. In fact, if you want I could call on some of the candidates to gather
parts for you." He peers behind the woman to the girl with the hidden knot. Ahem.
"K'ryn. Rider of bronze Rioth, at your service. Always good to have the healercraft
close by." He offers his hand in grreting, then quickly switches the bag to his other
hand and offers it again, empty this time.
Dallaney strolls slightly closer while keeping to the fence's shade, eyes widening to
match the gloom. She has good night vision, but even that only spots the crafter's knot
when near enough. A start; she hugs the jacket to herself, turning the toes of her sandals
to face the pair, giving belated salutes both ways. "Hello," comes the gruff
contralto, hoarsely. "Jus' looking around, if you don't mind."
Baby wakes up from his nap.
From Outside the Feeding Pens, Marion slips along, looking around her carefully. Good. No
annoying aunties or nannies or anything following. She blows through her lips, apparently
trying to whistle and failing as she climbs up on the fence, half hiding to watch the
dragons eat while trying not to be noticed.
Baby trots over to the fenceline, spotting a familiar human form. He lingers back for a
moment, a hint of worry in his movements as he recalls that things have been thrown at
him.
A creature only its mother could love, great whirling orbs peering out of a wrinkled face
are overwhelmed by the placement of a sharp wedge-shaped beak. A reptilian form, sleek
from narrow frame to long slender tail, bears a thick covering of multiple downy tufts in
varied neutral shades. Wings far too small for flight are ever in the way of long awkward
limbs with a vice grip and sharp claws. This little wherry appears to have had a paint
bath, splotches of down sporting every color of the spectrum.
Baby is 2 Turns, 3 Months, and 6 Days old.
Taera smiles the smallest of smiles, taking his hand politely. "Well met, then,
K'ryn. It's rather comforting for us to have the riders around, come to that."
Dallaney is looked over to, and she shakes her head slowly. "Not at all. If you're in
the mood, and you've the stomach to gather up spare bits, feel free. Once Rioth's finished
feeding, I'll have a look around."
As if on cue, the large bronze leaps into the sky and heads for the lake area, to the
discomfort of several weyrfolk in his path, dripped upon. K'ryn shakes amicably and looks
over his shoulder. "The battleground is all yours ma'am. Feel free." He peers
over towards the fence, spotting that strange little girl who wore the redfruit on her
head that time.
Dallaney darts a glance at the unexpected movement from the outside, but soon turns back,
rapt with attention for the dragon's lakeward flight. "I've seen neater eaters,"
she comments, forgetting earlier resolutions; hands fail to remember as well, moving back
to hitch on her belt in a (for her) characteristic stance. -- And to Taera, she manages a
sideways nod, a smile not quite manifesting. "I'm free. Healers need guts?" She
means entrails.
From Outside the Feeding Pens, Marion is a strange little girl sometimes. After all, now
she's talking to a wherry. Nothing stranger than that, right? She climbs up higher on the
fence, grinning, "Hey! Baby? That's you? Helloooo!" she giggles a little bit,
waving a hand uncertainly before grabbing hold of the fence to catch her balance.
Baby starts at the sudden movement and almost runs in the opposite direction, but the
diminutive being is familiar to the wherry, so he trots back over towards the fence to
press his beaked muzzle into the face of the child.
And with Rioth gone, Taera ducks under the fence, speaking up as she moves. "Not guts
so much, more limbs. We're pulling them apart to look at the muscles, and the tendons, and
that sort of thing. Anything that's whole is a good example. So much easier, thies weay.
You can hardly have a group of apprentices crowding around an operation, and pictures
aren't the a same, yoiu know." A grin goes to K'ryn, and she beckons. "Going to
help out, bronzerider?" And that beckoning finger extends to point at Marion.
"And you?"
K'ryn makes a face and shakes his head. "You don't seriously expect me to go wading
out there, do you? After all, I actually had to taste the stuff. Mother always told me
never to play with my food. I think this counts."
From Outside the Feeding Pens, Marion frowns a little as Baby starts to run away, but then
smiles as he returns. "Ooooh, you silly wherry. Is you skeered of Marion? Marion's
not that skeery." She giggles as she scritches him. As Taera points at her, she
starts. Whoops. She forgot she's supposed to be sunk into the background. Oh well.
"Me? Me what?" She glances around, then back at Taera, then again at Baby.
"Y'all is gross," she finally decides, looking at Taera once more before turning
her attention back to Baby.
Dallaney promptly snarls a warning to the little girl. "Careful. We'd have to clear
up if you fell off that." There's an odd look given to the wherry too. Avians. As for
the limbs, she begins to shuffle towards a particularly gory mess, a restraining hand
stilling the brown on her upper arm. Turning back, she notes sharply: "Keep the
'lizards off these till we get them, rider."
K'ryn just looked at you.
K'ryn
Dark brown hair cascades to the wide shoulders of this fair-skinned man, framing a face
that is at once boyish and wise. Large chestnut brown eyes lurk under thick, expressive
eyebrows. His nose is very small, almost too small for his face, but is made up for by
full lips the color of deep, red wine. He stands right around 6 feet tall and is of a
medium build, well maintained and not overly muscular.
Well-oiled deep burgundy leather covers the young man from head to toe, brushed with black
to give the outfit deceptive age. The high-collard jacket seems to mold itself about his
well-muscled torso, ebony piping delineating cuffs and the v-shaped fold across his chest,
fastened together with polished coppery buckles or lift hanging open to reveal the plain
gray shirt worn beneath. The pants follow a similar style, hugging every curve, offering
no loose material for thread to snag. The same color scheme is followed with a pair of
sturdy gloves and thick-soled, calf high boots. The only purely decorative portion of the
ensemble is a midnight sash, tied in place of a belt, loose ends flowing free at his side.
A Double cord (one black and one white), single loop adorns K'ryn's shoulder, with an
extra strand of bronze just to make things all pretty-like.
Kryten looks to be in his late teens.
He is awake and looks alert.
Always friendly and open, unless he is not.
Baby curls up and takes a puppet-nap.
Taera can be quite the schoolteacher when required, and she straightens up from the head
she's inspecting to place delicate hands on hips, eyeing K'ryn thoughtfully. "Play
with your food? Nice try, but a bad excuse. Get over that fence, young man, and see if you
can find me five or six legs that I can use. No ifs, and no buts." And she crouches,
poking with one finger to turn the head in question over. To Dallaney goes her next
comment, voice raised slightly to carry to her. "Any luck? As whole as you can find
them, but we'll take what we can get."
From Outside the Feeding Pens, Marion blinks. "I ain't gonna fall off," she
states, sticking her nose up in the air haughtily, and putting her hands on her hips. Of
course, she promptly puts her hands back on the fence to catch her balance. She jumps the
rest of the way into the pens, looking at something on the ground. "Ooh...Is'll
betcha Sweety'll help y'all," she states, grinning a little bit. Is that a
mischievous glint in her eye?
K'ryn's expression grows somewhat stern as Dallaney addresses him. "Careful of your
tone, candidate, or you may find your robe dipped in offal. Hatchlings love offal."
He smirks, used to the current batch of candidates rather flippant attitudes by now. That
stern look fades as Taera commands him, and he's halfway over the fence before he pauses.
"I'd love to, and beleive me handling herdbeast butts was the furthest thing from my
mind, by my sweeps coming up." With a smile and a wave he wanders towards the lake,
where Rioth awaits. "Nice meeting you!" he calls as he goes.
K'ryn has disconnected.
Dallaney never claimed to be anything but practical. Besides, there's the jacket, a
cumbersome wherhide thing that she's taking care not to drag on the ground too much. She
kicks the remnants of a claw away with one sandalled foot, watching it skitter, finally to
bang into a relatively uneaten piece. It is that which Dallan investigates now. "This
has a toe missing, but I think it's whole." If somewhat buried in muck and herdbeast
blood. K'ryn's comment she shrugs off, and even mutters something like "offal's
good" under her breath. So much for flippancy.
Some drudges arrive to cart K'ryn off to bed.
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Message 32 of 32 on *TWCan (#700):
Date: Mon Dec 11 22:37:01 2000 MST
From: Taera (#8096)
To: *TWCan (#700) and *Healer (#240)
Subject: Leg Duty!
And what, you ask, is Leg Duty?
The younger of the Healer Apprentices are doing anatomy, or more specifically, muscles and
tendons. This year, though, they don't have to work it all out from pictures.
Instead, they're using the candidates' legs.
No, I'm joking. If you're a candidate, one of your duties over the next sevenday or so
will be the gathering of spare limbs from the feeding grounds. If someone's hunting their
dragon, feel free to ask them to have the dragon spare you a leg. Otherwise, just scavenge
when no one's hunting.
If you're a healer apprentice, feel free to complain about the absolutely -disgusting-
limbs you're being forced to disect and examine. Master Taera's about to turn 40. Is she
having some sort of crisis? The sight of blood isn't so much of a problem as the smell of
them after a day...
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