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.

Galleries
Though the galleries are built above the shimmering sands, the room is a bit cooler than the steamy sands below. Row upon row of stony benches line up with a startling view of the whole grounds. The walls here are adorned with two large murals. One is a special hatching moment between dragon and rider and the other is a dragon pair fighting thread, adding a somber reminder to the watchers what this day means to those below and its effects for the rest of their lives.
Type 'help here' for info on how to view the sands.
Resting on the railing, you can see Mama, Woofiemoof, and Kiwi.
You see Edible Fish and Flowers Garland here.
Helenn is here.
From here you can go:
Entrance                      Ledge

The current weather report:
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TelgW: Center of the Bowl (#999)
It is a bright, cheery day. It is a winter midday.
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Helenn sits well away from the smelly garland, carefully stitching at a square of cloth. Her tongue protrudes between her lips, a look of concentration over her expression. Now and again she pauses, looking over to the queen and peeking at the eggs, then returning once more to working on her embroidery, apparently deep in thought over it. Huh? People? What people?

Dallaney shuffles in on sandalled feet, post-chores; the nearest stone bench is given a glancing blow with an arm before she leaps atop another, running its length. She jumps at the next tier -- and misses, /thumping/ to the floor below instead, landing on too-loud soles.

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.
Possessive, regressed to former manners.

Helenn JUMPS, nearly biting her tongue in two as she looks around herself this way, that way, this way, that... ah! There's the perpetrator. "Don't _do_ that!" she scolds Dalleney, fingers checking her tongue for a moment to see if it was bitten hard. Ouch. Nope. Not bleeding, more than a little nip. "What wouldn've happened if I'd bitten it off?" she accuses. "And you shouldn't jump around like that, anyhow. What happens if Weyrwoman Toria sees you?" He glances down at the sands as she says this.

Dallaney is good at spoiling the concentration of others with her own preoccupations. The worn jacket slung over her shoulders shudders with the recent vibrations, even as the white-knotted boy (girl?) rights herself. "See-- see what?" she hollers reply, with genuine ignorance. "I was just walking around. Who are /you/?" She sees fit to descend the steps then, closing the distance between them.

Helenn
A shock of dark hair is the crowning touch to a frisky plain-jane of a youth. It drops slightly longer than shoulder-length, yanked back into a pair of pigtails, one on either side of her head. They stick out almost comically, but at least they keep the hair well out of her face. Round-cheeked face is stipled liberally with freckles, brown eyes fairly dancing with heavy humor at life in general. Body is tightly-toned for someone so young, apparently having done a great deal of work for her daily bread and butter. Calloused hands and relatively powerful arms suggest a good deal of lifting, while her legs are built for carrying that weight for a while before it's set down. Her height speaks well of the life as well. Though not truly enormous, she still stands well over a lot of girls her age, having grown quickly in her working years.
Thicker clothes than average show the need for warmth, with the winter weather coming fast. Her pants are thick, a couple well-stitched patches covering up torn holes in knees and back. They lead down into a pair of high-topped boots, the pants tucked into the top for maximum insulation against the chill. A heavy belt ties these off, the loops usually occupied by various and sundry neccessities for her jobs, whether it be tools, a waterskin, or a lunch bag. Her top is long-sleeved, a similarly tough material to the pants, and barely showing behind the heavy, fleecy coat that's draped over top of it.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 3 minutes.
Carrying:
Ragdoll Embroidery
Belch

Helenn just looked at you.

Helenn points at the knot on her shoulder. The match of yours... if a little less new. "I'm a Candidate." she says with a frown. Like that should say who she is? "Helenn." Frown goes to an introductory smile, and she offers a hand purely out of habit. Well-trained etiquette. "Nice to meet you. What's your name?"

Nice to meet you? Now that's new; Dallan drops down the last step, trotting across with an improvised dignity. "Dallan," she offers, examining the hand briefly. Her own grubby digits struggle forth from the safe covering of the jacket, struggle to grasp the other's in the obligatory handclasp. "Well met," she grudges. "Yeah I've seen you around the dorms."

Helenn apparently doesn't care that the fingers are dirty. Heck, she's used to cleaning runner stalls. Now _that's_ grubby. She does passingly wonder just what's on those fingers, but that's it, as she shakes the hand in a greeting. "Well met." she agrees with a rapid nod. "So, you think it's going to be much longer?" She doesn't specify what 'it' is, of course. She apparently figures you should know.

Dallaney nods with apparent ease towards the hardening Eggs. "Not much longer, no," she utters, with a smoothness belied by rapidly shifting eyes that glance to Helenn and back to those Sands. Hand removed and clinging onto her piece of clothing again, she continues: "I think this place is getting hotter, at any rate. You are here," nod towards the glimpsed embroidery, "on a chore?"

Helenn shrugs. "Kinda." she says, holding up the pattern to show Dalleney. "It's a present for T'chia. I got one of the weavers to draw the pattenr up for me." She indicates the green outline on the patch of cloth, then the black block lettering in the middle, which she's hard at work on, right now. "See? It's sort of like a present, for how much she's been helping us."

"T'chia," Dallan states, and contemplates the name for a moment. Dragons are much easier to recognize, by her standards. Her head rises then, unexpectedly, and there's even a half-smile. "She's nice," she admits, "Promised to ferry me back to Igen once. Nicer than some of the other riders." Like that one who made them clean up the kitchens the other time. "And that looks interesting... what's the black part supposed to be?" Dallan can't read embroidered words very well.

That's Ok. Neither can Helenn. But she does know what it says, since she asked the folks to write it down. "It's going to say 'T'chia and Naidath: Thank you for everything.'. I kinda wanted to put our names on it, too, but there's too many Candidates, and I didn't just wanna put mine. So..." She shrugs, finishing the thought with that movement.

Kiwi dozes off...

Dallaney says, "Oh." And that's that, which she in turn finishes with a backward movement, loping onto one of the benches yet again. The hazel gaze is still fixated on Helenn, though, forehead furrowing with a quick jutting movement as she sits, cross-legged. Conversation isn't her forte, you see. But quietly, there's something, muttered: "I made something too. But it's not as pretty."

Helenn spreads the objects back out on her knees, trying to count the stitches, so she doesn't end up missing any of them. That'd be a tragedy! "Really? What did you make?" she asks, looking up at Dalleney with a bright smile.

Qzaedhir has arrived.

The tragedy of innocence. Dallan replies without fanfare. "Okay, I didn't actually make anything," she wiggles her chin, smile fading in favour of a tiny frown. "It isn't even a prank or something like that. I found a rock, see, and I gotta give that. Don't have many connections here," she shrugs, staying in that child-like posture, back bent over her knees.

Spoonn has connected.

Qzaedhir trips up the stairs, heels flying, with a lumpy bundle under her arm, covered by a rag. Helenn and Dallan are spotted and sidled to, Candidate whispering in an overly dramatic conspiracing sort of tone, "Are there any 'riders here?" And then a pause and a blink, plus a healthy stare or two, and, "Rock? Who're you giving a /rock/ to?"

Qzaedhir
Golden dove of childhood tales alights on ocean's misty fingers of froth, pouring upon slender shoulders in waves of gnarled silk and curling to wreathe porcelain face. Angelic midnight blue manifests in large, dewy eyes 'neath brows of wheaten gold. Momentary disillusion flickers at a glance through rose-petal veil of the masquerade of innocence, thorns ringing sapphire eyes, but is gone at wind's barest breath. Her slender figure runs something on the short side, clinging to vanity yet straying from regality.
Pale buttercup with baby-pink stripes makes a thick, warm outfit for the girl -- suitable for colder climates such as the unfamiliar Telgar. Perhaps the only thing /really/ strange about the outfit is the absolutely brilliant neon-sign-bright blue trim. Hmm.
A single-looped single cord of virgin white is pinned to her shoulder, denoting her a Candidate for the current Telgar clutch. And since she's so attached to these things, though, the Turns-old Tillek knot can still be found hanging around her waist somewhere. Just because it's pretty.
She looks to be in her mid-teens
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Scarf

Helenn reaches out for a moment, as though to see the rock. "Can I see it?" she asks Dallaney. No, she isn't deliberately being mean. She's genuinely curious to see what the young lady's got for the folks. See, some rocks can be pretty. "Hi Aedh!" she says, hearing the woman's voice. "Nope. No riders. Unless you count Toria, and I think she's asleep down there."

Dallaney's secret is out. She glances at Helenn and Aedh both, and gets a bit cross-eyed in the process. "I hid it somewhere," she says to Helenn, her tone smug. For Aedh, there's a -look-, cheeks darkening a bit in consternation. "To ... someone," she retires to vagueness. "Someone you don't know." That should be safe.

"I'm a rider," hisses Spoonn, lithe body wrapped around a rock in former slumber. "I ride imaginary runners and invisible dragons. Squeak!" Squeaky! of course, is chucked at Qzaedhir's head forcefully 'fore she drops her head back down and shuts her eyes.

Spoonn
Dark caramel skin of the sweetest hue and the smoothest texture clothes a straggly, petite girl of extraodinarily long legs and midriff, in proportion to the rest of her. Lively, intertwining locks of curly black are mostly twirled up in twin, whiplike, snakelike braids that spiral down her body all the way to her ankles, accompanied by two roll like buns on top, though stray strands bounce about, framing her heart-shaped face. Bright green eyes shine out from above high cheekbones, large to the point that one could call rather buggy, but her features overall are fairly attractive. She has a pouty little pink mouth, and perfectly formed eyebrows, and the slightest, barely noticeable dimples. Her ears stick out prominently from the sides of her head, taking in awareness from all around.
A tight bodice-like shirt clothes her upper half, ending as her ribs do, shining in iridescent fabric of vibrant fuschia, billowing sleeves of silver, belled. Below, slung low on her hips, are humongous lime green pants of the same iridescent material, oversized and flared so that they create the illusion of a skirt- just more convenient. Little black weyrhide boots peak out from beneath, curving up bizarrely, with silver bells attached to the ends.
She looks to be in her mid-teens.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Squeaky!

Spoonn just looked at you.

"Oh, good!" Qzaedhir sighs, only to start again at Spoonn's voice. Which is almost as bad, if not worse, than a rider's. "S... Spoonn?" The girl whimpers in classic damsel in distress mode, before making a valiant switch to strong female heroine, "You shouldn't be saying things like that, Spoonn." Duck the Squeaky! doll. "It's not respectful." Wave a hand at Spoonn's face. "And... and... oh, shardit. I forgot what you said, Dallan. Who is it to?" She's so annoying, isn't she?

Helenn doesn't know Spoonn. This is hopefully a good thing. She peers at the girl with a puzzled look, then glances at Aedh, wondering, "Who is she?" She works a little on her embroidery again, trying to get the stitching done before it falls, gets grabbed, or whatever happens to it. At least on this one letter, darn it. "How do you know I don't know him? Her? Um...them" Helenn's just trying to cover all bases, here.

Dallaney opts for a lopsided grin. "She isn't a rider," she hisses to Aedh, whatever the brilliantly clad girl is saying. And so the conversation gets muddled, and things get a tad fuzzier. "Spoonn eh?" she tries, somewhat disappointed. Now they're asking her again, and Dallan just huddles deeper into her prized brown scrap. "It's none of your business." Miserably: "And it's not exactly a gift, so there."

Spoonn rolls over, away from the rock, think limbs a-flying. "Mrph," she says, at the feet of the candidates, spread eagled on her back. "Spoonnie is me. And I am Spoonnie. The question," says she, quirking a thin questionmark of an eyebrow. "Is who are /youuuu/." She points straight up at the faces of Dallaney and Helenn.

"Uh?" Qzaedhir returns at Helenn, gesturing nervously at Spoonn. "Uh... uh.... she's Spoonn." Let's leave it at that. "Oh! /She/!" Aedh would make a perfect gossip queen, yes she would. "So it's a she, and she's not a 'rider. Know anyone like that, Helenn?" Insert pause for thought. "I mean.... wait, who is it, Dallan? And /I/, am Qzaedhir." The last is added on pompously for Spoonn's benefit, even if she already knows.

Helenn isn't what could be called a gossip anything. Except for the fact that she's not too ashamed of saying things. "A girl who isn't a rider? Uh, yeah. Any girl who isn't a rider. There's a lot of them, Aedh." She likes the girl. Really she does. But she's _nuts_. Then again, so's Spoonn, apparently. "I'm Helenn." she tells the girl. "Well.. met." And no, she isn't offering a hand. She's scared of what might happen to her fingers.

Dallaney's normally brown complexion is clouding towards the black side, as the chatter dips over the cusp of confusion. "I meant /her/," is her accusal of Spoonn. "If she's a rider, I'm one too," she adds by way of proclamation, uncurling with felinic swiftness from her position. Let's find another, tamer topic; and thus she barks to Spoonn, in pronounced hoarseness, "Dallan's the name."

Qzaedhir sniffs, turning around and aiming a missing kick at Spoonn's precious Squeaky! doll. Which, of course (what did you think?) misses. "Why not tell.... you're /not/ a rider, theough, Dallan, and I /know/ there're lots of girls who aren't riders." Just listen to the whiney exasperation. "That's why I /stopped/. You know. But /do/ you, Helenn?" Apparently, even though she knows, she doesn't really comprehend. And making Aedh comprehend is a long and difficult task few dare to take on.

Spoonn grins toothily at Dallaney, giggling girlishly from the ground. "You're an imaginary rider too? My dragon's name is Phhlllbbth. What's yours?" She stands up, stretches languidly like a feline, then snaps her teeth in front of Helenn just for the fun of it. Then picks up Squeaky!, and chucks it at Aed's head again. "Hi."

Helenn has suddenly been lost, apparently. "Huh?" is her terribly intelligent answer to all this, her brow furrowing and eyes looking... well, rather befuddled. "What? What do you mean?" Give her a minute. She's trying to catch up. Is she the only sane person in here? She's starting to think so. "Did you understand that?" she asks, looking to Dalley. Hey, Dalleney's kinda the second most sane one here, after all.

Aedh can be the gossip queen: Dallan wants no part of it. She's even lost the logic behind the topic, the poor unfortunate weyrbrat. So the older girl is blinked at for as long as she dares, while Helenn's given a vigorous shake of her head. "No." It's as well than Spoonn's query catches up with her just then, eliciting a scowl. "You have imaginary dragons too? The girls used to have those back then. I don't because I have Raplath." Simple, smug explanation, yah?

Qzaedhir ducks, out of what's quickly becoming habit, and sniffs contemptuously at Spoonn, kicking her legs up onto a bench primly. "Hi, Spoonn," is commented, chin raised, in a decidedly snooty tone. "Phlllbbbth isn't a /name/. It sounds like you.... you.... erm. You did something rude in public....?" Voice trails off into a whimpering question. And meanwhile, Aedh personally finds herself the most sane of all of them here, but opinions /can/ differ. "Raplath isn't.... well, maybe. Maybe /that/'s a name. But Phhllbbbth isn't. Isn't, isn't, /isn't/."

Spoonn's face suddenly contorts strangely. "Rearmeats!" she screams at the top of her voice, then fires Squeaky! at amazing speed towards Helenn's head. Duck! Catch it! Um...get hit in the head? It's a flying Squeaky!... Eee!

Duck? Catch it? Helenn hadn't expected anything like that. "OW!" she declares, as the doll whacks her in the head. Not just because her head got thumped, but because she was holding an embroidery needle at the time, and now has a rather painfully-stuck finger. "Oooh, don't throw things at me!" she says, looking up at Spoonn with tears in her eyes for a moment from the sting. Her finger is popped into her mouth and sucked on. "That really hurt!" she insists, accusingly, around the poor, boo-boo'ed finger.

Kiwi wakes up from his nap.

Dallaney is above it all -- and perhaps dug in deeper than anyone can imagine. Her denial is vehement enough, though, "That's because he's /real/, and Phhlllbb-what isn't." And suddenly she's agreeing with Aedh, and backing away from agreement by the expedient of scrambling off the bench, noticing Squeaky!'s flight and landing. "That's not fair play!" she scowls, lofting a frown at Spoonn.

"See?" Qzaedhir sniggers gleefully at Spoonn when Dallan agrees with her, sparing a wary glance for Helenn -- honest sympathy, for once, can be found in those blue eyes, the girl completely understanding the helpless feeling of sitting there and having a Squeaky! doll chucked at your head. "Yeah," she adds at Helenn, giving Spoonn a reprimanding, "You really shouldn't throw things at people. Because they get /hurt/."

Spoonn clasps her hands before her, flings them up to her cheek, releases her hands, and flails them about melodramatically. "Ay, Spoonn is sorry! Spoonnie is all sorriness. The Spoon-meister could not hold more regret in her peachy-purple heart. Spoonn has marks. Will reimburse you for your injured finger. Buy you rearmeat meatroll or something." She prostate herself at Helenn's feet, kissing the ground. "Squeaky! Is sorry too. Watch me stab Squeaky! Bad squeaky! Stabstabstab." She pokes the doll violently in the middle.

Maybe if Helenn were a not-so-nice person, she'd consider trying to get the marks from Spoonn. But that'd be evil. Besides.. "It's only a little poke." she says to Spoonn, somewhat mollified by the... ehum... reactions to the 'attack'. She pulls her finger out of her mouth, presenting it. "See? Not even bleeding any more. I just poked it with a needle." Tah-dah. All better.

Dallaney, taken aback, twitches in her sandals. Not bearing to look, she eyes Helenn instead, until Spoonn decides to recover. "What? That's all--" Her gaze seeks out the doll while staying away from the girl. On second thoughts, "That's disgusting of you. The offers are okay, but the rest." She resists an urge to kick the toy. Ugh.

Qzaedhir seems to have a moment of forgiveness for Spoonn, though Faranth knows the sympathy will be gone at the lightest touch from the wrong side. "Oh, that's so nice of you, Spoonn," the Candidate simpers, eyes flicking sideways just to make sure Helenn's all healthy and okay. "What's disgusting? I think it's nice of her." Well, except the rearmeats part, but Aedh's selective hearing somehow managed to tune that out.

Spoonn has disconnected.

Halivyn wakes up from his nap, glancing about his surroundings with a wistful croon.

And here Dallan was referring to Spoonn's excessive melodrama. The candidate shakes her head glumly, brow clearing; it's Aedh she's speaking to. The nice simpering one. "Nothing, I guess." Another look to the erring one, and she turns back to her former place. "Reckon it's okay if no one's hurt."

Helenn would say _she_ was hurt, but it was only a little bit hurt. She's been hurt worse with other chores. "I still hope she doesn't go throwing that around any more." she says, sticking her finger in her mouth again for a moment to soothe the sting, then pulling it out to inspect the needle-poke. It's only a little owie. "And... I guess it's really Ok. Although she is real wierd, isn't she?" And this is being asked of Aedh?!

Dallaney nods solemn agreement, and looks ready to resume the old task: dropping her rear down on the seat behind, she peers out at eggs and sand again, or sand and eggs, as it may be. Time to take advantage of that fading daylight. Let the others discuss weirdness, for now.

Apparently, all three Candidates are resuming the egg-staring. Helenn, however, breaks the silence with, "How long do you think it'll be?" She indicates the eggs with a sweeping gesture of needle and thread, before she goes back to work, carefully.

Kiwi dozes off...

A grunt comes from the dark mass that is Dallan's head, which she's buried somewhere in the folds of her jacket, knees jacked up to hide both. "Tomorrow," comes her thoughtless reply, then "no, next sevenday." And the next heard of her is a light snore, mixed with evening's dust.

"Dunno," Qzaehir mumbles, gathering up a bundle while she yawns and starts down the stairs. "I'm tired. Don't really care right now... can't be that long, though. 'Night, Helenn, Dallan."

Qzaedhir carefully makes her way down the stairs.

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