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.
Lake Shore
This sparkling white beach surround the immense lake providing the weyr folk with plenty
space for outdoor gatherings when weather permits. This is a popular place for firelizards
and their larger cousins to sun throughout the turn.
There are some stones, that remind you of stepping stones heading to the noisy rock island
in the middle of the lake.
Snow flurries dapple the sky and lightly dust the ground in white. It is a winter morning.
You see Hatching Rules and Scouter here.
Daymar is here.
From here you can go:
Lake
Central
Bowl
Training Grounds Feeding
Grounds
Daymar wanders in slowly, lost in his own thoughts. Green eyes watch the ground, as he
chews on his lip. His hands rub together as they nervously play in front of him.
This early in the day and Dallan's already out lugging buckets. She has two, a handle
clutched in each palm, and she's taking them towards the lake shore at a scampering pace
-- she dodges Daymar, sandal slapping on wet sand as she passes.
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.
Chugging on to the next pass.
[13 Turns, 6 Months, and 9 Days]
Boing, Daymar almost jumps outta his skin dropping his tool kit in the process. His
fingers push the bangs that were covering his eyes out of the way. A slow smile spreads
across his lips as he nods to you, "Oh hello there." He looks at the buckets
with a quirk of his brow wondering what they are for exactly. As he wonders, he reaches
down grabbing his tools unrolling the bundle to make sure all are accounted for. A
question follows, "Ummm how are you today?"
Daymar
Unremarkable, at least at first glance. Daymar stands a little less than average height at
5 feet 7 inches tall, his physique diminutive if not down right petite for a male of his
years. If time is taken when looking however, unremarkable is far from the truth. Ebon
hair slightly mussed falls in tempting waves over a set of purely amazing azure eyes
rimmed with golden amber. His eyes are wide set fringed by thick long lashes that most
women would be jealous of, with a premature wrinkling at the edges that shows the ease and
depth of his smiles. His skin is a rich olive tone, his face narrow with a high forehead
and oddly fitting slightly turned nose. His hair is kept in a short cut, curling
recklessly just past his ears, longer in front with waves that if allowed to grow could be
luxurious curls. Daymar's physique is almost alarmingly small, thin nearly unhealthy he
looks as if a good strong wind would blow him over. In truth however, he is perfect. His
muscles toned, body trim, he has no excess of fat but also has no under nourishment at
all.
A large white robe surrounds this young man. Swept over his shoulders the robe has a large
hood to cover his head from the pounding sun of Igen. A light green long sleeved shirt
wraps his body while his legs are clad in brown breeches. Black boots complete the outfit.
Over his shoulder, a double cord of black with a single strand of white running through it
loops. Entwined in the cord are two ribbons, one of midnight black and a pure white one
denote his posting to Telgar Weyr.
21 turns, 10 months, and 15 days
He is awake, but has been staring off into space for 2 minutes.
Carrying:
Stone Link Bracelet
Daymar just looked at you.
Robes, hood. Those look familiar. Dallan ducks a look over her shoulder, offering a
cautious grimace in return. "Hel-lo." Without pause, she adds brusquely,
"Did you come from Igen?" Mincing words is another's task; she pauses to await a
reply, buckets still hanging from her hands. The question's forgotten, and ignored as
unanswerable.
Daymar laughs out loud. A question for a question. A grin covers his face, "I might
be. What gave it away? Was it the skin." He moves closer to you, "Or sir,
possibliy the clothes huh. Well I havent had the time to go see the weavers
recently." His small shoulders shrug, "That shall come soon enough I am sure. I
have already been told by a few people I need some proper clothes." His eyes roll
towards the sky, "LIke my robes arent good enough for anything. They have served me
well so far."
Dallaney's sandal takes another shuffling step towards the water, churning up enough of
sand to communicate some reluctance on her part. A sigh emits from her lips, and a smile
is born from the same place, darting to alight in darting, dark eyes. Irritatedly:
"Your clothes are good for anything, sir." And that's rare address from her.
"And I haven't seen an Igenite in this place for quite some time." Thoughtfully,
"Telgar's cold, though, and a jacket or something might help."
Daymar's head swivels around as he takes in the snow flurries that come to alight on the
earth. "Well that isnt too bad of an idea I dont think." Snow is definatly not
his friend at the moment. "And I am sure this white stuff," he waves his hand
around the shore and bowl beyond, "would keep my fellow Igenites away from such a
place. Me, I am a wierd one to say the least. I have come here for the earth and the
craft. What keeps you here? At the weyr that is."
The pointed annoyance isn't directed at Daymar -- those pebbles by the beach are a more
likely target -- and Dallan keeps on glaring at them, even as she sniffs, partaking of the
flurrying air. "The cold did keep me away, 'less I couldn't help it. But," and
this is the painful part; she waves a hand at her shoulder knot, "I got Searched, you
see. Besides--" Pause. "You're a crafter?" She must have missed seeing his
knot. Bucket plonks dully against a tanned leg.
His brow wrinkles as he listens to your explanation. He is a little confused since he has
almost zero experience with weyr's and weyr life. "Searched huh." Yea like he
knows what that is exactly. Can you tell he is a farm boy yet? "So thats why you wear
just the single white knot." At the question, he fumbles with the roll of tools in
his hand. "Yea I am an apprentice with the minecraft." His dark skin flushes a
little even in the cold, "I hope to be a jewelry craft some day soon." Again
with the shrug, "Its a goal at least. Lot better than I had before I came to this
region."
Dallaney has got something against crafters, but the miner has redeemed himself: she nods
at him levelly, taking a step back for better appraisal while settling the buckets at the
lake's edge. "Haven't thought about the minecraft. Digging all day doesn't sound very
fun," she concludes childishly. The mahogany curls, left uncropped of left, bounce as
she spares a glance for her own knot. "White for candidacy, here. It means that I'll
Stand at the next Hatching." There's not even condescension in her tone, amazingly.
Dallaney adds, "Which is sometime next sevenday." Or so she thinks.
Daymar's eyes twinkle as he grins, "Yes well miners aren't all just digging in the
dirt." He crouches slowly, picking up a handful of sand. He lets it run through his
fingers, "Although that wouldnt be all bad. Plus fun is what you make of it." He
pulls a file from his kit, "Plus I dont see how I could do much digging with
this." Once the sand has flowed away from his hand, he runs it over his shoulder.
"I guess I should get a knot of my own soon. I am still very new to the hall
though." Now Hatching's he does know what they are, "Well then you must be
excited. Or is it afraid. You know the things that we holders hear about the weyrs and
all. Only a sevenday till then huh. Do you think you will find a dragon for
yourself?"
Daymar just looked at you.
Dallaney eyes the trickling sand with unabashed curiosity. "I /must/ Impress, D'aad
says. He's my father," she shrugs, head turning to follow the actions of that hand of
his. "If I don't, I always get to go home to Igen, and that's the best place."
She can't explain the why's and how's, however. Back to sand. "How is ... whatever
you do ... fun?" She's always avoided the miners for some reason.
Daymar chuckles softly and dusts his hand off on his robe. "Ahh family pressure. Now
thats something I can understand." He waves to himself, "Can you see me herding
bovines?" He chuckles softly and waves the file like a baton directing some band,
"Well for one. It lets me express what I have inside me. I am working on a piece
right now that I think will be magnificent." Green/gold eyes twinkle in the light,
"That just my opinion though. Some people might not think so. As for fun well you
make your own fun usually don't you?"
A stray spiderclaw scurries over the first bucket; even that slight noise causes Dallan to
flick a look towards it, then to rattle the handle vigorously in an attempt to dislodge
the creature. "Hmm, you make your own opinions," she mimicks in playful candour,
"So it's a nice looking piece if you think so." The experiment earns a grin.
"I've made my own, yeah. Threw people into the lake sometimes too." As for the
bucket, "Some dimglow 'brat fobbed his chore onto me," she complains in Daymar's
hearing. "Said these buckets were for Rosalth's water. /I/ think he hasn't cracked
his shell yet."
Daymar watches the interplay between Dallaney and the spiderclaw. A dark eyebrow raises
slightly wondering at the reaction. He lets it go as a quirk of human nature, "Well
uhh I am trying to get others to like my work too. You know because a crafter without
people to craft for is just sort of useless." His green eyes look at the lake, then
the snow, then Dallon, "Uhh you throw people in that lake? I hope they liked you.
Cause if they didnt. Wow then they really must hate you now." Steel file points to
the buckets, "Rosalth? Is that a dragon? I thought they drank outta the lake and all
that."
Dallaney doesn't usually practice politeness, so the explosion wasn't anything out of the
ordinary, really. "Hate?" she wonders, kneeling down to scoop up a handful of
lake-sediment for the washing, thus shrinking from short to shorter. "We threw people
in who did the wrong thing. If they apologised it'd be okay." And just to make sure,
she looks up at him, irises darkening warily, "Can't live in the Weyr without knowing
the rules." A breath for that to sink in, and she continues. "The Queen's in the
Hatching Grounds. You are -- new to here?"
Wow, he thinks to himself. Finally someone he doesnt have to look up at. "Did the
wrong thing? Lemme guess. They apologized right quick just to get out of the water."
His forest eyes look into your dark ones, "The weyr has rules? Why wasn't I
informed." He still grins at you though, "As for the Queen. Well I think I know
who you are talking about but I havent been here long." His hand turns over showing
his dark skin, "And yes you could say I am new here. As are you I am assuming since
we are both Igenites."
"We weyrbrats had rules," Dallan mutters, nudged out of her habitual glower into
a grin that determines to match his. Meanwhile, the sediment she finds goes onto one of
the buckets, at which she sloshes water as follow-up. Scrub, scrub. "I was
Searched." So she said. And fiercely, "Been here for a few months now. But yeah,
I'm still new. Why must you craft in Telgar and not Igen?" The earnest question
fleets across her expression, raised in query.
Daymar picks up another handful of sand. His fingers twiddle slowly as it runs across the
palm of his hand. "Searched. Yea that I have heard of. Well if you have been here a
few months then you should be an old hand now." He notes her expression and decides
not to just shrug her question away, "Well two reasons actually. First off, I am a
disappointment to my family. They are all big burly farmer/herder type people. I am
not." He chuckles softly and looks out over the lake, "Also I have meet the mine
master from Igen when I was accepted to join the mine craft. The thought of serving under
her her made me shiver. She is very scary to be around and I only got to talk to her for a
little while. I could be wrong of course." His eyes look back at you, "Plus I
like going places that are new. Never know who you will meet."
"Doesn't mean that I like it," Dallan replies, sanding the wooden surface with
newfound energy. "The Master -- that would be Sidhe. The one 'Croth was looking for
when he found me." Such irony. She pulls her shoulders back in a shrug, glancing back
at the miner amicably. "And size doesn't matter. My D'aad's small too. It's not that
that makes people dislike him." New places? The youngster snorts, then. "Sounds
like the craft's good for you. Do they ask for talent, or something?" She means the
minecraft, that is.
Daymar snickers softly and nods his head in agreement, "Yes well don't you have to
stay here for awhile if you get uhhh." It will come to him really it will, "Oh
yea Searched." A flick of his fingers send a pebble from the handful of sand bouncing
across the ground, "Yes Sidhe. That is her. Sounds like you know her." His head
leans forward letting his defense shield, his bangs, fall down before his eyes obscuring
them from view. "Yes well size does matter to some people. Plus it matters to me.
Large creatures like bovines and dragons scare me." His shoulders scrunch up some,
"And yea the craft I think will be good for me. Keep me in one spot for awhile at
least. Wandering can be tiring in and of itself. I think the mines ask for desire first.
It takes a special sort of person to do the dirty, smelly work that needs to be done. I
mean I wouldnt shy away from it. But it isnt what I joined the mine craft to do."
With twist of the lips at the thought, "What shall you do if you aren't Searched?
Stay here? Go back to Igen?"
Dallaney says simply, "So I'm here until the eggs hatch. And then, a dragon might
find me." A shiver tilts her gaze backwards, and she sits back for a moment, allowing
the bucket to land in the lake's mud. "Or I'll go back to Igen if I don't Impress.
Don't -Impress-; I've already been Searched by the dragons. They're nice you know; you'll
get used to them." Patiently, she nods again, fingers scrunched into the grains at
their feet. "I'm used to the Igen sands. It's different here--" and she's
abruptly wrenched from introspection by his firm statements. "--What /did/ you join
it for?" Maybe she can find some purpose there.
Daymar's head cocks to the side as he listens to your words. His hair slides that way
allowing one eye to look at you without obstruction. His lips press together as they sink
in. "So its Impress or back home. I can understand that. The world is full of choices
you know." The course grains of the sands make a soft sound as they land of the
ground, "Well I joined the craft for a couple of different reasons. Possibly searched
for a group of people that understand me for one. That understand my affinity for the
rocks and for my skills." He picks up a stone that has sat next to his boot, "Do
you know what kind of rock this is? I do and it is fascinating." He shrugs his
shoulders, dropping the rock back to its place, "Plus I want some way to express
myself to others since my conversation skills are sadly lacking in most areas." He
waves to the everpresent dragons in the bowl, "What makes you want to be a
rider?"
Dallaney appears to get her answer in his words, which she follows by way of looking at
the stones. "So a minecrafter must know one type of stone from another?"
Disappointment clouds her tone, lifted in child-like entreaty to the other. "Don't
know rocks. Except for firestone, the one the dragons use." She resumes her cleaning,
then, dunking calloused hands into the lake's coolness again. "You talk well,"
she retorts suddenly, with a short bark of a laugh. "Better than me." His last
question she doesn't answer; yet.
Daymar picks up the rock again. "Well let me explain a second. This I do believe is
an igneous stone. Just like everything else in this weyr. Except for what we have brought
in." He nods his head, "Firestone is rather soft all told. And that is your
lesson for today." He tosses the stone out into the water. Landing with a small
splash, "And no I dont talk well. Plus its more than just the speech." He
finally sits down in the sand, as he does another handful of sand gets scooped up to spill
from his fingers. "You also dont talk that bad either."
Dallaney picks up her first bucket, putting it aside. One down, one to go. The remnants of
humour linger on in her hoarse contralto -- as coarsened by birth as the grains underfoot
are by wear, "You're giving /me/ a lesson?" Laughter frankly glows through her
tone by now, having chased scorn away some time ago. "And firestone has different
grades, I heard. Dragons can't chew every type you miners dig up." She dismisses
speech with the shaking of wet buckets, sending drops whizzing through the air, mayhaps to
drip on his sandy fingers. "I learnt. From the harpers."
Daymar's eyes drift to his dripping fingers and the wet sand grains now stuck to them.
"Well not so much a lesson. Just spouting worthless garbage at the moment." With
a flick of the wrist he waves his lesson away on the wind, "And I think your right as
usual about the different types of firestone. I am not sure though. That is a class I
havent taken yet I dont think." Wet sand grains rub off on his robe as he tries to
dry his hand, "Well isnt that where most of us learn? I guess I might have learned a
little more just because I usually wasnt outside wrestling with my brothers or playing
games I would get hurt in." A grin is thrown your way, "Plus there is always
something new to learn. Isnt that true?" His finger points to the buckets, "Like
what are you doing to those? And why?"
Now that Daymar's getting somewhat philosophical, Dallan has to furrow her 'brows to catch
up. "I don't know -- the weyrkids were always bigger than me, and I stayed away from
them," she suggests to him, quite unnecessarily though, "I played with the
smaller 'brats. But you weren't fostered to a Weyr." And that makes all the
difference, to her. The smugness slips to sudden surprise as she eyes the buckets, than
Daymar. "I'm cleaning them. Can't you see? The sand helps to clear the dirt away.
Don't you do that too?"
"Yes very true. Although I am sure if I had been they would have had to lock me up. I
would have been running around screaming my head off at the huge dragons and such."
He waves away your question trying not to look like a complete idiot, "Yea well I do
some of that. I used a brush though most of the time." He hasnt gotten his list of
duties yet at the mine hall although he can see many days of cleaning clothes,tools and
other items in his future. Daymar nods his head slowly, "Yea well I really didnt have
any smaller brats to play with anyway. Being almost the youngest and all. Only a sister
younger than I and she couldnt play with me." He shrugs, "Plus I mean what is
the difference if I did or didnt grow up in a weyr. What is so good about them?"
Dallaney half pushes, half throws her other -- clean -- bucket at him. face twisted in
teasing jest. His question provokes further thought, though, which she indulges in while
watching him carefully. Her cleaning's about done by now. "Dragons aren't so scary. I
was afraid when I was younger, but being around them for long enough made it okay. I don't
understand ..." and with more vehemence then intended, she bats at the air.
"They're /big/, yes, but dragons don't hurt anyone, you see." Explanations, once
sought, have to be given.
Daymar's hrms softly as he mulls over your response to your answer. His fingers run along
the inside of the bucket collecting residual water. Flicking his fingers, he cause this to
fly at you as he grins. "They are more than big. That are heartstoppingly
humongus." He raises his finger in a questioning manner, "You say that. But what
if something happens. Accidents happen all the time. Just look at the mines. Cave ins and
such happen all the time." He shrugs, "These are just some of the things I worry
about."
Dallaney seldom stops to worry: she acts instead. Yet the drops are difficult to avoid,
stooped as she is over the shore's fringes, and her turned back gets a fair smattering of
moisture. "Hrm." She pauses, watching the bucket approximately dry itself upon
the beach, then glances back at the miner. "You're afraid of dragons. But the Weyr's
so much bigger, and mines, they're big and black with only glowlight to see by. Shouldn't
you be scared of those too?" She shakes her head, unable to understand.
With a soft sigh, he nods his head. "Yes I can see your reasoning but it is
different. When I was young I went wandering outside away from my mom." He chuckles
softly to himself and continues, "Well we lived on a farm so there were bovines
around. And this mother bovine licked me and smelled me." He shrugs his shoulders,
"My mom said they found me in a corner just screaming. I dont know why I am afraid of
large creatures but I am." He waves toward the sky, "That is huge but it doesnt
scare me." He looks at the sky for a moment and gets a look on his face, "Oh no.
What time is it? I am gonna be late for a class."
Dallaney enunciates, carefully, "Dragons are big. But they feel safe, not like
bovines at all!" A sigh announces her haplessness in persuasion, and Dallan puts her
chore to rest on the beach. "Take your class, and come with me later when I have to
help wash a dragon; you'll see that it isn't as bad as you think," and this isn't
even a request, when stated in such ungraceful, even forceful, tones. She stands, ready to
detain him if needful. "I'm Dallan, by the way."
Daymar laughs out loud and realizes he never introduced himself, "Oh my. Well met, I
am Daymar." He stands slowly with a groan. "I just might take you up on
that..........." He mutters something like, "Some day," under his breathe.
He does a little half bow towards you, "A pleasure to meet you Dallan." He
starts to wander off, picking up his toolkit as he goes.
Don't put it past Dallan to seek the miner out if it comes to that. "See you later,
Daymar," she hollers across to him, crouching to take up her own buckets. Time to get
back to the Weyr.
Daymar walks toward Center of the Bowl.