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.
Backstory: D'aad brought Dallan to Telgar for a visit, then forgot all
about
his daughter when he met his friends. This was not the first time, so Dallan
was peeved, and had just decided to return home without him.
-
Lower Caverns
This area is actually where the main passages meet. Several stone glow holders
keep the place well lit as riders, crafters, residents and children move back
and forth along the hallways of the Weyr. Distant running water can be heard
from the bathing pools or the giggles from the nursing in the resident's hall
where many young children play.
Aida is here.
From here you can go:
Main Cavern Baths
Forked Hallway
Candidates Chamber Game Room
Resident's Hall Craft Hall
Propelling an elderly woman in front of her, Aida paces slowly in from the
main cavern. " -- told you it'll be done when it's done. Grandma, I'm a
/rider/ now, I don't have free time to -- " But the brownling's explanation is
cut short by the elderly woman's protests about certain visits to Southern and
what a nice tan Aida has now. No argument there.
Aida
Weyrlinghood has compelled a legacy like no other: Aida's titian tresses have
been reduced to a ruddy flame, anointing her like a pixie illuminated by
sunset's fire. Her proportions, too, have been pared down to a taut frame,
sans even a hint of adolescent superfluity. Her facial features betoken
anonymity -- dark eyes, small mouth, sun-drenched complexion -- and while
she's not comely, there's something disingenuous latent in that calculated
stride and confident eye.
Simplicity is all. White and black play counterpoint to each other: crisp
achromatic cotton underlying tenebrious leather vest and pants. Boots of
ash-gray mediate the contrast, fitting though worn at the heel somewhat.
Knotless, bereft -- dare you ask why?
Although her appearance is nebulously adolescent, Aida's mannerisms and
bearing connote a worldliness that few hold-bound adults could match.
She is awake, but has been staring off into space for 2 minutes.
Dallaney is stalking down the passageway, shoulders held high in that learned
swagger that makes her more boy than weyrgirl. Dark-skinned, she is, and lit
as the caverns are, she rolls from shadow to shadow, sandals loud on the
hallway's stone. The bolting, bumbling steps take her into the path of the
elderly woman, whom she brushes at without a pause.
Dallaney
Gaunt, Dallan is, grown into a gawky adolescent stockiness. A mess of mahogany
curls crisps defiantly from behind her ears, huddles 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.
A pair of leather pants, patched at the knees, hang on by the bare grip of a
hide belt winding around her waist. Too long by design, multiple folds serve
to hitch it up, echoed by the tucked in, tucked up shirt the boyish girl wears.
A jacket attempts to cover it all: its adult standard issue and proudly bears
the pips of a thrice-corded medal. As dusky as she is, her garments attempt to
outdo that by their solid umber shades; even the loose sandals are intensely
russet.
Reluctant Igen Weyr colours twine on her shoulder, threatening to spill over
to the browned neck.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Rock
[11 turns, 6 months and 23 days]
Aida just looked at you.
The old woman breaks off mid-harangue to snap at the dark-haired adolescent --
boy? girl? -- instead. "Young people these days, no manners in any of them. No
respect for your elders, you rascal?" She shakes a portentous fist at the
passing teen, but Aida catches the hand neatly and redirects the old lady down
a corridor. "I'll get it to you soon, Grandma!" And magically, thankfully, the
old woman is gone -- though her monologue about young people still echoes in
these caverns.
Dallaney leaps back in reflex, then directs a piercing stare down the corridor
after the woman as she's hastened on. "Sor-ry," she hollers, sarcasm stealing
into her child's contralto -- the dark eyes narrow, at Aida, at the corridor
Grandma went into. Too loudly, she wonders, "What's down there?"
"Old people," Aida replies blithely. "They all yap at each other all day
long,
then snore louder than drunk bronzeriders at night. You don't want to go down
there." She turns, as if to go, but gives the teenager a quick once-over
first. "What're you doing down here, anyhow? Skulking about like this?" She
may not like the Weyr, but she gets territorial over the place.
Dallaney spares a thought for the beads of moisture forming on her brow; she
absently mops a hand along the damp forehead. The skulking's been put on hold
for the moment, at least. Distrust lurks in her barest of nods and her
relatively softer reply, "Looking for my father. Have you seen D'aad around?
He's a brownrider, taller than I am." And that's not a substantial height, but
still ..."He was here."
Aida repeats the name to herself, but that doesn't help. "No, I don't. He's
not the brownrider who likes his sleeping furs heated, is he?" She eyes the
girl evenly, having established from her first inspection that this adolescent
is indeed female.
Dallaney sticks a foot into Aida's path as if to block any retreat. "You must
know," she insists, "he does have /some/ bad sleeping habits, but not heating
furs, no--" She appears to give some real thought to that, shuffling the other
sandal to join the first impeding one. "He's always around here. And we're
from Igen, not Telgar." That's an important fact to make clear.
Aida shrugs, offhandedness apparent in the motion as well as in the slant of
her disinterested eyes. "Whatever. I don't know him. I don't know most of the
riders here anyway, and I definitely haven't gotten round to the Igenites
yet." She indicates the girl's foot. "Shoo -- I have to get back to my
dragon." Not really, but that's her favorite excuse.
Dallaney isn't easily shrugged off, though. The sandal refuses to budge,
despite its location -- Telgar, and its apparent obstructing status. "Okay,"
and she carries on in that same swift, hurrying thread that's not reflected in
motion now. "Then what about riders? Are there any transport dragons about?"
Defensively, she draws the foot back a /bit/. "You know, weyrlings on duty or
something."
Aida's gaze narrows shrewdly, in the manner of one used to exacting a tedious
bargain over the slightest favor. "There are always weyrlings on duty. What do
you need?" The kid may not look like much, but if her father is a rider, there
are negotiable possibilities. "I'm a weyrling -- yesterday, today and forever
will be." Amen, saith K'ren.
Dallaney snaps irises wider, made alert and more than awakened by the question.
Narrowed eyes are a disadvantage. "I want a ride home. That's not much to
ask," she adds a nod to lips' defiant curl. Hello, weyrling. She just waits
after that, warily shifting her weight from one side to the other.
"No, not much," Aida agrees, "and 'cause I'm still a 'ling I gotta do it
for
free. Still -- what's in it for me?" She leans back against the cavern wall,
as if she suddenly has all the time in the world to debate with this young
woman.
Dallaney would run from the woes of being a 'young woman' if she had any
inkling. This is a difficult question indeed, one she takes time out to ponder
over again. Forehead crinkles dangerously, darkening its furrow. "I could get
D'aad to give you something when I find him." And more than that, "what do you
want?"
Aida shrugs again, more languidly this time. "Don't /want/ anything, but
Helicyth likes souvenirs from the places we visit." Another all-too-convenient
excuse of hers. "You guys have -- " Helicyth prompts, "plates at
Igen?" And
how silly did /that/ sound.
"Of /course/ we have plates," Dallan sounds scornful, and rightly so. But she
reconnoitres, shrinking slightly into the imitation flying jacket. "Not very
good ones, though. Just normal, plates. What do you want /those/ for?" She
picks at her knot in the meantime, and keeps the gaze on Aida.
Aida takes a beat or two to reply; the intense expression on her face suggests
she's berating her dragon for suggesting such a ludicrous souvenir, but
abruptly she's back to her cajoling self. "Plates. We like plates. We're
putting together quite a collection." She sighs, deflating briefly. "Helicyth
says to ask, you have mugs too?"
Dallaney has relaxed somewhat, enough to ask her questions like any healthy
teenager should. "Mugs too? Haven't you been to Igen before?" she thinks to
grunt next, bobbing from the neck in indignant rage -- the similarity to an
avian is striking in this light -- "We have mugs. But you can't take too
many." There goes discipline, and harper training.
Aida doesn't want many -- just one, maybe two. "We'll see. So do you wanna go
today or what?" Her tone attempts to be businesslike but there's a trace of
lifemate-inspired anticipation underlying it. "We haven't been to Igen before,
but Helicyth is asking the other dragons. Won't take a minute."
Yet its Igen, and it's to Igen Dallan returns in the end. "The weyrfolk need
their plates," the snippet of a phrase catches up with her, along with the
hackle-rising mutter that's just above hearing range. "Today. 'Course I mean
today. Slept the night through in Tel-gar." -- thanks will have to come later,
when they actually get there.
Aida points at the girl's foot, still in her way. "Well, you move and I'll
show you where Helicyth is. Will that jacket be warm enough for you?" She's
not much impressed by imitation leather.
"I've been through Between," Dallaney says gravely, like the adult she aspires
to be. Gender remains to be seen. She moves without much hesitation, and
decisively withdraws as well to a position behind the young woman. Gotta watch
one's back. "Lead on."
Aida strides into Main Living Cavern.
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 bright, cheery day. It is a spring morning.
You see Rhesus, Kamaii, and D'aad here.
Aida is here.
The following dragons are here: Azraeth, Fyseith, Nhetoth, Zorath, Palsth,
Lyssath, Sazarith, Wyleth, and Helicyth
From here you can go:
Central Bowl Tunnel
Eastern Curve
Living Cavern Western
Curve Ground Weyrs
D'aad is /not/ here. Either that, or he's huddled behind some dragon or other
littering the bowl.
Aida gestures at the young brown dragon who, unlike the snoozing others, looks
ready to take off at a moment's notice. "Helicyth. This is, uh -- " She
glances at the teenager following her. "Who're you? I'm Aida." The one who
flunked weyrlinghood, if the gossip's spread as far as Igen. No one else in
the bowl is given a second glance; after all, the kid's already decided she
wants to go home.
Dallaney would be looking everywhere at once were she not so concerned about
her current ride. As it is, her gaze storms straight on to Helicyth, then back
to Aida. She hasn't heard, perhaps. "Dallan. Nice to meet you Helicyth," she
greets the dragon, "Aida," and his rider. Respect for dragons is inborn, that
for humans isn't.
Aida has respect for neither, save the dragon she impressed. "All right, up
with you. Weyrbred kid should know how to mount dragons, right?" She stands
back, allowing Dallan all the room she needs to swing herself upon the
sizeable brown. Helicyth rumbles a polite greeting as well, the blue of his
gaze scintillant in the mid-morning sunlight.
Dallaney slaps Helicyth on the rump, once--makes for a safer ride, and
clambers aboard with agile finesse. She snorts even, in Aida's direction.
You scales Helicyth's side, with a proffered forepaw as a foothold.
Burnished cinnamon enfolds sleekly upon a supple hide warm of teak,
incarnadine hue eclipsed by the velvet darkness that lingers upon his curving
belly. Nostrils flared in equine expression, pale cream draws from overlong
muzzle to the streamlined lift of slender headknobs, fading into the sculpted
ridges of his neck; adamantine wings vault ash gray from his lithe, muscled
back, rogue strains of ebony fletching the edges as it feathers to the
underside and the copper-veined midnight of a rippled mainsail. Bent with
cunning, rich bloodwine taints his claws, coruscating in rivulets of sanguine
along his serpentine tail to pool darkly at the very tip, drawing to a close
the lush portraiture of his form.
On the left side of Helicyth's neck, white-dyed leather harshly inflicts
parallel contrast upon earth-warm hide, only the punctuated handholds along
the strap etching relief into the twin albino streaks. Buckles adjoin them to
camouflaged brown on the other side, likewise perforated for mounting. The
straps are plain, save for the lacquer of oil that smartly reflects whatever
light it catches, night or day.
Helicyth is 1 Turn, 9 Months, and 17 Days old.
Earthy enervation effuses from the warmth of his presence, measure for
measure.
Aida scales Helicyth's side, with a proffered forepaw as a foothold.
Aida just looked at you.
Astride Helicyth, Aida doublechecks the riding straps quickly, then glances
back at her passenger. "Ready?" She figures this one won't need much
preparation for ::between::.
Astride Helicyth, Dallaney nods sharply, watching the bowl. "Ready!"
D'aad walks toward Weyr Tunnel.
Sky Above Northern Curve of the Bowl
A splattering of colors coalesce into a harmony of brilliant hues, as dragons
ferry passengers down to the entrance of the living cavern... the rapid motion
of their wings swirling up small clouds of dust that seem to dance to the
rythmic thrummings of contented lifemates. Shadowy entrances to various weyrs
look on with morbid silence, their darkened mouths little testimony that life
abounds within.
Type 'ledges' to see a list of connected weyrs.
It is a bright, cheery day. It is a spring morning.
With a playful frisk of his wings, You wink ::between::
::between::
You hang in the freezing blackness of ::between::...
From here you can go:
Nowhere, it seems.
Sky Above Weyr Entrance
High above the sand-scoured and people-filled foundation of the imposing bowl
below, the wind's inexorable manipulation is seemingly perpetual: errant
breezes dominating surrounding undercurrents. Moderately shielded by the
natural, tower-like structures that rise from below, weyr and dragons alike are
not immune to it's presence: though, given any day, numerous dragon hides are
often seen basking upon their sunlit ledges. Despite the distance, the feeding
grounds presence is conveyed by the powerful wind that encompasses all, the
nearby aroma of herdbeast proving to be a luring, taunting promise.
Type 'ledges' to see a list of connected weyrs.
From here you can go:
Living Cavern Feeding
Grounds Center Bowl
Weyr Entrance Up
A burst of brown caracoles from ::between:: as Helicyth arrives.
Astride Helicyth, Dallaney grunts, softly. "Good ride," and concentrates on
hanging on as the dragon descends to the bowl. "There will do."
Helicyth okays the dismount as he furls his wings back and settles down,
mentally greeting the local dragons. Aida nudges Dallan. "You want me to go
first?"
West Entrance
A duo of extravagent tower-like formations -- sand-scoured by time's ruthless
touch -- reach skywards to dominate a majority of Igen's mammoth size, their
looming presence a protective barrier against the unyielding winds outside;
inside though, whirlwinds capture miniscule, osseous granules in their
whimsical promenade across the weather- and dragon-worn ground, oft to convey
a multitude of scents and sounds along with their movements: from the
irrisistable strum of a harper's gitar found within the nearby crafter's
area, to the exotic concoctions of the weyr's cooking staff; all of which can
be easily drowned by the daily activities of the weyr itself, bringing forth
the traditional -- and characteristic -- dusty appearance to the sand-coated
grounds. Dimly lit and persistantly breezy, an enormous passageway provides
the only ground entrance and exit from the weyr, leaving the abundant numbers
of dragons as the remaining transport.
You see Sirius here.
The following dragons are here: Sanath and Helicyth
From here you can go:
Crafter's Area Southwest Bowl
Grand Tunnel Northwest Bowl
Dallaney descends the slope of Helicyth's side.
Aida descends the slope of Helicyth's side.
Aida claps her hands against her pants once she's landed on the ground. "So --
where are those mugs and plates?" Pay up, pay up.
Dallaney rarely resists a challenge, especially not on her home turf. A look
is sent upwards to Helicyth. "Thanks, Helicyth," she's all grin. Then more
formally, a grateful bow goes to Aida, even before she's dismounted from the
brown. "Thanks." Curtly. "Try the kitchens," she spins on a heel to go
there.
NorthWest Bowl
A shelter from the stronger desert winds that strike across much of the rest
of the bowl, the original founders of the weyr found the lee a suitable
location for the most active area of the weyr. A gaping stone awning
provides covered protection and suitable sunning space for the occupants of
the dragon infirmary. Shallow steps lead into a recessed entrance to the
guest weyr. A much smaller entrance leads to the living caverns.
From here you can go:
Living Cavern
Infirmary Center Bowl
Guest Weyr
Stairs Up
Weyr Entrance
Aida strides in from West Entrance.
Dallaney resists a most unseeming urge to hurry, instead selecting a long
stride that eats up distance fairly quickly. "Does he want to come?" she turns
back to ask, just in case Helicyth decides to bolt after them.
Helicyth doesn't bolt -- he's too large for that. "Nah. He'll chat with the
locals." Aida seems perfectly willing to leave the brown to his own devices
and trails Dallan closely instead. You won't lose her that easily.
Dallaney is short at the leg and therefore not easily lost. She's even walking
straight for once, a dusky small shape determinedly plodding through on Igen
sand and stone. "Okay."
Aida begins to loosen her vest as she follows the girl. "They told me it was
hot," she mutters, "but I had no idea. Hotter than Boll, maybe even
Southern?"
Or it could be the dry desert wind that's making her uncomfortable. Her vest
soon hangs unbuttoned and flaps erratically with her brisk stride.
Dallaney is flapping too, at the loops of her jacket. "It /is/ hot," there's a
sneer crackling in there, "but I haven't been to Boll, or Southern." Trod,
plod, trod. A weyrbrat's shout from across the bowl is ignored by Dallan as
she offers a lopped-off smile to the Telgarian. "Do they have weyrs there?"
"I haven't been to them," Aida clarifies. "Haven't been to Boll since I was
maybe twelve. My family was traders." She tucks the irritating right flap of
the vest under one arm, though it gives her an awkward gait. "And Southern,
I've just been to the beaches. There's supposed to be a Weyr there, though.
Don't you know anything from your harper lessons?" She's not derisive, but
Dallan's not that much of a kid, either.
Dallaney looks for, and locates, the smaller entrance to the caverns without
much fanfare -- its always been there, after all. Sandal's thong slapping on
the threshold, she pauses. Pauses to look back again, at Aida, to appraise the
flame-lit hairdo, the knotless knot. "I took my lessons. I learnt from them,
about knots, about holds, crafts and weyrs. But Southern-- they said there was
a weyr, but things might be different once I actually get there." And she
will, one day.
Aida skips several steps to catch up with the girl. "Things don't change much,
Dallan. Always gonna be Threadfall and always gonna need riders to keep an eye
on things." She pauses on the threshold too, but the fleetingly perturbed
expression on her face suggests something else is on her mind. Then, equally
abruptly, she asks, "Is this it?"
Dallaney slips readily into stoppages, and lulls, and even the minor flare-ups
that occur round about her. She opts for calm. Unmoving calm. "I know. -- Is
this what?"
Aida is impatient now, though perhaps it's not Dallan's fault and she's just a
convenient target. "The living cavern -- for plates and mugs, remember? Our
deal." Not that they even shook hands on it.
Nor spat, nor do the million other things other people do on deals. "It is,"
Dallan bristles, "/I/ know Igen. Like you know Telgar. Or better, even." It's
home, see?
"Eh." Aida is noncommital. "Don't know Telgar that well, like I said."
She
dawdles on the threshold, doffing her vest and folding it roughly over one
arm.
Dallaney neglected to remember that detail. "Oh," she acknowledges, lips
tightening as she looks on. Moving would mean conceding defeat of some sort,
so she doesn't.
Aida nudges, then, lightly but enough to make her point clear. "Shall we go
in? I'm getting sand in my hair." As if it isn't entangled enough as it is.
Sand? Dallan promptly splutters lightly, smoothing fingers over her mouth to
ease the wrinkles already sprouting there by the dozen, even if they're
transitory. "Sand never hurt anyone," she retorts, but heads in anyhow.
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 and Stub.
You see Sarilee, Rushweed Basket, and Anrui here.
From here you can go:
Bowl
Lower Caverns
Infirmary
Aida strides in from NorthWest Bowl.
Aida saunters in, a step or two behind Dallan. "Sand, this much sand, gives me
an itch. I'm not used to it like you Igenites," she admits freely. "So what
kinda mugs do you have here?" Helicyth's decided: he wants mugs.
Dallaney, queerly, is looking less at home here than in the wide, sand-filled
bowl they just left. She struggles into a shuttling step. "Yes, we're used to
it. Been using it all the time. We have only the plain type though, unless the
headwoman has good ones stored away somewhere," her tone progressively lowers
to the merest hush--it's not safe here, to steal nor to consider theft.
Aida isn't stealing, she's claiming payment for services rendered. A drudge
emerges from the lower caverns, bearing a timely tray of clean mugs. "Just two.
I always take two. The Weyr won't miss them," she assures Dallan with the
surety of one with plenty of relevant experience. "If I take more than two, I
might drop one during flight and that would be a pity. The blues are nice,"
she comments, sidling over to where the drudge sets down the tray.
"Blues," Dallan shrugs, and cuts across to where the drudge, and now, Aida is.
"I can't see anything in mugs. They're for drinking." Quite a happy admission
from her as she bends over to study one mug.
Aida rapidly dissembles the pile, scrutinizing the blues, then discarding them
for some of the more incoherently colored mugs. "No one has any favorites,
right?" she verifies with Dallan. The last thing she wants is some proddy
greenrider banging down her door claiming she kidnapped his or her favoritest
mug.
Dallaney grins. "No one who matters. Some of the kids do, but they lose things
easily," and don't matter, besides. "Don't take too many," she leans nearer
to
Aida to deliver warning. The weyrling might get /Dallan/ in trouble. She even
puts one hand over a mug, protectively.
Aida avoids that one, then. It takes her only another minute to make a
selection, with input with the brown dragon who can't fit in here to make his
own choice, naturally. "This one," she picks one that's purplish-blue, "and
this one." The second is more reddish than purple and fits snugly into the
first. "There. So -- you didn't leave anything at Telgar, did you?" Or will
she haev to make a second trip here and garner more mugs?
Dallaney has her eye on another, a dappled white mug, so Aida doesn't offend
in any particular way this time. "I left D'aad behind. Nothing else, no. But
I'll get stuck there again if he decides to go off," and can presumably
retrieve any forgotten items herself. "Anything /else/ you need?" Cynical,
this one.
"Not now," Aida says, unperturbed by the girl's -- yes, she's certain now --
tone. She can get as good as she gives. "If I meet anyone called D'aad, I'll
tell him you were looking for him." Then she eyes the doorway out of the
cavern, debating the humid desert wind that lurks outside.
Dallaney stops at nothing -- nearly so. "You could stay /here/," she suggests,
helpfully. "It's good in Igen, and the winds are warm in the springtime. I get
marvellous views of the sand from the bowl," and the occasional whip-lash of a
storm.
Aida explains, as if to a young child, "I'm a weyrling -- who's not gonna
graduate with the others tomorrow. Do you think Igen would want me?" And look,
she's stealing mugs too.
"Not--graduating," Dallan hisses response, un-tactfully. Igen wouldn't want
her, but that's not her point. "What's wrong?" she volunteers the gruff
inquiry.
Aida is used to telling the tale. "Threw a party, 'lings got drunk, K'ren
didn't like it." She sounds bored, even. "So he flunked me. Holding me back
till the next class of 'lings graduate." She'll yawn, even, and is unable to
cover her mouth as politeness dictates because her hands are full of mugs.
"Igen wouldn't want me. I don't know how to 'take care of my fellow riders'."
And her tone makes it clear she's mimicking some unfortunate weyrlingmaster of
Telgar's.
Night wakes up from his nap.
"But 'lings /always/ get drunk," Dallan defends, only this time its in Aida's
favour. "My sympathies--" Her tone has stopped being mocking, or satirical,
and it echoes eerily that of some adult's. Hands release the mug; returns to
her sides.
Aida doesn't reject the sympathy, but her gaze, insistent on the way out,
doesn't acknowledge it either. "Whatever. K'ren made up his mind a month ago.
He just didn't want any weyrlings drunk on /his/ watch."
Night dozes off...
Dallaney points out that "he makes sense too", and grudges the 'ling a few
steps forward and ahead, showing the way. Not that she needs it, but Dallan
does eye the mugs for a noticeable second or two.
These mugs are Aida's -- after all, Dallan got here in one piece, right? "Sure
he does. He didn't see me cleaning up after those drunk oafs for the rest of
the sevenday. Helicyth wouldn't sleep inside, even though it was winter,
'cause it smelled so bad." But she has her mugs and she has her dragon and
now, she's seen Igen. "So -- I'll keep an eye out for D'aad." It's her version
of goodbye.
Dallaney's show -- she rattles to a stop some ways in front and sticks out
grubby dark digits -- for a handshake, amongst all the unseen formalities on
Pern. "Send a 'lizard after me if you spot him."
Aida juggles the mugs to her right hand, freeing her left, then realizes which
hand the younger girl has out and readjusts. "Yeah, yeah -- will do." Her
handshake is firm, despite her tone of indifference. "See you."
Dallaney shakes, for a deal well met. "'Bye."
And Aida's off, mugs and all. Perhaps Igen's not too hot after all.
Aida strides toward NorthWest Bowl.