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.
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.
The following dragons are here: Kyraith, Loralith, Kaeth, Tyranoth, Israeth, and Peyth
From here you can go:
Living Cavern
Infirmary
Center Bowl
Guest Weyr
Stairs Up
Weyr Entrance
The current weather report:
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TelgW: Center of the Bowl (#999)
Soft fluffy clouds are gathering idly overhead. It is a fall midday.
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IgenW: Center Bowl Area (#5491)
It is a bright, cheery day. It is a fall midday.
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From Sky Above Northwest Bowl, Hotcroth has arrived.
Hotcroth has arrived.
Astride Hotcroth, B'unz shakes his head at something -No telling, really, though when he
unfastens the straps about his waist, hand laying them carefully against the bronze neck,
he utters some string of obvious distaste. Lifting his head, he glances at the bowl before
grabbing on for dismount.
B'unz dismounts from Hotcroth.
Dallaney is currently trudging on the baking sands towards the shade of the inviting
awning. The grimed jacket still flaps haplessly from her shoulders, but her earlier load
has since been left and the boyish figure treads determinedly onwards-- past the
dismounting rider now, to whom she spares a glance or two.
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 the pair 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
[13 Turns, 3 Months, and 5 Days]
B'unz
Flames of hair coil about broad shoulders in ringlets when not pulled back from a
bushy-browed forehead and squared-off jaw. Beneath coolmint eyes a smallish nose sets;
sultry full lips and a chin almost permanently in a state of five o'clock shadow color him
gently burly. Though barely five and a half feet in stature, the sway of his gilded hips
bears his rock hard body with experienced, muscle-packed seduction.
Llama fur lines inside and edges of coiling, black leathers, buckled at shoulder and waist
in cinnabar bronze. Many-pocketed trous tuck into cuffed knee boots brick red, retaining
straps knotted at leftover ends like gold tassles. Emblazoned on his chest, the golden
patch Telgar's Skyskimmer wing shines beneath a flaming rainbow-bronze dragon applique'.
He is awake and looks alert.
Tail, spine and wingspars dipped in the same raw umbar bark that infuses his scrawling
feet's brush-snatch of spicular talons, he glows with Aurora-hewn brilliance, swirling
countermelodies of gold and deep russet orange flowing into shadowed edging of cinnabar
bronze. Bronze too the muscular curves that bulge his curves, undertone to the medly of
nature's inspiration, his slender belly tapers upward to overlarge wings, transluscent but
for the delicate verdigris filigreed in venal scattering of their thin film. In the dark
trenches of wizened gaze's opacity, a sparkle of humor reflects in shimmering mischief,
the song of life within.
Hotcroth is 14 Turns, 4 Months, and 17 Days old.
Rust mingles with russet swirls; a hint of wheaten gold seeps through mahogany,
illuminating entire sections of broad torso. Spare could hardly be applied to this
firelizard, naturally chubby and rounded. Head is build on round terms, and neck is
chubby; neck trails into a body of baby fat and crudely outlined limbs. Only the wings
about this firelizard are dainty. Aureate speckles sweep 'cross nut-brown plains of
gracefully translucent wings whilst same color dapples eyeridges 'bove large eyes and
perpetually sweet expression.
Rock is 5 Turns, 3 Months, and 3 Days old.
Secure but still somewhat...mixed-up.
Hotcroth twists his neck about, stub of a nose still dwarfing his lifemate as it nubs him
in the butt. The dragon's huge feet claw into the ground, as if the behemoth needed
grounding for that act, and the tail /whips/ mischieviously into the bowl without regard
to who passes near, stirring up a bowl of dust.
B'unz says, "Cut that out, lump!" The red of his face as the man nearly falls to
the ground decries his anger, tone of that exclamation notwithstanding. His leathers cake
with the dust of his dragon's tail, and he coughs. "I /told/ you, I'm not playing.
/Period./"
It was the invective, really, more than the sight of a strange dragon, that twisted
Dallan's neck around to eye the newcomers. A grubby hand follows her grunt of greeting,
and the weyrbrat pauses in her step to free the jacket's insistent awn from a dusty
collar. There's maybe a 'hello' too, dimmed by sand's dust, and joined by a brown
'lizard's curious trill from its shoulder perch.
Hotcroth twists his head in the direction of the newcomer, the voice drowned in dusty din.
No, it's not Dallaney that has caught the dragon's attention, but her brown 'lizard. The
slow whirl of his eyes in rainbow irredescence heralds the intrest perhaps more than the
sudden nose in Dallen's business.
B'unz joins one foot to the other in a correction of stance, no longer in need of that
bracing splotch of spread that steadies him against the loving attention of his curios
bronze. He twists, pulling at his collar to right it, then at the sleeve of his gloves
absently in glance Dallan-ward. "And don't be bothering anyone else, either, 'Croth.
We'll only be here for a while visiting with Sidhe, and I don't want any accidents, got
it?"
Dallaney shakes away that draped tail, then; with a critical note: "I thought bronze
dragons didn't play." Not as much as a certain brown does, anyway. She tarries a
moment, rearranging the flustered toe-talons on her jacket padding. "Telgar, right?
Don't scatter too much dust when you're here."
Hotcroth snuffs at the duo, boyish one and fl indescriminate to the undersized bronze's
curiosity. The tip of his tail scrapes squiggled lines upon the warm sands. *SNUFF* So
much for dust. Know how much dust gets in a dragon's nose? a swirl of it clouds his muzzle
as he croons (which of course is more of a distant tugboat call than anything
unobtrusive).
You release a reluctant Rock.
Rock hasn't got past the confusion of his hatchling-hood, and characteristically focuses
on winding his claws through the convenient umber hair Dallan boasts. As Hotcroth is
interested, so is he, and he manifests it in another tuneful croon. The young one simply
waves her fingers at the additional dust with the casualness of long habit, and shrugs it
away, stepping right through the mist raised.
B'unz takes a shallow breath, waving at the dust himself before he takes a giant stride
toward Dallaney, one hand out, waving off the dragon. "You heard h.." and
hesitates, trying to discern whether this one is a boy or girl. "Just get back,
'Croth." And to the other, "Telgar. Yes." One hand unpeals the glove from
the other slowly. "Duties to Igen, boy." It seems he's decided.
B'unz says, "I'm afraid he hasn't heard the part about dignity in the bronze
manual."
Dallaney has always been impatient, so manages to take a few more steps before the
Telgarian's reply is heard. When it is, there's a decided lightening of her complexion,
and the furrowed brows are returned to gaze upon man and rider, eyes brightened by glee.
"And my duties to Telgar," she, or he, executes a neat bow even, before
puzzlement takes over. "Is there such a thing? A-- bronze manual?"
Hotcroth hones in on that wave of fingers, attempting to nudge them midair, only to be met
with the dust left in Dallen's wake, neckridges passing invitingly near the brown Rock.
B'unz's flat belly of leather jumps slightly as the decided harumph of disdain answers the
boy/girl's question. He glances at hotcroth and shakes his head, two fingers pulling the
tight-fitting gloves off his thumb to limpen it inside out against his hands. "If
there were, /he/ wouldn't read it." He tilts his head. "What's your name, Igen
boy? Do you know the WeyrMiner?"
Dallaney emits a chuckle as Hotcroth shifts, undoubtedly stirring up yet more dust. The
errant 'lizard, however, tries to mimic that neckridge-passing movement, hopping some
distance from the weyrbrat's hair to her forearm. He dangles there, glancing iridiscent
'lids on his much larger kin; his second hop puts one foot off-balance, while the other
keeps the precarious perch. Dallaney just shakes her head. "I know of the miner and
her 'stones." D'aad nearly made her go there anyway. "But not where she is now--
you could ask the watchdragon, couldn't you?" she boldly adds.
Hotcroth, on the other hand, ignores the bronzer, delighting instead in his new-found
friend, Rock, muzzle now so close to Dallaney that his warm breath flows all about not
just her neck, but her whole 13-turn-tall form. Another croon wraps about the pair, and
his tail, mimics, curling loosely up about rider and weyrbrat alike.
Dallaney watches the rider's gloves very cautiously, just in case, with a steadying hand
given to her youngest pet. "Don't fall off, Rock, you might forget how to fly
again," she tacks on. Which might explain why the tail manages to take her by
surprise -- the kidlet whirls on a sandal, the other digging deeply into Igen dust,
fingers immediately going out and up to shield herself if possible. "Hey, what're you
doing?" Dragons are remote to her, and at best, nearby.
B'unz raises a brow at that suggestion. "I could indeed." The corner of his
mouth lifts slightly in a display of sardonic humor. "But then I wouldn't get to
speak to a bright lad like you, now would I?" One glance dragon-ward changes the
expression on his face. "Leave them alone, 'Croth. They don't want to play."
Rock does want to play, indeed; it's Dallan who doesn't. Not at all. Amidst the weyrbrat
startled cry, the 'lizard essays a hop-skip, and a jump over to a bronze neckridge, wings
outstretched and apparently oblivious to the 'brat's noises. He's all wound up in himself,
is Rock.
Hotcroth completely ignores them both, of course, snuffing boy and brown again, tightening
his tail about the three of them, an impenetrable wall of thick tail blanking out the
background of the bowl. One eye center on Dallan, dwarfing him/her in his emmision of pure
pleasure as the firelizard joins him on a neckridge --and he nudges.
Dallaney's gaze is stern on the dragon. "I don't know where your Miner is--" and
she attempts another shove on the annoying limb, "--'Croth. Not even if you ask in
this way." She says something else, but it's muffled in the coloured tail that thus
walls up the trio.
B'unz steps forward abruptly, pushing at the nose of his bronze, as if that would actually
move the giant muzzle. "Get /back/, lump! You're bothering him." The bronzer's
arm stretched out over Dallan's head crackles with the stretching of leather there.
Hotcroth's eyes begin to whirl slowly, before his gaze shifts from there to bronzer and
back on the lad. *SNUFF* The tail tightens once again. His croon echoes the pleasure of
his swirling eyes.
The sheer ecstasy of gliding from one 'ridge to another - Rock knows it well, and is doing
just that. This propensity to slow reactions dulls the edge of his anger when he does
respond to Dallan's indignance, pausing the game to chitter towards the bronze's nose.
Dallaney herself is trapped, and can only raise her head to follow the rider's arm, struck
by some inevitable fascination. "Rider--Telgar, ask him to let /go/," says she
stridently.
Sivadath sways with a simulated air of grace in from Center Bowl Area.
B'unz doesn't hesitate, "Let go, 'Croth! You heard him!" Another push at the
rainbow muzzle to no avail exasperates the tone in the bronzer's voice. "No! We don't
have time to go collecting people! I won't ask him. Don't you see he doesn't want you
slobbering down his neck?" With the swirl of dust that heralds the entering gold
dragon, he glances Eos-ward and curses. "No see what you've done?" They've sent
in the calvary.
Sivadath floats in from the nearby bowl, the gentle cusp of her rum-gold wings slicing
through the air before easily collapsing against her lissome ribs as she settles at the
bowl's edge; while maintaining this air of delicacy, her foreleg juts out so to aid Eos'
decent, one that is markedly slowed by the swollen breadth of the goldrider's pregnant
belly. Wearily, yet still retaining a steely mien, the weyrwoman looks up: "What's
going on here?" she demands, hands immediately settled to her hips as she lands.
Is there a passing dragon? Dallan hazards a glance upwards, for all her lack of height,
and a holler meant for B'unz: "What's wrong now? 'Croth," she reiterates,
"Tell 'Croth I can't find his Miner for him." Nor anything else, most probably.
The glimpses of dragon-belly she snatches from outside are enough to still her tone,
clipped by the ignominy of the situation.
Hotcroth ignores the gold, trident tail flapping once, twice, thrice against the warm sand
in a fanning of dust into the bowl. Tail still wrapped about the rider and weyrbrat, there
may be a small bit of room to allow one tiny goldrider to enter the embrace without
getting squashed. He snuffs again at the young lad/girl, ignoring B'unz completely with an
arching of neck just beneath Dallan's firelizard who rests on his neckrdiges and another
croon.
Eos, riding straps readily discarded, descends from the lissome length of Sivadath's neck,
landing smoothly onto the ground below.
Dallaney's mute desire to -not- answer any questions applies to Eos too, it seems, so she
maintains her silence as Hotcroth sniffs at her. If she's lucky, the weyrbrats would all
have cleared indoors for an early dinner and she won't be spotted here. Nevertheless, the
kid does mount some defense of her own by reaching to push the giant muzzle away somehow,
sending a black scowl up at the traitor firelizard of hers.
Sivadath's nostrils flare at the bronze's blatant refusal to concede her
more-than-graceful entrance, yet alone presence; after all, she's an /Igen/ queen.
Declaring her displeasure with a rising flick of her spaded tail and a deep-seated rumble
that nearly shakes the ground below, her mood suddenly alters at Dallaney's presence and,
despite the bronze betwixt them, she moves to retrieve the child - for herself.
"S/iva/dath, behave - you do not attach yourself to people like that," Eos calls
from beneath the lurking queen's colossal golden paws, the starlit tip of those perilous
claws serving as a resting post for the girl's uneven weight. Returning her attention to
B'unz, she asks again, "Excuse me B'unz, but what /is/ going on here - Sivadath is
upset." And that upsets Eos, who is already riding a bumpy emotional rollercoaster.
B'unz throws an evil glance Hotcroth-ward and facepalms, drops the hand trying to push the
muzzle away and rubs his eyes with his one bare hand. "Shard-dust!" When he
glances back up, he sees a gold nose joining what little view there is to be seen. Wall of
dragons it is. "Now look what you've done, lump. Not only are you /so/
inconveniencing me an this lad, but you've got the queen's panties all in a bunch, too,
for Faranth's sake..." His jaw sets when Eos enters. "Duties, Eos. Hotcroth and
I were just LEAVING." His voice rises as he glances at the bronze nose in everyone's
business but his own. Poor Dallaney. "I just want to find the weyrminer."
Really, it's almost a whine.
The sudden sounds and activity outside prompt Dallan to swivel her head rapidly to left
and right, gauging for kinks in the armour. The lack thereof evokes her sniff, extended to
a gasp of utter shock as she in turn is taken by a new pair of caged claws. Nose wrinkled;
indignant, she can only choke out an echo of the weyrwoman's question: "-Wha-what's
this?" A breath lately, she gathers what words she can. "And I /told/ him I
didn't know where she is."
(Hotcroth) Sivadath sees: Hotcroth croons softly to the entering one, swirling a swelter
of memories of the past few moments her way. <<I like this one. I want to take this
one to Rosalth.>>
(Hotcroth) [-] Sivadath irritably responds, the mounting rumble midst her throat growing
more possesive by the moment. << But you cannot, >> she stubbornly mentions, a
tad unusual for this oft friendly queen, << For she's mine. She's /Igen/'s. You
cannot take her. >>
(Hotcroth) Sivadath sees: Hotcroth utters only with so much interest in what the queen
wants. <<The eggs wait. Rosalth needs this one. Besides. I want to play with
it.>> Matter of fact, this, and not so much as a by your leave. It is what it is.
Dallaney has abandoned her 'resting-post' by now, to stand quite forlorn in a puddle of
sand; mirroring the reflection from gold to brown into the intensity of bunched eyebrows
and tiny fists kept resolutely down. She stares at equally dark feet for a heartbeat, then
looks up again.
Sivadath undeniably surrounds Dallaney in a sphere of starlit claws, spicy breath that
clearly speaks of her previous meal, and a vortex of spinning curiosity. Coiling her tail
once more into the air, the skulking queen suddenly retreats and, with a possessive snort,
loops that tail about her lifemate's pregnancy waist. "The Weyrminer is in her
office; and we're leaving now." Feeling as though her duty is done, she affords a
brief nod to both the rider and child before climbing the ladder of her queen's leg once
more.
Sivadath cusps cinnamon-traced wings to her side, the meditative whorl of moonlit facets
cast aside as Eos vaults onto the rum-gold countenance of her neckridges.
Sivadath sways with a simulated air of grace toward Sky Above Northwest Bowl.
From Sky Above Northwest Bowl, Seraph's form coiled tightly against itself, Sivadath's
aqueous rum-gold wings fold against her lissome shape as she dwindles into slumber.
B'unz curses slightly under his breath, peering at the slight form of this Igen weyrbrat.
With all the exasperation of the waylaying of his purpose, he asks. "Look, lad. I
want to go see the weyrminer, and you want to go do.." his hand flips into the air,
"..whatever it is you and that firelizard of yours wanted to do before you got
shanghai'd. It's really cold and icky at Telgar and there are loads of people all over the
place, but the weyrwoman says through her dragon that I have to ask you. So just say no
and we can get this all over with and we'll have a lovely time doing our own thing, hmm?
Hotcroth would like you to stand on the sands for Rosalth's next clutch. Will you?"
He glares at Hotcroth whose croon resounds again at these words.
Dallaney blinks a few times in frank surprise at Sivadath's exit, and wraps the jacket
tighter to herself, regardless of the heat, as her protection departs. Abandoned thus, the
weyrbred adolescent twists her lips in a frown of irritation, backing away. "Now you
can go find the-- what?" Steps abruptly cut short, Dallan stops a length away, mouth
contorting. "You can't do that! - You're not of Igen," is her first argument. On
the other hand, she looks uncertainly at the dragon. Quietly. "But... D'aad said I
was supposed to Impress here."
Dallaney dismisses the hidebound in the next moment, a unpleasant grin alighting on her
cheeks. "But he'd never even notice if I left," she adds quickly, heatedly.
"Should I?" She addresses Hotcroth: dragon, not rider.
B'unz nods his head in affirmation of what he thinks the answer will be even before
Dallaney utters the words, slapping his hands with the one glove assertively.
"Good..." His brow furrows as he doubletakes, peering up from the study of his
slapping glove to Dallaney. "Wait. You said no.." his voice rises hopefully
"Didn't you?" Hotcroth, on the other hand, might as well be doing the snoopy
dance with all the snuffing and arching of the neck playfully with his new friend, Rock.
"Yes. I can ask. But you don't want to, boy. Believe me. They are more trouble than
they are worth." He throws another evil glance Hotcrothward. Maybe the adult in him
can make this young teenager do what he wants. That's how it works, right?
Dallaney debates, in direct contrast to B'unz's adult logic. "But D'aad will be happy
to have me out of his hands. And I won't need to get a craft anymore, like he said--"
Her grin maintains, fuelling itself with childish rationale. "I said, yes, Telgar.
Yes. Let's go."
Rock arches his neck too, lifting one foreclaw and then another in a heedless dance on the
'ridges, wings fluttering crisply on the cooling evening air. He stumbles on his tail,
tumbles a moment, but rights himself soon enough, trilling a reflection of the girl's
fierce assent.
B'unz's breath, held hopefully and patiently while Dallen considers his/her answer,
releases in a short quip of underbreath cursings, aimed through fuming eyes glances at the
dragon in a very final, See what you've done! "Well, mount up then." He glances
at the living cavern entrance once, just in case Sidhe decides to come out and rescue him,
not that it would do any good. "Here, I'll help you."
B'unz mounts Hotcroth.
Dallaney begins to dismiss the proffered help, then takes it, and mounts swiftly.
You mount Hotcroth.
Tail, spine and wingspars dipped in the same raw umbar bark that infuses his scrawling
feet's brush-snatch of spicular talons, he glows with Aurora-hewn brilliance, swirling
countermelodies of gold and deep russet orange flowing into shadowed edging of cinnabar
bronze. Bronze too the muscular curves that bulge his curves, undertone to the medly of
nature's inspiration, his slender belly tapers upward to overlarge wings, transluscent but
for the delicate verdigris filigreed in venal scattering of their thin film. In the dark
trenches of wizened gaze's opacity, a sparkle of humor reflects in shimmering mischief,
the song of life within.
Hotcroth is 14 Turns, 4 Months, and 17 Days old.
B'unz and Dallaney are riding Hotcroth
Rock mounts Hotcroth.
Sky Above Northwest Bowl
Activity flourishes - thrives! - amidst the sheltered area below; wounded dragons
frequently seen basking atop the weather-worn sandstone overhanging of the infirmary.
Igen's winds seem to have fled from this fragment of the sky, the breezes steadfast and as
predictable as they come. Earthened whirlwinds are brought aloft by the push- and take-off
of the draconic inhabitants, visibility dwindling as one draws near the western sky of the
weyr.
Type 'ledges' to see a list of connected weyrs.
The following dragons are here: Nunth and Sivadath
From here you can go:
Leaders' Complex
Up
Living Cavern
Weyr Entrance
Center Bowl
You go ::between::
::between::
You hang in the freezing blackness of ::between::...
From here you can go:
Nowhere, it seems.
High Above the Center of the Bowl
The great expanse of Telgar's Weyr floor looms below, the scattering of Weyrfolk are mere
specks of shadowed hues against the backdrop of stone gray..
The air is crisp with the coolness of pending winter. With the summer's heat gone and
Rukbat's rays no longer shining down so intensely, Pern herself seems to be in quiet
repose. It is a fall evening.
A musical bugle rings out from the Star Stones as D'ante's bronze Infernoth rises with
flared wings in a greeting to B'unz and bronze Hotcroth.
You pop in from ::between::
Sky Above the Center of the Bowl
Surrounded by the stark gray of Telgar Weyr's bowl, you glide amidst errant gusts of wind,
navigating past the myriad of dragons that reside within the Weyr's majestic walls.
The air is crisp with the coolness of pending winter. With the summer's heat gone and
Rukbat's rays no longer shining down so intensely, Pern herself seems to be in quiet
repose. It is a fall evening.
The following dragons are here: Savanth
Center of the Bowl
Steep, mountainous walls reach jagged arms towards the sky with steadfast reverence and
dwarf those that reside within its protective caverns. An artist's palette of color swirls
overhead as a multitude of dragons wing to various destinations, their shadows sweeping
gracefully across the cavernous bowl.
The soft scuffling of feet across sand can be heard as riders and weyrfolk alike hustle
past one another, some leaping up to the large neckridges of restless lifemates, while
others scurry off to the lower caverns. Small whirls of sand dance across the floor as
dragons transport their riders and shuffle unsteadily on disproportionate limbs while the
smell of the oil on their hides mingles with the tantalizing aroma of roasted wherry and
freshly brewed Klah emanating from one of the many caverns.
The air is crisp with the coolness of pending winter. With the summer's heat gone and
Rukbat's rays no longer shining down so intensely, Pern herself seems to be in quiet
repose. It is a fall evening.
Flittering around, you see Blazet.
You see Holly and Yrewth here.
The following dragons are here: Noirth and Helicyth
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.
The air is crisp with the coolness of pending winter. With the summer's heat gone and
Rukbat's rays no longer shining down so intensely, Pern herself seems to be in quiet
repose. It is a fall evening.
The following dragons are here: Nhetoth, Zorath, Sazarith, Diamath, Azraeth, Miyusherath,
and Jesth
B'unz dismounts from Hotcroth.
Dallaney dismounts from Hotcroth.
B'unz walks toward Main Living Cavern.
Candidates' Chamber
Nestled within the quaint walls of chipped stone lies a few scattered cots, each with a
colorful quilt folded neatly at one end, and a solid-backed chair stationed near the
other. An array of artwork graces the walls depicting the life of a dragonrider from the
early, white-robed Candidancy days to the ultimate horror of fighting Thread, seemingly
brought to life beneath the flickering light of various glowbaskets.
Peeking down from a natural ledge, you see Nika.
You see Chores List, Candidates' Board, a large basket, Qzaedhir's Creepily
Colorful Cot, and Lau's Little Lair with Lauren occupying it here.
B'unz is here.
From here you can go:
Hallway
You enter the candidate quarters.