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.

Main Living Cavern
Melodic laughter rings throughout the spacious cavern as riders socialize with one another, boasting of adventures a-dragonback, and gossiping about stodgy wingleaders and sordid affairs. Drudges rush past you, their arms laden with dishes and mugs of Klah, desperate to relieve themselves of their burden while pesky 'lizards inhibit their progress.
The light from the glows warmly illuminates the domed cavern and shimmers off the walls as miniscule mineral particles reflect the soft lighting like twinkling stars blanketed in a wintry gray sky. Numerous tables lie scattered across the room, some large enough to hold a whole wing of riders while others were made only for two. Towards the back, a large hearth breathes soul soothing warmth into weary bodies as its flames dance with hypnotic grace and puppet flickering shadows across the spacious stone stage.
Sultry, mouth-watering aromas float in from a small archway that leads to the kitchens while chattering can be heard emanating from a wide hallway.
You see S'am, Ad'niss, and OOC Rules (~*!*~ l ooc ~*!*~) here.
T'chia is here.
From here you can go:
Lower Caverns       Bowl         Infirmary
Kitchen             Gaming Room

The current weather report:
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TelgW: Center of the Bowl (#999)
The sky is clear and bright without a cloud to be seen. Belior is slightly
more than a quarter full and Timor is a new moon. It is a fall night.
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T'chia sits at a table nursing a mug of klah as she tries to get her eyes to open for the day. Sigh candidates to watch over, chores to assign, things to get done. It's not like she doesn't have enough to do with weaving and her duties as a watchrider while T'den is off at Igen. Streaching a bit she notices the new arrival of someone and nods, blinking her eyes open enough to at least nod if not manage a mumbled greeting.

Dallaney trudges through the cavern, vaguely towards the hearth that glows so sinuously in the night's gloominess. She, or he, still wears the clothes of yore: a little tattered through use and overuse, that is certain, but passingly respectable, and the former weyrbrat turned candidate pauses midway to scratch at her nose. Onwards, then, nearly past, T'chia, whom she nods to in return, a trifle reluctantly.

Dallaney
Gaunt, Dallan is, grown into a gawky adolescent stockiness. 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.
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.
On her shoulder, a single white cord chokes and twines ruggedly upon itself, purity's epitome.
She is awake and looks alert.

T'chia
Bright sapphire eyes peer out from beneath thick long black lashes. Her soft lips curling into a warm tempestuous smile, She has a small nose that can only be described as impish when viewed with the dimples that grace her cheeks. Long ebon curls cascade down almost to her hips in a silken waterfall. The midnight black color giving her pale creamy complexion and seductive eyes an erotic appeal. Standing a mere five foot four inches tall Chia has long legs shaped and toned perfectly softly rounded buttocks and a trim waist. Her petite grace and quiet voice give the impression she is quite shy. At times her girlhood shyness still shines through, but with her lifemate Naidath in her soul she has gained the confidence to become the bright talented rider before you.
T'chia is wearing new perfectly fitted leathers in a soft taupe brown. The breeches hug T'chia like a second skin though have enough room that they are very comfortable while walking. A soft flannel shirt of Ivory stays next to T'chia's skin. A wool lined leather jacket comes to mid hip. The jacket is double breasted with snap closures, and matches the breeches perfectly. Gloves are added as well when T'chia is riding they are on her hands, when not being used you'll see them tucked neatly into the belt of the jacket. Burnt umber boots complete T'chia's outfit with style and grace.
A double corded knot fastened into a single loop with a flowing tail in Telgar's Colors entwined with a sisal thread of emerald green adorns T'chia's shoulder representing her as a wingrider of Telgar Weyr.
T'chia looks to be in her early twenties.
She is awake and looks alert.

T'chia just looked at you.

T'chia wraps the mug in her slender hands and lifts it for a sip, bright sapphire eyes still a moment as she enjoys the fragrant brew's life sustaining flavor, as the mug is lowered however those eyes still haven't moved from Dallaney. The soft sound of fired clay scratching against the tabletop is the only break in her silent reverie for a brief moment, but as her hands are withdrawn from the mug she releases a quiet sigh and bites her lower lip with a delicate frown, tilting her head to one side she continues to watch the knot on Dallaney's shoulder before straightening in her seat and clearing her throat of the sleep so tightly lodged within. "Morning, I'm guessing your the Candidate who arrived late last night?" She finally asks, her voice soft and melodic despite her less than alert appearence.

Ah, yes, that dread knot. Dallan arrows an intensely hazel gaze T'chia's way, but immediately retracts it, fastening on the safer wingrider's patch on the woman's shoulder instead. "Morning," her reply hesitates for a moment, then firms. "I am that Candidate. Need anything done, Telg--rider?" Her goal arrested, the teenager has since stopped, boots hard on the floor's stone.

As saffire eyes continue to inspect the obviously young, presumably male candidate Chia wrinkles her nose, not wanting yet another bad start with the candidates she tries to think of how best to phrase her words so offence wont be taken. Brows lift slightly upon hearing at least respect from this ones lips and she frowns deeper looking more closely this time. Finally with a shake of her head a smile is born on her smooth lips. "I'm T'chia, rider of green Naidath. And one of the folks around who will hopefully be helping you get more accoustomed to the life you're setting out on." She picks up her mug once again, this time using it's handle and takes a drink of her morning klah. "Has anyone taken time to walk you through the rules yet?"

Dallaney's decided to be decisive today, not derisive, so her response holds much of dignity in it, if you ignore the slight twitch of darkly umber 'brows: "Well met, T'chia." And that much she has been taught, if not more; the girl stiffens her spine for not the first time that day, nodding hard. "I think I heard some of them. Not sure, though," she ducks her head slightly, thoughtfully. The night of her Search wasn't the best one to listen to rules on.

T'chia chuckles softly and nods, "Tell you what, why don't you get some breakfast, or whatever you'd like then have a seat and we can go over a few?" She leans back on her seat a bit and offers what she hopes is a sincere and welcoming smile. "I can tell you though that you probally missed a few, like saluting riders when you come upon them."

Dallaney snaps up: awake, alert in an instant. It takes only that long for her to leave the inner maelstrom behind and shake her head at T'chia, hands abruptly flapping their indifference at her jacket. "I am /sorry/--" she blurts out, executing a quick salute with a flipped palm and backward step. Teeth gleaming in a mockery of a smile, the candidate shrugs a shoulder, as if attempting to dislodge the knot, then gnashes out, "--tell me about it." It's almost challenge, this time, but soft challenge.

T'chia bursts out with laughter, obviously something in the candidates mannor has set her off but what only the redstar could guess. Shaking her head Chia manages to get her amusement under control and shakes her head, "Hey, don't shoot the messenger here, I'm only trying to help. I'd rather not see you find the trouble a few of your bunkmates have managed to wander into with thier behavior." She shrugs and nods toward a seat. "You're welcome to join me, or your welcome to retreat to chores, the choice is your little man, but fair warning you are here as a candidate and you are going to find a lot of the rules that now apply to you are going to be seriously enforced."

Dallaney lifts a bewildered countenance to T'chia's, puzzled by the patent amusement she's showing. "I'm not shooting the messenger or whatever that means," she swallows, catching the full meaning of that phrase after, "And I am grateful for your help." A breath, held pent, escapes the fettered lips, and she shuffles to a seat near the rider, facing her, "What kind of trouble did they get into?" Perhaps a story will help.

T'chia wrinkles her nose a bit and as the young man sits down motions a drudge who arrives at the table with a laden tray of sliced fruits, breads and a bowls of what can only be described as colorless goop. Waiting for the drudge to departs after a quiet word of thanks Chia nods toward the meal and smiles, "Better eat up, your gonna find yourself busy most of the time you awake and I don't want to have starving fainting sessions if it's all the same to you." Winking the rider grins. "As for your bunkmates, lets just say a couple of them seem more intent on arguing with eachother than listening. I'm affraid I had to try to convince them to get along better." Shrugging gently she takes the final drink of her klah and sets the mug aside. "Guess I'll find out soon enough if they listened, if not I'll probally have to do something I really detest." Shifting a bit in her seat she wonders what on pern she's doing telling this to a child /and/ candidate but so far she seems to feel like continuing. "Believe it or not I'm not at all fond of acting like a royal pain in the backside, but what am I suposed to do, I mean if they impress it could very likley come down to thier lives, can you imagine having to trust someone in the skies against thread and knowing they don't like you... how could you count on them to do thier job. We all watch out for eachother, there have been more times than I can count that if the rider on my wing hadn't been there I wouldn't be here anymore."

Dallaney smiles, with neither malice nor mirth, and adds, "And yes, of /course/ I know about rules, Rider," with more force given the latter word than is necessary. "Been having them all my life, back at Igen. Don't do this, don't touch that." She wrinkles her nose in disgust, unconsciously mirroring the other's expression. The repast, meanwhile, is given none of her regard. "I'd /never/ faint," the ex-weyrbrat elucidates, grunting too-loudly at her. Protest follows protest: "No, those children could never
survive weyrlinghood, I don't think. You should do something to them," says she, quite seriously.

T'chia chuckles softly watching the youngster a moment then shrugs, "The weyr will teach them by nessesity or they'll be sent home." With that she tilts her head and watches those hazel eyes a minute, "Yeah, growing up in a weyr I'm sure you've heard all the troubles you can get into. But you know around here you're not exactally considered a child anymore, you are responsible for your own actions and as far as what you touch or do... well thats up to you. I wont tell you you can't do something, just expect that if you do there could be a less than happy responce."

Dallaney is being drawn, irresistably, by T'chia's rhetoric, perhaps part of the effective 'convincing' the rider claims to be so unenthusiastic about. She follows that particular train of thought, and comes up with another nod, and the insistent "I /know/ that" . Unwilling respect creeping into the awry smile, she relaxes slightly on the bench, glancing at the food. "Sounds fair to me. You have a deal, T'chia." The energy, and connections simply aren't there for anything complicated anyway, and there's always the chance that she won't get caught, right?

T'chia chuckles and nods, "Fair enough then, though with all the chores you'll be doing I must admit I feel bad for you. But I promise eventually it does get worse." She giggles and winks, "Between riding watch, keeping up with my duties as weyr-weaver and taking care of Naidath I swear I'm busier now than I ever was as a candidate or apprentice." She makes a face and points to the goey substance in the bowl before the candidate, "Not to mention, though thats suposed to be good for you can you honestly say the food here is appealing?" She shakes her head and sighs glancing up and checking the other occupants of the cavern before leaning a bit closer to the candidate, "The food at Crom is much better, if you get really sick of the food here let me know. I'll see what I can do to get you something a little less... uhh healthy."

Dallaney, unexpectedly, cheers up briefly at the first part of T'chia's speech. "I don't think so. Being here is much better than being pushed left and right to crafters, holders, and what have you -- farmholders, even. At least I know the Hatching will come, and - and if it doesn't happen I can go /back/." There's hope, you see, and hope's always good. And goals, and decent work too, though Dallan's too single-minded to understand that. The spate of good humour holds sway as the rest of it is absorbed, and a sly wink is accordingly returned to match the other's tone. "I understand you," she says gravely. "You think you could do that? Would be great if you could." Just as if it were chores there were talking about, or something worse.

T'chia nods and shrugs, "Sure, after all it's /part/ of my job to make sure you settle in here right? Can't very well do that if I can't handle simple requests for things that make it at least a bit more comfortable can I?" She smiles more earnestly now feeling a bit better about at least one in the group, well, thats not quite fair the other boy seems at least if quiet not like a complete pain to deal with too. "That reminds me, I think I heard whispers your from Igen didn't I?"

Dallaney sniffs her indignance. "Whispers? That must be the gossips again. They're worse than the ones back home." And she nods, all obliging, at the question. "Igen it is." And nowhere else. The pastry below her nose is looking more appetising by the moment, at any rate, and she bends cautiously, biting into one. Ignore the full mouth and those manners. "This is o-kay; not bad."
Which similarly implies that Dallan is letting that which was agreed upon rest. A deal was struck, after all, even if her consent was indirect.

T'chia laughs, "Yeah, living in a weyr is a lot like having your own personal peeping tom no matter where you go. Rummors travel faster than the dragon's it seems." She nods noting the candidate starting to eat and is inwardly pleased that he decided to. "I'll let you know if I have to make a trip to Igen then, I usually head off at least once a day for Crom Hold or Igen depending what the weavers need from where. If you start feeling homesick let me know I'll see what I can do about gaining permission to have you help out as a chore or something Only thing is you'd have to swar to not tell anyone it isn't a real chore chore ya know?"

Dallaney mumbles, through that forkful of fruit. "No--one--will--miss me." It's then that the red fruit is swallowed and she looks up again, to say, roughly, "Why're you helping me, anyway?" That's too much to believe, so soon.

Deciding it's best that she get on with her day, and the candidate gets on with eating then his own she stands and streaches. "I better get a few things done, I still have to finish mixing up a batch of dye but I'm sure I'll see you later on." She picks up her mug and prepares to take it to the sideboard with the other dirty dishes. She chuckles at the candidates question and just shrugs, "Not sure, I guess because so far your the only candidate around who hasn't tried to convince me your a saint while trying to get away with everything you can. I don't particularly mind the antics you all can get into, I just don't like being treated as if I'm too stupid to realize your not saints."

So it is, indeed. Dallaney accepts the explanation; even goes so far as to nod her acceptance emphatically, and offers, late: "The name's Dallan, if you don't know." The contralto's coarse, coarsened by wear, but discernible when thus raised.

T'chia grins and nods, "Nice to meet you Dallan, don't worry, I think you and I are going to get along just fine. You seem to know how weyr's work already." With a wink as she heads off she adds, "Might want to clue your bunkmates into the fact that riders hear /everything/ we just ignore most of it for the sake of harmony. So trying to pull the wool over our eyes tends to be a mistake."

"Oh, I think I'll do that," Dallan says, a trifle furtive, but more alert than she has been for a day or two. "Later." And she looks to the meal again. Stomachs must be filled, after all.

T'chia grins as she walks out calling behind her, "See ya."
T'chia goes home.

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