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.
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 Snuffliberg, Nika, Cait, and Rock.
You see Chores List, Candidates' Board, a large basket, Qzaedhir's Creepily Colorful Cot,
Lau's Little Lair, Dallan's Cot, and Zevay's section of relative solitude with Daemon and
Nuisance occupying it here.
Lauren and Qzaedhir are here.
From here you can go:
Hallway
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 morning.
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A head, all umber and mahogany, pokes up above the level of a cot amongst cots, and a
small but stocky form follows, tumbling off -- onto the chamber's floor. Dallaney's awake,
it seems, and a shower of curses splatter outwards from that direction.
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.
Ruffled, rampant, with a distraught core.
Lauren stalks in, looking, for the most part, irritated -- but not so to the point of
cursing, unlike the now awake, tumbling Dallaney. Uncotted form gets a suspicious glance,
and Lau eases warily towards her own cot before warily inquiring: "..hello?"
When in doubt, just say hi. Or something.
Lauren
Soft, black-brown hair falls in a thick layer to the base of Lauren's long, narrow neck,
the tips brushing gently against her narrow shoulders when not pulled back into a 'tail
for work purposes. Agitatingly long bangs fall haphazardly over a high forehead into
bright brown eyes to tickle prominent cheekbones, despite Weaver's attempt to control them
with a thick black ribbon. Oval face is devoid of expression, thin, pink lips often tugged
downward into an irritated frown. Lanky limbs, skin the same pale shade as the girl's
face, hang down from narrow shoulders and emerge from a thin waist, the tips of long,
needlepricked fingers tapping against slim thighs.
Black, black, black; ebony fabric engulfs Lauren's semi-lanky frame, dark material
manifesting itself in a thick wherhide tunic and equally thick trousers. Hems and cuffs of
tunic and trousers have been stitched with an oddly cheerful pattern of small, golden
flowers complete with green stems and leaves, blossomy stitchings at odds with Weaver's..
irritated.. aura, though the malevolentness of the background hue overshadows it. A strip
of yellow-green wherhide, matching the outfit's trim, dangles from Laur's neck, handy to
tie up her hair, while another ribbon, plain black, holds the girl's bangs out of her
optics.. marginally. Tunic is devoid of belt, the hem dangling mid-thigh, though if the
flowers were missing, it'd be hardly noticeable--trousers take up where shirt ends,
flowing loosely down to Weaver's ankles where brown, snub-toed wherhide boots peek out.
Yet another new knot, and this time it's /not/ in Weavercraft colors. A simple, single
loop is attached to Lau's shoulder, stark white shade an offset to black clothing, and
simply a magnet for Kefkateeth, it seems; little nibblemarks are visible all along the
simple little thing.. which, by the way, denotes Lau not as a Journeywoman, or even a
Senior Journeywoman, but as something entirely different: A Telgar Weyr Candidate for
Rosalth's recent clutch.
Lauren looks to be about seventeen Turns old.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Kefka
Lauren's Gold Stuffed Dragon
Lauren's still as unemotional as ever, but a new knot emits an aura of excitement for
Lau's Candidacy.
Qzaedhir rolls around in her bed and snorts. Or sneezes. Or burps. You can't really tell
when a person is sheathed in ten layers of colorful blankets.
Qzaedhir
Golden dove of childhood tales alights on ocean's misty fingers of froth, pouring upon
slender shoulders in waves of gnarled silk and curling to wreathe porcelain face. Angelic
midnight blue manifests in large, dewy eyes 'neat brows of wheaten gold. Momentary
disillusion flickers at a glance through rose-petal veil of the masquerade of innocence,
thorns ringing sapphire eyes, but is gone at wind's barest breath. Her slender figure runs
something on the short side, clinging to vanity yet straying from regality.
Light blue, light fabric, light everything, from fluffy hair-tie to overly large trousers.
You'd think she was trying to blend into the sky or something. Hey, maybe she is. You
never know...
A single-looped single cord of virgin white is pinned to her shoulder, denoting her a
Candidate for the current Telgar clutch. And since she's so attached to these things,
though, the Turns-old Tillek knot can still be found hanging around her waist somewhere.
Just because it's pretty.
She looks to be in her mid-teens
She is awake and looks alert.
"Hello," Dallan says, in a tone which makes the greeting sound rude for some
reason. Then, levering herself upwards on dark arms, the ambiguously gendered candidate
adds, more politely: "Morning." The head goes into spread palms afterwards, and
she lengthens a groan a moment, stretching cramped arms and feet.
Ambiguous. A word Lauren won't understand for a very long time. Simply because she's too
lazy to find out what it means. In any case, the ambiguous one is eyed warily, and,
eventually, Candidate responds with her own greeting. "Morning." And then, less
politely: "Who're you?" Lau's the picture of politeness. She loves everyone.
Eh.. heh.
"Dallan," is promptly growled back at Lauren from the floor. "I'm a
candidate too," she adds with reluctance. "--Like you." And then, just to
demonstrate some manners of her own, the adolescent props herself back against her cot,
elbows sharp on brown wood, and asks, "What's your name?"
"Lauren," Weaver-turned-Candidate responds, settling herself crosslegged on her
cot. "And you're a Candidate?" Lau didn't notice. She was too busy whining and
grumbling and generally being an idiot about chores. "Hmph. Nice to meet you, in any
case. I suppose we'll be stuck with each other for a good long time, now." Lau's way
of saying 'hi, I'm a nice person, let's be friends'. Or, at least, 'Hi. I'm Lauren. Don't
bug me, I won't bug you, and we'll all be one big happy family'.
Especially if you give her presents.
Like socks.
Multicolored socks.
No, that's for me.
I get socks, too.
But I'll shut up now.
Dallaney gives her negative. "Not such a long time," mumbles she, and doesn't
look as if anything else is forthcoming. The ex-Igenite in fact turns to her cot, turns to
folding up those coverlets and clearing what litter has accumulated from a half sevenday
of sleep. It isn't supposed to be construed as retreat though, for she swivels her neck to
regard Lauren, stonily, brows lowered.
Lauren quirks an eyebrow at that, and suddenly leans forward, oddly relaxed. So what if
she looks like a ragdoll? Too bad for her. "Long enough," former Weaver mumbles,
throaty alto voice muffled by the fact that she's talking to her stomach. "A few more
sevendays, at least." And sevendays are very long to little slacker Weavers whose
lives now consist of chores, chores, and more chores.
Dallaney lofts those eyebrows upwards at that muffled alto; her own voice settles into a
calm contralto, think what you like. "Long sevendays, I know," she responds,
suddenly grinning. "How've you been keeping with up chores? I--heard yesterday that
some of our bunkmates have been having a lot of trouble."
Niamh has connected.
Lauren has a luffly voice, doesn't she? And it's better when it's muffled: you can't hear
it. "I've been doing them," is the only comment on chores -- she's not stupid
enough to admit wether or not she's actually been getting them done. Who knows when a
'rider might sneak in and give her more work to do? "..and some'f them've been
getting along poorly, yes." Lau included. Eh, heh. "Whaddabout you? 've you been
getting them done?" Head lifts to peer at Dallan curiously. Hopefully, he's -- the
gender Lau has so chosen to dub Dallan -- been getting along better than Lau. Not that
it's hard to do worse.
And all the while still in her rib-spraining stance, aslant before her dim cot. Dallan
moves her lips suddenly, but maintains the bare plainness of her posture. "Chores are
okay," she remarks succinctly, "Not any harder than those I've done
before." A sniff, nose raised and pointed Lauren-wards, and she ventures carefully,
testing the waters-- "Heard some rider say that she could bend some rules. Telgar
isn't so bad."
Lauren manages to quirk a slightly genuine grin at the comment about bending the rules.
"We do a lot of that, actually. Bending the rules, that is. Nothing major, but a
little bit of bending here and there." Lauren being the one who does the most; if she
bent over as much as she bent the rules, she'd be bent into an 'o'. Erp. "..chores?
Not bad?" Lauren blinks, genuinely surprised. "Hmm. Interesting viewpoint. I
hate the things; but I haven't had to do this many for a while, so I guess I'm just not
used to it anymore." And besides: she's a slacker.
Nika dozes off...
Dallaney studies Lauren and her apparent genuineness, betraying a lip-cracking grin of her
own that approaches the real thing. "Haven't tried bending anything yet. Maybe you
can show me how it works, here," she suggests evenly, hazel eyes sparking to lighter
interest. "I had to do chores all the time, and yeah, you probably aren't used to
it." And there's not even a trace of contempt in there this time. "You will,
eventually." Smirk.
Lauren already has. She decided to work extra-hard to get ready for a sevenday of latrine
duty. Twitch. Twitch, twitch. Dallan gets another vague smirk, and Candidate shrugs narrow
shoulders idly. "I suppose I could, sometime." Lau's the rule-bending expert.
Maybe. Out of the Candidates she's met so far, that is, which isn't a very large number.
Even if she does have to sleep in the same room as all of them.
Dallaney doesn't bend rules: she's more likely to break them. But only if she can get away
with it. Lauren's listened to, in the meantime, with ready attention as the girl brings
her feet beneath her and leaps upwards to a stand. "Sometime," she agrees as
easily, flicking tiny callused palms off on the dusty jacket that hangs on her. So.
"You come from elsewhere huh?"
Lauren shakes her head, sending black-brown locks flying for a few moments.
"Actually, no. I'm originally a Weaver Journeywoman, so my first home.. or, well, my
second.. is actually just a walk away." But she whines about the mean-mean riders and
there giving way-too-many-chores anyways. "/Originally/, and by this I mean
originally as in where I was born, I'm from a small cothold not far from the Weyr."
And to shorten that answer: "..but no. I'm from Telgar Weyr." And she won't get
more specific than that. It was work enough being specific the first time.
"And you aren't used to chores?" Dallan splutters, or gapes rather openly for as
long as it takes her to click her mouth shut again. Her arms have sprung automatically
akimbo, in a gesture more boyish than mother-hen-like, before the ex-Weaver gets to the
end of her sentence. "You're from /Telgar/."
Just because Lauren's from Telgar does not make her used to chores. She was a slacker even
before she became a Candidate, and she was too busy scribbling on the walls as a little
kid to do anything productive. "Yes, I'm from Telgar. And no, I'm not used to doing
chores. Well, I am, but not to such a point that I'm comfortable with them, like them, or
find them easy." Bright-brown eyes narrow a bit, and head gets tilted in such a way
that Lauren doesn't have to look at Dallan anymore. Oh, no. Lau's not feeling guilty.
Really.
The mask's torn, so Dallaney doesn't bother to put it back on. It's easier to stare at
Lauren and forget her manners, thus. A stray hand and its fingers manage to find an itchy
place in her neck, and she scratches thence while framing a response. "Well, I can
see that." Oops; she tries again, more sympathetically, "I feel like that
sometimes. But we still have to do them. It's part of ...earning our food and cot, or
something."
"It's part of earning our knot," Lauren adds, glowering at the white loop on her
shoulder. "That has been discussed with me already.. even before I became a
Candidate." Aaw. Lau just looks so depressed, now. Or something. Well, maybe she
still looks irritable. But that's natural. "..in any case, if we don't do our work,
we don't keep our not. Or so it was explained to me." And yet, she still seems
nonchalant about all this. Wow.
Dallaney has probably got that by now. She glowers too, in imitation of the covered lights
on the wall opposite, towards Lauren's knot, a copy of her own trussed-up cords. "I
don't care about the knot," she frowns, humour dappling her words. "You do, I
suppose. But that's good. That way you keep on doing your part." And hopefully, she
won't get dragged into it too.
Lauren couldn't care less about the knot, but she'd rather Stand and not Impress then go
back to the Weavercraft with the excuse of 'Oh, I didn't do my work, so they sent me
back.' Life after that'd be /so/ easy. Eh, heh. "Hmm, I don't, actually. But I don't
want to go back to the Craft a /complete/ failure, so I'm sort of stuck doing the chores
until after the Hatching." Another shrug, and Weaver yawns, suddenly. "..hmm.
I'm tired." Wow. As if that wasn't blatently obvious. "..I.." And another
yawn. "Am going to get some sleep. It was nice to meet you, Dallan, and I'm sure
we'll be seeing more of eachother." And then it's huddling-under-the-covers time for
Lau. Yaay.
Lauren moves to stand inside Lau's Little Lair.
Dallaney is stuck here for good, so she might as well nod, and shrug, and mutter,
"See you later, Lauren." That road leading forward looks appropriate right now.
You leave the room.