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.
Flopped atop various perches are Akio, Frazap, Repugno, DawnSky, Troofaloop, Sanctus,
Gnare, Mama, Aeris, and Rime.
You see S'am, Ad'niss, and OOC Rules (~*!*~ l ooc ~*!*~) here.
K'no, R'sha, Maralia, and Qzaedhir are here.
From here you can go:
Lower Caverns Bowl
Infirmary
Kitchen Gaming Room
The current weather report:
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
TelgW: Center of the Bowl (#999)
It is a bright, cheery day. It is a winter morning.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maralia sighs and moves away from the hearth, rubbing the back of her hand over her brown
and settling at a table with a fresh glass of juice. "Gets hot over there." You
know, fire, warm.. "So, is it cold out yet? I noticed that the weather was changing a
bit."
Dallaney strides in with broom anchored over one shoulder, and a frown ensconced on her
lips. Her steps are light, though, as she pauses at a spot before the occupied benches and
sets to sweeping, glance passing over the morn caverns.
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.
Qzaedhir is apparently in a strange mood. It must be the klah. Then again, that's her
excuse for everything. "Hiiiii," the girl giggles at Dallaney, elongating the
greeting scarily. "Are you busy? Want me to tell you a secret?" Yes, she's quite
insane. No, probably not the klah -- after all, if she pretends to be loopy, maybe she can
get out of chores. Of course, the whole time the girl purposely averts her gaze from
R'der's. No need to provoke the dragonrider. Especially since he looks about to fall
asleep now.
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.
Dallaney drops a look Qzaedhir's way: one schooled to express complete civility. "No,
I'm not busy," she hollers easily over some heads. Including R'der's, most probably.
"What is it?" And she's already heading over, regardless of the neglected broom
thwacking against it's rest behind. She continues, from a few steps away, "Who's
he?"
Maralia eyes the sweepers and mutters something else about over working before going to
her stitching. "You know, I think it would be more productive to take a few more
breaks during chores.." Not that anyone's asked her. "Or take time to soak in
the baths, baths always make you feel all wonderful and warm." And fuzzy.
Qzaedhir prances to Dallaney's side, whispers, "You look like socks!" into her
ear, and prances out again. Yes, it's safe to come out of your hiding places, she's gone.
For now, anyway. Probably off to go get examples for Dallan, just in case she doesn't know
what socks look like.
Qzaedhir steps gracefully toward Lower Caverns.
Dallaney has stopped doing her chore, incidentally. Just in time to hear Qzaedhir's
much-vaunted secret, anyway -- the candidate sends an incredulous glare towards the
retreating girl, and goes on looking more puzzled than anything as she twists, back, to
retrieve her line of work.
"Socks! Huh," the mutter arises from behind the simulated pile of dust Dallan
should be sweeping up by now, were the caverns to be so dirty. But they aren't, and she
carries both herself and the broom onwards, disappearing from sight.
Infirmary
This is a large cavern to house all the sick and injuries of the Weyr. Several cots are
lined up against one wall with curtains between them. There is a strong smell of redwort
in here. Many shelves contain bottles, containers and pouches of herbal medicines for
countless ailments. A desk by the door is staffed by an eager apprentice to assist in
minor healing. The examination table is in one corner with its own curtain for privacy.
You see Candidate Exam Chart here.
From here you can go:
Invalid Weyr Main Caverns
Hallway CraftHead's Office
Invalid Weyr
This is a huge cavern made to house several adult dragons comfortably. There is an
entrance to the human infirmary and there is cots here for riders and healers to use to
watch over their larger patients stationed here. For the most part the place is bare,
except for the soft padding for the dragons.
Aida and Tarlin are here.
The following dragons are here: Helicyth
From here you can go:
Infirmary Private Room Outside
Aida and Tarlin are sitting around a table, while a green dragon-rider pair makes
themsselves comfortable in the other corner of the weyr. "Just one," Aida says,
referring to the sausage Tarlin's about to ingest. "Don't want you eating all /my/
food when I can't leave here except to go to the necessary." Or there'd be humanpoop
to be cleaned too.
Ew. Tarlin munches on the sausage, turning towards the door as someone else enters. Not
recognizing the person, or rather, not having a name for her, she simply lifts a
splayed-finger greeting to Dallaney before turning her attention back to Aida. "Does
ya know what he might've eaten?"
Dallaney slides in the entrance, from human infirmary to dragon, broom held at an awkward
angle away from herself. Her jacket has been draped askew on her shoulder, removed despite
her persistence, and clad only in her tunic, the boyish girl sidles the rest of the way
in. "Morning," she mutters for whoever may be present, then tosses a salute in
Tarlin and Aida's direction, for the convenience of it.
Aida just looked at you.
Tarlin
Spikes of rich honeyed hair, shorn by a childish hand, stand out from her head in an
uneven nimbus, longer strands falling in clinging tendrils across pale golden features.
Bright hazel orbs of tawny almond shade are set within a wide frame of slightly darker
lashes, an occassional hint of verdant hue flashing in their depths. A splash of freckles
washes chubby cheeks and bridges her pert nose between the impish arch of full brows.
Pouting bowed lips complete the youthful visage while prominent cheekbones add a hint of
maturity to her rounded face. Burgeoning womanhood blooms prematurely into full curves
upon a still sprouting form, boosted by child's chub that threatens to linger beyond
adolescence as her height fails to accept puberty's subtle nudge into lengthening, keeping
her among the shorter of her peers.
Look who raided stores! Tarlin is bedecked in the most horrific combination of colors
known to man. Overalls an orange faded from its original eye straining bright are still a
shade one shouldn't look at directly. The crisscrossing of pale blue that may have managed
to make it more appealing simply adds to the garish finish of the thing, making for one
horrific plaid. The tunich beneath is a pink faded from red and clashes rather badly with
the overalls. Both pieces too large for her diminutive form, sleeves are bunched about her
arms and legs folded over several times to fall heavily over the curve of black boots,
scuffed but otherwise serviceable.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Sam Tarlin's Cot
Bebbe Confundo
Aida
Riderhood has its own legacy: 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 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.
Olive green and black leathers cast a somber, if simple, silhouette over Aida's sturdy
form. The jacket has been dyed the former hue and graces her torso with a complimentary
fit. Its details are wrought in black -- the threads trimming sleeves' wrist-edge and the
clasps that fasten the jacket together -- to match her burnished, if somewhat worn leather
pants. The latter are a little too long and broad for her, tapering abruptly into stout
black leather boots.
The stark contrast of Telgar's white and black is warmed by earth-brown, her lifemate's
hue assuaging the single loop of Weyr's colors.
Although her appearance is nebulously adolescent, Aida's mannerisms and bearing connote a
worldliness that few hold-bound adults could match.
She is awake and looks alert.
Better, brisker, bitter-er.
Aida explains, in between bites of her homemade pigs-in-a-blanket. "We flew straight
over a good bit of Southern, so he got hungry. He had a wherry and later that night, he
was /so/ ill." Roused half the Weyr with his moaning, mental and audible, and
proceeded to poop across the other half on their way to the infirmary. " -- You, what
are you doing here?" she asks of Dallaney. "Aren't you from Igen?"
Tarlin wrinkles her nose, a hint of pity flashing across her face as she gazes across the
room to the sleeping brown. She shakes her head, attention following Aida's words to
Dallaney. "She's a candidate," she answers the brownrider in a soft aside.
Dallaney moves forward quite heedlessly, towards that table, just remembering to sketch
another salute for the greenriding group as she nears them. "Got swapped into chores
here," she mentions first, without thought, then responds with a swift shake of the
umbered head. "--From Igen, yes, but I got Searched, here," emphasising the
latter word; she proceeds to stand glumly at attention. "Does anything need to be
done?" Besides the cleaning, perhaps.
The weyr is mostly clean, for now, but wait till Helicyth has another of his spells.
"They did the whole place over with redwort about an hour ago," Aida informs the
candidate as she picks up a glass of juice. "Don't think you need to again, but you
might want to go over some of those buckets with redwort." She indicates a pile by
the exit to the bowl -- those are the buckets that double as pooper-scoopers, see.
Tarlin follows Aida's gesture, brows lifting in wonder at the buckets. Of course, she's
not curious enough to move herself to examine said buckets. She swallows the bit of
sausage she'd been gnawing on and then smiles at Aida. "How long'd they say you's
gonna be in here?" she asks.
"A sevenday or so," Aida mutters, "depending on how well he responds to the
herbs. He's not been eating much either." Certainly not as much as his rider, given
the rapidity with which breakfast is cleaned from her plate.
Dallaney eyes Tarlin for a moment, having missed the pity but not the attention-catching
clothes. Duty calls, loyalty calls, yet that doesn't preclude some staring in the
meantime. She jerks a nod vaguely to the buckets, sniffs, then just lingers there for a
second's pause before turning to them; enough to hint of insolence but not much more.
Tarlin's managed to forget the horrid appearance of her clothes, the apron she wears over
them while she's working hiding it for the most part. She shakes her head, finishing off
her sausage and wiping her hands on the apron curving over her lap. "Well, ifn' he's
not eatin' much, then he's not poopin' much, right?"
Woofamoof has arrived.
Woofamoof pops in from ::between::
Aida grimaces. "I haven't exactly been keeping track of his ins and outs," she
observes. "I think he's just cleaning out his system, and what the healers give him
helps with that." Or so they tell her. The brownrider glances over at Dallaney, to
see if the girl's made any progress yet. " -- They didn't send any other candidates
to help you? Chores are usually a group thing."
At the buckets, Dallan puts a cap on her imminent sniff. "Smells like wherry
puke," is her commentary while flinging them about. She rises from her squat to pick
up the redwort; bends again to rinse her hands. "I think they had to help some rider
with his washing, or something." She concedes, in the next breath, that, "Don't
know, actually. Someone swapped his time with mine." Someone who didn't want to scrub
dragonpoop buckets.
Aida didn't dole out the chores, so don't blame her for this one. "Won't take
long," she calls over cheerfully to the candidate, settling back with her klah. From
her corner, though, the greenrider contributes a less optimistic prediction about how long
those buckets will take.
Tarlin would be glad she isn't a candidate if she'd really had to get down into those
buckets and clean them up.. sure. She shoots a mutinous glance at Dallan. "Wherry
puke don't smell /dat/ bad." Thus the cleaning job can't be that bad, right? Tarlin
slaps her thighs, getting ready to get up.
Dallaney scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Looks like the less sanguine estimate might be the
right one after all.
Aida could offer Dallaney the last sausage, but it's not her job to feed the candidates
either. "These are pretty good," she admits to Tarlin. "So they're letting
you cook? For real?" She's in such a sated mood, she doesn't even ask when they'll
get round to cooking Baby.
Tarlin shrugs, her nose wrinkling yet again. "Well.. they's lettin' me in da
kitchen." Which isn't saying much. "Mostly, I jis' wash dishes an' clean da
living caverns... an' when that's all done, they lets me cook, too."
Dallaney looks like she's on the verge of finishing one bucket. "Heard someone say
the food here wasn't very good," she mentions, moving to the next. Not interruption
though; her position doesn't allow that.
"Well, I's not da cook," Tarlin retorts to Dallaney's comment. Full of
ourself, aren't we? The weybrat shoves her hands into her pockets, standing and eyeing the
doorway. The smell of redwort is a little too overwhelming for this kidlet.
Doesn't sound as if Tarlin gets many opportunities to cook, anyway. "Well, these
aren't bad," Aida concludes, eating the last sausage herself. "So maybe you'll
grow up and be a useful person after all." Just look how the brownrider turned out.
Tarlin rolls her eyes but doesn't reply. She glances at the tray and then the greenrider
attending to her dragon and asks. "Does ya think I should take this back ta the
kitchens, or should I send someone ta pick it up later?"
Aida waves a dismissive hand. "Take it. We'll just hang on to the klah." The
greenrider doesn't protest.
Tarlin nods and picks up the tray, her eyes rolling towards the ceiling in relief that
quite a bit of it has already been eaten. "Okay. I guesses I'll be sein' ya 'round,
Aida." She nods to the candidate across the room and heads to the door.
Tarlin moves like the kidlet she wishes she were toward Infirmary.
Dallaney glances up so-discreetly and just watches the girl leave. It's back to the
buckets for her.
-- While Aida returns to sorting her clothes. If she doesn't find a clean tunic in this
pile, she's going to have to wear one of those healer shifts for the rest of Helicyth's
sojourn here.