The following is a log of roleplay on Star Stones MOO, logged by D'ney.
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.
Boom Shakalaka. Kezasuth of Igen is on the verge of letting loose in a
glorious display of hormones. Catch her if you can! RP starts in Igen's main
living cavern (#782) within moments. @addchan KitchenSink if you want to
come, and page Echo with questions.
Entered by Echo (#8744) at Mon Sep 3 17:48:26 2001 MDT
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Dragon Descriptions
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Inky dollops of dusty rose salmon coalesce the creases of his vast expanse of
seasoned black cherry hide, cluttering into gangly extremities seeped in
sepia before vanishing beneath a facade of dusky darkness. Sleek sheets of
lengthy mocha-washed wings drizzled with an ethereal edge of frosty pink
coral veins engulf him, cluttering the smooth, rounded ridges that bud from
his elongated neck and rosewood headknobs, leaving only a whim of the large,
expressive eyes that light his nervous triangular head. Hints of deep well
metallicy limn his soot-smudged physique, creating golden glimpses that
overshadow the disproportions and discrepancies and glitter the lengthy
starscape frame from rich hazelnut tail to clever ebon talons with heroic
motes of succulent, suffering incandescence.
Nhaeth is 1 Turn, 10 Months, and 14 Days old.
Bluesteel and ice chisel power the gleaming sapphire purity of his intrepid
bulk with metallic scintillations of light that shimmer into rime at the very
edges of the transparent icicles cresting into neckridges along his back and
neck. Crackling upwards to a hoary fan of brow ridges, a frost-splashed
window of a mask across crystalline eyes and a broad, strong-jawed head, the
tundra ridges sweep downward, too, into a muscular tail glimmering to the
spade in a glistening of frozen cobalt. Wings whipped in gunmetal gleamings
encase all, their brushed turquoise sails bursting against crystalline spars
in an edged floe of lustrous chill that dissolves into the heated steel of
undaunted hindquarters.
Olexath is 1 Turn, 10 Months, and 14 Days old.
Pastel sky weaves over much of his willowing frame, breezing through clouds of
powdered baby blue highlights and ghostly lilac shadows before splashing a
warm band of opalescence thickly into the azure expanse of his elongated
limbs and melting down to milk-bathed sock paws and spicular claws of
polished silvery dove. Above his proudly-arched neck, ticklish lavender
teases the gentle twilight headknobs and trickles into an accent of
exaggerated eyeridges in refined, eccentric traces; here the elliptical
contours of his wedge-shaped head define a permanent countenance of surprise
above his blunt-nosed muzzle startled with a contrast of inky sapphire. Gaunt
frames stretched to a spiderwebbed sprawl of spiral eruptions of curious
violet surging forth from unseen inner thresholds toward powerful mainstay
tips, his wings burst from his body down a lengthy backside in a jagged
struggle of wild audacity, hushed only by a delicate misting of lucid,
translucent cyan.
Llywith is 1 Turn, 10 Months, and 14 Days old.
Frigidness defines breadth of space-spanning chest, glacial azure welling up
from heart's depth to crystallize in the cogent arc of cobalt throat,
frost-ridged, yet melting to whitewater foam - tumbling past steely sapphire
haunches dipped in astral luster, infiltrative spume coagulated into the
veridical confines of tail tip. Gelid tones reign over the calculated angles
of muzzle, eye-ridge, and head-knob, silvern sheen gilded atop bottomless
lapis to match the coruscations of cuspidate talons. Unfathomable midnight
shades spout from sloping shoulders, spurting indigo through wing spars
stretched towards the stars. Yes, galaxies collide within the celestial
vault of 'sails, a maelstrom of argentine scintillations against the twilight
- but the mysteries of the universe reside within the novae of his gaze.
Cephevarth is 4 Turns, 11 Months, and 19 Days old.
Silver-kissed sky defines this compact dragon's form with the sleek stylings
of moonlight incarnate. Scattered along firm eyeridges and across crown,
rough gravel disturbs the otherwise smooth surface, sending waves of midnight
calmness towards the sharp muzzle and down the graceful curve of his neck.
The darkness strays to honed neckridges, dappling each lustrous light-marbled
zenith with the contrasting touch of velvety night. Ripples eventually
dissipate over staunch shoulders, the blue-gray tranquility settling over the
bulk of his streamlined body and sweeping down lean limbs. Feathery streaks
of pearl, sky and lilac wash over translucent wingsails like a multitude of
colorful comets. Waves of sea tones crash over strong wings, tossing up milky
foam that bubbles up and spills across pastel wingtips; a vitreous breeze of
violet sets his wings aflutter with opal and orchid as hints of darker navy
and royal freckle about the edges.
Kharanth is 6 Turns, 7 Months, and 23 Days old.
Elusive quicksilver frolics along the contours of her slender frame, over the
deep, dark jasper that shimmers in opalescence and melds atop austere,
angular lineaments, assuaging harsh features with the alien traces of
incandescence, grazing bony shoulders and kissing the vast spread of broad
wings. From there, Jade tumbles down her gawky, lanky extremities,
surrendering to the inky void of a barnacled belly, the blackened
bottle-green of her creases, and the murky verdure that creeps along her
beryline sides. While pearly smoke and crystalline hints of fragile dove
sift over the elfin cast of her triangular head and limn the lines of a proud
jaw, hoarfrost and morning dew repose among her craggy neckridges, and
teasing strains of verdigris slink through the subtle stirring of dappled
moss, as enigmatic as the ghost whispers of sooty absinthe beneath the
esoteric darkness that cloaks her in endless, eternal verdancy.
Kezasuth is 1 Turn, 10 Months, and 14 Days old.
She is Kezasuth, warrior dragon! Hear her...squeak?
[+][IW-NWBA] Kharanth is followed by the echo of the watchdragon's trumpet of
greeting, and sound ringing across Igen's scorching desert night. He settles
nearby with a flare of wings, and as his rider departs, he snorts a gruff
greeting to those he finds himself in company with.
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 Maraithe, Shaman, Jittery, and Dawuuj.
You see Rushweed Basket, Ierie, and Canyon here.
Echo, Kwih, Kayre, Halis, J'era, and Saine are here.
From here you can go:
Kitchens Lower Caverns
Bowl
Infirmary
D'ney has arrived.
The current weather report:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IgenW: Center Bowl Area (#5491)
The sky is clear and bright without a cloud to be seen. It is a winter
evening.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[+][IW-NWBA] Olexath is intent on his bug for the moment. He hops up and
starts to slowly waddle after it, nose to the ground, tail up in the air
behind him. After several moments and several sneezes later he pounces the
bug, only to have it fly away. With a little draconic sigh he glances about
and blinks a little at Kezzy's pacing.
Kwih jolts awake at the sound of voices, tossing her head sideways into the
puddle of klah with faultless accuracy. Grunting sounds ensue, followed by
cursing and the levering up of her torso on one elbow. Confused eyes take in
the setting--what a place and time to fall pseudo-asleep--before the
post-hangover amnesia ceases and the headache hits, causing her to slouch
backwards with a very vocal, drawn-out moan.
Halis laughs, "Well I'm sure it's bound to come soon. Olexath is still trying
to find the perfect flowers for his little gift." She stops and blinks as
Kwih finally catches her attention, "What the?"
(Nhaeth) Xweth's eyes ooze shut, one lid at a time until he slips into
oblivion...
Echo looks almost jealous at Kwih. "Where," she demands without waiting for
the moan to end, "did you get the alcohol?" She can't fiiiiind any. J'era,
also not a threat, is ignored. She casts a suspicious glance
Halis-Kayre-wards for any sign that they're on the verge of finding someone
to tattle to.
J'era pauses. There's a dragon pacing in circles outside, a rider inside who
appears to be suffering much the same way J'era did that morning, and someone
else is pilfering the sweetrolls. At least no one'll notice one more, mmm?
So the long-legged bluerider stalks over towards the counters where Igen's
evening meal lies, inspecting the offerings.
[+][IW-NWBA] Kezasuth saw Olexath. Stop staring at me! She allows just a hint
of a glow to brighten the night, and then springs away and upward.
Saine wanders in, hands working with casual clumsiness to try and dislodge the
layer of dust that coats her weyrling uniform. Llywith's been pouncing
again. Kwih is eyed with almost hopeful worry. "She sick?" It's been a
while since Saine's done any healing, y'know. "Oh. Alcohol." Pout quivers
into pitiful existance. Wine. Hmp. Kwih could at least have had the
decency to have the flu.
Kayre nods, "Oh she will love that.." At the sound of the curses and moans
eyes quickly turn to Kwih, "Do what?" She then hears Echo and turns to look
at the weyrling as if wondering exactly what she thinks she is doing. Her
face is firm and almost shocked.. what will that one do next.
(Nhaeth) Zafirath lets out a cavernous yawn as she awakens from her catty nap.
[+][IW-NWBA] From Sky Above Northwest Bowl, Llywith flies toward Sky High
Above Northwest Bowl.
[+][IW-NWBA] From Sky Above Northwest Bowl, Olexath carefully tilts gunmetal
carressed wings toward Sky High Above Northwest Bowl.
[+][IW-NWBA] From Sky Above Northwest Bowl, Kharanth flies toward Sky High
Above Northwest Bowl.
(Nhaeth) West Igen Badlands
(Nhaeth)
(Nhaeth)
(Nhaeth) Scalding desert sands give way to naked rocks stripped clean by the
steady swirl of fiery winds, allowing airborne granules to slice even the
native's hardened skin like tiny knives, making protective clothing an
uncontested requirement. The dehydrated ground is lacerated into splintering
cracks and broken by jutting crags, hidden pitfalls causing frequent missteps
should anyone be foolish enough to try and traverse the area on foot. The
near steady state of whipping winds and vicious sandstorms dulls the sky
above from view and blurs the surrounding area, making navigation nearly
impossible even for the experienced traveler.
(Nhaeth)
(Nhaeth) The following dragons are here: Kezasuth, Llywith, Olexath, and
Kharanth
(Nhaeth) From here you can go:
(Nhaeth) Up
Igen Desert
(Nhaeth) Forest Plains Lower Range
Halis smiles, "Good, Olexath'll be glad." Echo's thirst for alcohol isn't
really noticed and her cold food is poked at with her fork for a while. The
sludgy quality of cold mush turning her stomach and causing her to push the
food away.
D'ney sidles in from one end of the caverns, flicking the tapestry aside with
more derision than not. A few moments after Saine, actually. Glance rakes
the ground, ground slightly agape with the day's heat, sands's toil, but the
weyrling proffers a dip of the head to her fellows as she stumps along.
Turning her head on its bed of flooring to sniff the puddle about it, Kwih
creases her forehead with annoyance. Without looking at anyone, she
nonetheless appears to be responding to Echo's question. "There." Points at
floor. See Kwih. See Kwih point at puddle. "SOMEBODY," she continues,
standing up and walking towards a table, "spiked my KLAH. And I'm /not/
sick." With that fact eloquently stated, she leans over said table and
proceeds to be sick all along its glossy surface.
(Nhaeth) From Sky Above Badlands, Cephevarth has arrived.
(Nhaeth) Cephevarth has arrived.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth delights in this wide space, out in the open, the weyr just
a smudge of a chain just behind. She basks in a low, long glide -- ignoring
those behind -- before the milling of life below catches her eye, her
stomache, her hormones, and she swerves down with a scream of a war-whoop
challenge.
(Nhaeth) Olexath was looking at a bug too, how interesting. At least it would
be to the ice blue if he knew. The glow of Kezzy was just barely noticed,
but since everyone else went along so did he. Now that he's out of the weyr
and can get a better look at things he notices it a little more. Mind tries
to remember a few things but after a while he just gives in and lets things
go as they naturally do.
Echo, apparantly, has not caught on. She makes a face at Kwih -- "And no
decency to save any." -- and seems satisfied with her sweets supply. She
hoists the sack on her shoulder, and pauses on the void between cavern and
bowl to tell Halis; "You can tattle now. We'll be back in two days, or
something." Meanwhile, she and Kezasuth are leaving. She and Kezasuth are
flying the coop. She and Kezasuth..."Oh, bother." She adds a few of those
oh-so-fun uncouth words for effect.
Saine examines Kwih from afar -- "Are you sure you're not sick, because you
look sick, and I used to be a --" There's a pause, Saine caught off as a
faint frown ripples over her face. "Where on earth are you going, dear?"
It's not said with too much worry, however. After all, Llywith often goes
pouncing after prey. "You never stay where I want to, do you, I'm just going
to have to make some kind of leash, or something, or--" Saine keeps on
forgetting that she doesn't need to talk aloud. Or maybe, it's just that
she's not happy unless her mouth is moving. "Bother?"
(Nhaeth) Cephevarth bobs along behind everyone else, eyes to all appearances
closed. So much for steering: he moves lazily left, right, up, down, like am
amateur or perhaps just adventurous airplane pilot. Despite oh-so-loud
hunting noises -- the kind you get when hunting -- he still remains, well,
blissfully ignorant.
Halis wouldn't tattle and debates flinging some of her cold mush at Echo but
upon further thought doesn't think it'd get very far. D'ney and Saine get
smiles and waves as she finally notices them, "Ello guys." After a little
yawn she runs a hand over her short sparkles and stands to get something warm
to eat, "Yeah, what are you oh bothering about?" Her mind isn't quite all
with her tonight it would seem so if she sounds unHalis like that's why
apparently.
Echo tries for ambience; enigmatic. "Ask your dragon," she reveals, but
without the proper inflection and so frustrated waits another moment before
her dramatic departure. "Um. Groundweyrs are by the infirmary, right?"
"I," Kwih repeats, wiping a bit of mess from the corner of her mouth, "am
not
sick." Just perhaps a little drunk. Still. She dilligently ignores any and
all other conversation, and while she's at it the mess on the table, in
preference of herself. Why, she's so presumptuous as to procure herself a
fresh mug of klah, which she tips down her throat, swishes around her mouth,
and swallows. Then she spits slightly brown-tinged. On the sand. Well,
everybody has their nasty habits.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth powers in, keen wings stroking swift over and against the
recalcitrant eddies. He's here for a party, he is, together with the horde
of dragons -- a kettle's comfortable rumble goes to Olexath, a light
warble-growl to the others. A rare coloured patch gets skimmed over, head
turning ponderous glance at it.
(Nhaeth) Llywith's oh-so enthusiastic flight technique is enough to frighten
off the couple of poor, innocent lifeforms below. The combination of
Kezasuth's warcry, and the movement, is enough to send the flighty blue
tumbling after the slower of the two lifeforms. Tag! You're it! You're...
dead. Hormones spring into action, but at the speed of the brain of a
watchwher, as Llywith slowly comes to the conclusion of what needs to be
done. Uh. Lets see. You put your talons in here -- sorry about this -- and
you... blood splatters in a rather messy display, as Llywith begins to get
the hang of this.
(Nhaeth) Kharanth dozes off...
J'era has disconnected.
(Nhaeth) Olexath watches everyone for a while, returning Nhaeth's rumble with
one of his own as well as a slight tail wave which sends him right for the
ground. Oops. Wait, he meant to do that, yes, that's it. Using the
accidental movement he joins in on the bloody mess down below. Talons
extended he aims himself at one of the funnier looking animals and zips on
down, wheee.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth is amazonian in her ferocity, viciously downing two wherries
at once, and only really interested in one at the moment. Such waste. But She
is in charge here, and they are Her wherries, and she will do with them as
she pleases. No illusions as to what sustenance she needs; the blood baptizes
her throat in a wash of ruddy wine. A bronze nudges too close to her kill,
and she retorts in a wild slap of tail.
(Nhaeth) Llywith sees: Nhaeth bubbles over with a kind of bemusement, a
question speared towards blood and beasts' painted muck, before it too floats
away in soft laughter. Oh, so /that's/ how it's done.
Echo, lacking a reply, will find it herself, in the miserable state that she
is. No bath, no wine, no freedom. The day looks to get worse yet.
Echo skulks toward NorthWest Bowl.
"Ask ... ground ... eep." She did indeed try to ask Olexath but found him off
in his own little world for the most part. She is able to piece the .. well
the pieces together and is slightly upset that she didn't get a chance to go
off and hide somewhere. It was her plan afterall. Hide while anything
female rises. Wait, there goes Echo, she can still go hide somewhere.
Kwih glances distractedly after Echo, mind partially under dragon's sway.
"Maybe I do need a tonic," she says hastily, and exits.
Kwih saunters toward NorthWest Bowl.
Saine blinks at Echo in confusion -- "He'll answer?" -- before her nose begins
to wrinkle as a hint of horror enters her face. "Uh. Can't you stop it? I
mean... I sorta expected... time to... well..." Fingers scratch at her arm,
almost irritibly, before she follows after Echo with slow, drawn out steps.
A panic'd glance says she'd like to run, but a change in expression suggests
that the dragon-link is comming into focus.
Saine stumbles toward NorthWest Bowl.
Halis walks with the usual spring in her step toward NorthWest Bowl.
(Nhaeth) Cephevarth's line of flying sleep is unbroken until he bumps
accidentally into a rather slow brown and mutters a groggy, aggravated noise
that is rather unbecomingly high-pitched. The other creature is, obviously,
slightly outraged, and the two carry out a brief squabble during which it
appears the brown would rather eat Cephevarth than any other game. Yet an
exceptionally plump beast that does not appear to enjoy moving at last
catches his attention, and Ceph is left to fly about in circles looking dazed
and confused.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth is far from wild and ferocious, but he's doing a fair
imitation in this charade. Shrinking 'sails, tail, -flailing- quarters to
himself, he arches down and down to meet the others, a flight path that
switches tack on the last stage of his trajectory, slamming him into the
smallest wherry in the herd. The sands see vermillion again, spilled in
rather a haphazard way.
Guest Weyr
Pale stone spins from a curved tunnel, into a square-cut weyr with room to
hold almost any dragon: here the walls stipple rose quartz into darkest
obsidion, cut by hand and smoothed by years of habitation. Sparse
wallhangings allow the stone's coolness to pervade the desert-warmed air,
mute the dry soil's acrid sulphur and ash. The room's only furnishings, a
rush-filled bed and Queen-sized dragon couch, fully prepared for comfort,
offer alternative to Igen's more usual hammock and stone.
Echo, Kwih, Saine, and Halis are here.
From here you can go:
Bowl
(Nhaeth) Llywith's head seems to twist slightly towards Kezasuth's extra kill,
crimson-stained nostrils flaring -- only to turn determinedly back to his own
blood-source at the bronze-directed warning. Uh. His' fine. No problems
with it. Nope.
(Nhaeth) Olexath rolls over on the ground with his beastie, wings flopping
against the ground. Once he's finished rolling he's a great big bloody blue
mess. This being the first time he's blooded anything he didn't quite get
the hang of it. Halis would just love the state his hide is in now, dirt,
blood, mud, wonderful combination. Moving right along he picks out another
beastie and tries the less exhuberant approach, almost dainty this time.
Echo was rather hoping there'd be less people. Like two. Or something. Here
she is kicking P'zan in the shin, though, and looking claustrophobic just to
be under a roof again.
D'ney had her arms crossed, really, palms locked and sweaty over their fores,
and she doesn't appear to have changed that stance much in the long trek to
this weyr's entrance. A few more steps towards the couch, the bed, and then
neither, and she sways somewhere in the middle. Sticking point.
Halis really was planning on hiding somewhere but here she is all the same.
Once inside she makes her way towards an outer wall and has a seat, the
slightest frown marring her pale lips.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth tosses aside the remains of the wherries, one a corpse, one
a husk, and sits back a moment to watch the antics of the males with
something resembling smugness. Such power, to make them look like such fools.
She's a mess, yeah, but she's a /popular/ mess. This hasn't happened in a
while. Quicksilver talons stretch and curl reflectively.
Kwih, having arrived, takes great pains in looking awkward and out of place.
Er, what's she doing here anyway? She starts to rake fingers through hair
nervously, then discovers all the overcreamed spiked-klah goop in her hair,
and retracts her hand with a muttered "Oh /gross/." Her expression of
bemusement becomes slightly annoyed.
(Nhaeth) Llywith's outer eyelids draw closed, cloaking his swirling orbs as he
throws himself into sleep.
Saine disappears in an explosion of multi-coloured dust. Well... not really.
But it sounds impressive, doesn't it?
(Nhaeth) Olexath finishes off beastie number two and then rolls around in the
dirt slightly to try and remove at least a little of the blood. Worries
about thinking about what he's supposed to be doing have gone right out the
window. Tongue flicks out to clean his face slightly while he peers at Kezzy
some more almost tauntingly.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth is stark, raving mad, sure, and all for Kezasuth. But that's
if he knows of it -- the dusky brown is too preoccupied with descending upon
his second wherry, paws going aground with calcuted precision. A rip of
talon here, a dip of snout there, then a hasty, abashed check over
glittering, dirtied talons, and back to the drinking. A toast to the girl in
centre-stage.
Echo has connected.
To hide, to hide. But where? D'ney turns her face to Echo and P'zan as she
folds into a crouch. A mirror of the carnage so far away, no doubt. Angular
features squinch into mask-like rigidity, resistance rife in the fists,
clenched, the hazels, boring edges into the smooth ground.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth doesn't really need to kill again and, in this moment,
decides to let that fat beastie go unmolested through the rest of its life.
No warning; she is a shooting star, with a shriek in her bones, in her
throat, in her wings as they battle the air currents to get up. Away from
this foul pit of mud and death and dying! She has stars to seek, following
roads back, ancient tracks and primitive times. Primitive, oh yes.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth flies toward Sky Above Badlands.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth has arrived.
Halis appears to pay attention again.
(Nhaeth) Cephevarth dozes off...
Kwih has disconnected.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth has a drive in his wings and a twitch in his tail, intent upon
gauging the latest beast splattered before his wide, wide eyes. The creature
goes left, and he veers right, nudging it with a snaking tongue, only to be
distracted by the green glory. Sight locking on, /in/, the darkling dragon
spreads his wings, putting his forepaws out of the way in a hurry. Up he
goes, straining exuberantly towards the brightest point in the sky. The red
behind him--well, conscience can catch up another day.
(Nhaeth) Olexath is slightly startled by Kezzy leaping up into the air since
he was studying her so intently. It takes him a moment or two to lift his
icey expance into the air. once he does however he pumps his wings rather
hard to try and catch up with Kezzy.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth flies toward Sky Above Badlands.
(Nhaeth) Sky Above Badlands
(Nhaeth)
(Nhaeth) Dry air, punctuated by scattered clouds, refuses the arid ground
below the pleasure of its most treasured, life-giving essence of water, only
the occasional drizzle or thunderstorm breaking the enduring drought.
Forceful blasts of wind seize these desolate grounds deprived of both trees
and mountains, manufacturing hazardous flying conditions for those traveling
in times of bad weather. Only the most experienced of riders find flight
here bearable - but even they avoid the searing cross-winds and warm drafts
as much as possible.
(Nhaeth)
(Nhaeth) The following dragons are here: Kezasuth
(Nhaeth) Olexath has arrived.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth does not level out her flight even when it would be so much
easier than battling all these sandwiched thermals. Up. Sun, moon, stars,
whatever; she's just flying high on antigravity, and there is nothing but a
film of air to stop her. The glow deepens, actually visible now that a
warning does no good.
Halis sighs quietly from her spot over on the outside of the room, eyes slowly
opening as she peers at everyone else.
Echo still plays queen of the dragon's throne. The couch could use some clean
rushes, but hey; she's busy keeping an eye on the dragon. No choice, really.
Kezasuth is in charge tonight, and the soul on the ground is just as much a
husk as the blooded wherry was.
(Nhaeth) Olexath lets out a slight warble as he flicks his tail behind him
attempting to gain a little air. It doesn't help however. Instead he looks
like a rather large snake with wings slowly making his way up, up, up.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth soars on starry wings, backlit by Rukbat's fading glamour,
chasing Kezasuth's slipstream. Gravity can indeed be defied, tearing down
and through the darkness as he is doing; spindly length flaps a little too
hard, too much, but he's racing on along with the pack. Wow. The rapid
creak and crackle of crisp sails loft him through the levels, to the Upper.
To her.
(Nhaeth) Olexath sees: Nhaeth is aware, even now, and tickles your mind with
his humour, with his almost-human grin. << We fly together, Brother. >> And
somehow, that's a funny thing. Go figure.
(Nhaeth) [-] Olexath rumbles over, voice slightly strained, attention
elsewhere. << That we do, that we do. >>
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth continues with a whirlwind ferocity for as high as she can,
up where humans would be gasping for breath, and mountains would have snow.
In July. In a drought. Somehow some arrogant blue flies right along her side,
and she bashes him out of the air with a dragon snarl. She's not done in yet,
even if her sides heave more, and there's just a bit of a leveling to her
path.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth sees: Nhaeth reaches towards that light--yours--voice
coloured with tangy cerulean and a sweet, sharp aftertaste of carmine.
Wistfulness taints his gruffness, heart's own pulse rattling into both
physical and mental consciousness.
(Nhaeth) Olexath spots the blue bashing and is glad that he's slower. Still,
he continues to make his way up towards the glowing gree he so loves to argue
with. Amazing what a little thing like proddyness will do. He hardly
notices that his clutchmate's evening out, no longer flying right for the
stars. Then suddenly he's approaching at a much faster pace, then
realization kicks in, and he figures out that the path is no longer up, but
out. So out he starts to go, flying along a few dragonlengths below Kezzy.
Echo has connected.
(Nhaeth) [-] Kezasuth is not quite so savage anymore, more resorting to feeble
protest, limned in spitfire fumes. She dazzles the skies of her mind with
more silver than they ever really contain, and holds herself aloof in a dome
in the void.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth falters on watching the blue fall. Nearly flounders for an
arresting instant, before his haunches catch up with the rest of him, and he
steadies, battling against the whirlwinds with a soldier's fists and a
canine's devotion. Raising his wingtips, talons briefly flashing bright
against the darkness, he fleets after that levelling path, glowlamps of eyes
faintly orange with exertion--intensity.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth does indeed level now, up no longer an option to her
flagging spirits, sagging speed of that stolen wherry lifeforce. Apparantly,
one is never enough. She goes as fast as she was, but now in a glide near
horizontal, inevitably down in the end. Back, inevitably, to the ground that
birthed her, and to her fate to be caught, and the exciting notion of doing
this again some day. Catch as catch can; she's easy prey.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth sees: Nhaeth thrums through and through with flight's
tension, energy flowing oh-so-surely away on both sides of his starscape. He
strives not to contain but to /soothe/, the vibrato trembling from spinning
flecks to star-sharp pinpoints, yet never quite breaking into voice.
(Nhaeth) Olexath continues his own level flight, not making a move up or down,
neither trying to cut Kezzy off at the pass or to match her flight. Though
he does keep his speed matched with hers. Another little warble leaves his
throat as he continues.
D'ney hasn't succumbed to her lifemate entirely; she's still standing there
with dumb rage, rooted to the floor, to the Here of the weyr, gaze slightly
misted as it wavers on and off Echo. "Shardit," she mutters, one boot
half-lifting before it's put back.
Halis is still just kind of in a half daze as she watches everyone. After a
few moments she stands to pace the room a bit.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth lifts his spars, grasping at brief glory even as he dashes
forth -- past the pack and alongside his comrade blue -- perchance momentum
will carry him further on; wings' pink stands out most glaringly in the
dark-bright of the times, and he seeks the starry paths, perchance to dream.
Echo grows restless. She just /knows/ it's all going to come to something
within moments, and she doesn't like waiting. It'd be rude to just snag the
best-looking body and then end up switching the moment the dragons figure out
which end is up. She hugs her knees, impatient, and dances her line of sight
along the room. Halis, D'ney, P'zan, and others. Good thing that last blue
who left was attached to someone obnoxious.
(Nhaeth) Kezasuth has danced -- flown! -- until her knees -- wings! -- are
weak, and all resistence has fallen. Crumbled. Ground into dust by the
scouring of wind and sand. Bright points of light only burn long if they're
slow and steady and dim, and Kezasuth stands for none of that. Brief freedom
is bugled a fairwell, and she tumbles down, down, down, dragging Nhaeth with
her. Make a wish.
D'ney visibly rocks in her boots: the sweltering heat's lessened, but the
temperature inside this weyr isn't much better, and it continues to rise in
that inert sense as she cranes her neck to eye the ceiling. Urges, contralto
hitting pointed burrs all the way; "C'mon, c'mon." Like just get it over--
"Ai-ck!" A strangled cry dives out of her, as close as Dallan gets to a
shriek. Aieee.
(Nhaeth) Olexath lets out a rumble of defeat and veers off towards the weyr.
Halis blinks slightly and sighs a little as she slips out of the weyr to find
something to occupy her time.
Echo heard that shriek. She is nothing but relieved, as she reaches for D'ney.
Dallan. Whatever the girl's really named.
Halis walks with the usual spring in her step toward NorthWest Bowl.
(Nhaeth) Nhaeth figures out which side is up. Yay. Bungling into Kezasuth's
-- stranglehold? -- he joins in the dance, caressing blindly at the blackness.
(Nhaeth) Olexath goes ::between:: the only thing left in his place is an icy
blast of air.
D'ney does the fade to black thing.
-----------
Post flight
-----------
Echo
Steel-whipped gray glitters tempestuously in the glint of almond-shaped
eyes--they narrow gracefully beneath arched brows, and set a feline sort of
regality to her chiseled features. Beauty is a fickle thing, and there's none
of the classic sort to here...merely strong, strong character to etch a
jutting jaw and set of wry-twisted lips. No beak for a nose, but a ski-jump
slope, and high cheekbones set the trend for her lack of much spare flesh.
Wild, wild raven then coils in tumbled curls, a torrent flooding as far as
her shoulder blades, untamed and messy at near any time...that completes the
rather short portrait of this skinny, graceful girl.
Black hugs her limbs in svelte sisal that outlines each jagged bone with
skintight grace. Femme fatale, a leather jacket drapes her shoulders in that
same black, left open bomber-style.
Double cords of maize and jet intertwine in a single, simple loop, wrapped
with a Kezasuth-colored sisal ribbon, flagging her as an Igen Weyr Junior
Weyrling.
She looks older than seventeen, but there's a flash in her eye that reeks of
immaturity.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Triffet
Hair's a-snarl, armpits smell, and She is in a foul temper.
D'ney
Short, slightly gaunt around the edges, this adolescent bears Igen's glare in
the burnt brownness of her skin. Uncertain growth has worked away the
childish plumpness from the avid angles of nose and chin, further accenting
pinched features with their harsh planes and abrupt peaks. Below forehead's
darkness, a primal acidity informs her hazel eyes, restrained by stubborn
mahogany curls -- but flaring inevitably into the compact rebellion of a
muscled shape and habitually agile motion.
A golden-yellow linen tunic drapes from her shoulders, straggling under a
thick jet belt at the waist and falling nearly to her hips. The trousers of
black linen are similarly buckled in to keep the outfit snug against the
hazards of adolescent frolic, its hems disppearing into a pair of
extra-polished wherhide boots.
Double cords of maize and jet intertwine in a single loop, complicated of late
by the tiny tail and tassel snaking out from the whole, joined with a brown
sisal ribbon to denote her rank as an Igen Weyr Senior Weyrling Wingsecond,
rider of Nhaeth.
She is awake and looks alert.
Carrying:
Rip
[16 Turns, 4 Months, and 29 Days]
D'ney is sprawled out on the couch's very edge, knee swinging on the fulcrum
of a forgotten arm. A sleeping arm too, most likely, which she hurriedly
jerks at on the drop out of slumber. Teeters, right there.
Echo, still limp and more or less sleeping, hunts possessively for her warm
body. She's lost it. Probably her fault, too, for tossing and turning so much
in her sleep. Arm hunts in a sporadic crawl along the stone. Doesn't find.
Eyes open.
D'ney lowers hands to knees, catches the edge, and sways thence, eyes tight
shut. Waking-up routine, y'know. It's a good thing she doesn't tumble over.
Voice sounds in the cavern's dimness, more querulous than is usual.
"Nhaeth?" And then: "Oh, shells--"
Echo has a similar routine, sans the whole teetering thing. She just keeps it
to herself, frozen in place with her eyes closing tight the moment she's
quite sentient. Oh. Right. "Morning," she says, eyes still closed, voice
cheery. Still sprawled as is.
D'ney hugs knees to chest, then uses a hand to turn the requisite angle, to
face Echo. Well, sort of. "Hey," comes the reply, a bit off-key, certainly
belated. Admission, lips quirked left to right, "I didn't know it would be
so...so..." Failing to find the word, the weyrling edges towards silence.
Echo hoists herself upright, attempts nonchalance in her pose. It's hard to do
that when your clothes are scattered over on the floor. Beds have advantages
that big slabs of stone don't. "Intense?" she wonders, trying to fill in
blanks. Voice croaks; morning breath.
D'ney wrinkles her nose in reflex--to both. "Intense," she agrees,
sullen-sounding. "Nhaeth did good, though." Flying, she means, "and
Kezasuth too." The blanks, they're all right; she folds feet underneath,
puts an arm over them while the other droops over the couch to hunt for the
lost tunic.
Echo obliges in beginning to hunt her own clothes, too. Just because there
aren't any fig leaves handy. "Yeah," she agrees in a slow satisfaction.
"She
did good." Well. Whatever. She pauses to look panicked as a sudden thought
occurs. "This is it, right? You don't want to weyrmate or anything, right?
Because it's not happening. Nothing's different." She finds her boot, but
nothing else yet.
D'ney usually takes the straight and true road, but moments of cynicism do
come to her. Face immobile, the girl--boy--girl nods solemnly. "I'm
thinking about that. I think Nhaeth would like it." Amusement filters in,
sudden and swift, colouring the soot-dark wryness into solidity. The
questing fingers tug on something; raise it to eye-level. Obligatory grunt.
"Mine, right?"
Echo is satisfied with this. "Thanks." She nods -- "Yours." -- and
spies her
blacks in a small heap just across the room. She pounces, claims, and
wriggles into the fabric. "See you at classes, then." Kezasuth wants her
human back, now that the green has crawled like a well-trained puppy back to
the weyrling barracks. So much for running away.
Echo goes home.
D'ney echoes, truly. "See you," head cranes across to scrutinise the other's
clothes. Blacks. Huh. She clambers for her own.
You click your heels three times.
--------------------------------------
Message 35 of 35 on *IgenWeyr (#5328):
Date: Mon Sep 3 21:23:41 2001 MDT
From: Echo (#8744)
To: *IgenWeyr (#5328)
Subject: Green flown, children locked in cupboard, innocence maintained.
The night was dark, the stars were bright, when weyrling Echo tried to escape
her inprisonment in the weyrling barracks. Attired in black, she crept to the
living caverns -- leaving Kezasuth to prowl at the door -- to snag food and
maybe get that bath she hadn't had in a looooong time.
The pair would have come and gone without much fuss, barring a few run-ins
with People in the caverns, but Kezasuth -- not the sort to oblige people
with any sort of warning -- decided suddenly to rush pell-mell from the
ground and leave the weyr entirely to hunt wherries in the badlands.
Cephevarth, Nhaeth, Olexath, Kharanth, and Llywith came chasing after, hot on
her heels when she left the wherries and took to the skies. Up, up, up, up!
She went up, and only leveled flight to be caught by Nhaeth.
Meanwhile, rumor has it that neither screaming nor the sound of things being
thrown has been heard from the ground weyrs, and Echo and Kezasuth returned
meek -- if no cleaner -- to the barracks, absence -- hopefully -- gone
unnoticed by those that would tattle.
--------------------------