NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Template:Family

2025-08-14T09:48:49Z

K'del:

<noinclude>Include the template <nowiki>{{Family}}</nowiki> followed by <nowiki>{{FamilyEnd}}</nowikI> to include a formatted table of your character's +sheet family relations.</noinclude>

MediaWiki:Common.css

2025-08-14T08:33:31Z

K'del:

li.gallerybox {text-indent:0px;}

.panel-ftw {border-color: #46382b}
.panel-hrw {border-color: #1f4770}

.ui-tabs {overflow: auto;}

.panel-hrw > .panel-heading {
box-shadow: 0 1px 10px rgba(0,0,0,0.1);
color:#FFFFFF;
text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;
background-color: #1f4770;
border-color: #FFFFFF;
}

.panel-ftw > .panel-heading {
box-shadow: 0 1px 10px rgba(0,0,0,0.1);
color:#FFFFFF;
text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;
background-color: #46382b;
border-color: #FFFFFF;
}

.panel-hrw > .panel-heading a.external:link, .panel-hrw > .panel-heading a:link, .panel-hrw > .panel-heading a:visited {
color: #FFFFFF !important;
}

.panel-ftw > .panel-heading a.external:link, .panel-ftw > .panel-heading a:link, .panel-ftw > .panel-heading a:visited {
color: #FFFFFF !important;
}

p.dragon, .dragon-talk {color:#342D7E;}
p.galleries{color:#236B8E;}
p.st{color:red;}

.navbar-inverse > li > a {color: #FFFFFF !important}

a:link {color: #11249E;}
.mw-body a.external:link {color: #11249E;}
ul > li.gallerybox:before {background: inherit;}

#content table.wikitable {
border: 0;
background: inherit !important;
}

#content table.wikitable th, #content table.wikitable td {
border: 0;
background: inherit !important;
}

table.wikitable ul {
background: inherit !important;
}

body {background-color: #F0F0F0;color: #000000;}

span.dynatree-node a { padding-left: 13px;}

.treeview .checkbox {display: inline;}

.treeview input[type=checkbox] {margin-left: 5px; margin-right: 5px;}

.treeview ul > li:before {background-color: inherit}

table.wikitable > tr > th, table.wikitable > tr > td, table.wikitable > * > tr > th, table.wikitable > * > tr > td {border: 0px}

table.wikitable {border: 0px}

table.wikitable > tr > th, table.wikitable > * > tr > th {background-color: inherit}

img {max-width: 100%}

.container-fluid { padding-left: 0px;}

.gallerytext { text-align: center;}

ul.gallery {text-indent: 0px !important; padding-left: 0px !important;}

table.padded td, th { padding:10px;}

html {text-align:justify}

.table-striped > tbody > tr:nth-child(even) > td,
.table-striped > tbody > tr:nth-child(even) > th {
background-color: #FFFFFF;
}

.circular img {
-webkit-border-radius: 10%;
-moz-border-radius: 10%;
-ms-border-radius: 10%;
-o-border-radius: 10%;
border-radius: 10%;
border:1px solid black;
}

/* CSS Modal for Mediawiki
*
* @author: Keenan Payne
* current version crafted together by [[User:Christharp]].
* Added scroll bar for inside div and changed some elements for better viewing inside a Mediawiki.
*/

.modalDialog {
position: fixed;
font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;
top: 0;
right: 0;
bottom: 0;
left: 0;
background: rgba(0,0,0,0.8);
z-index: 99999;
opacity:0;
-webkit-transition: opacity 400ms ease-in;
-moz-transition: opacity 400ms ease-in;
transition: opacity 400ms ease-in;
pointer-events: none;
}
.modalDialog:target {
opacity:1;
pointer-events: auto;
}

.modalDialog > div {
position: relative;
width: 50%;
height:auto;
margin: 10% auto;
padding: 5px 20px 13px 20px;
border-radius: 10px;
background: #fff;
background: -moz-linear-gradient(#fff, #999);
background: -webkit-linear-gradient(#fff, #999);
background: -o-linear-gradient(#fff, #999);
}
.modalDialog img {
width:100%;
height:auto;
}
.close {
background: #606061;
color: #FFFFFF;
line-height: 25px;
position: absolute;
right: -12px;
text-align: center;
top: -10px;
width: 24px;
text-decoration: none;
font-weight: bold;
-webkit-border-radius: 12px;
-moz-border-radius: 12px;
border-radius: 12px;
-moz-box-shadow: 1px 1px 3px #000;
-webkit-box-shadow: 1px 1px 3px #000;
box-shadow: 1px 1px 3px #000;
}

.close:hover { background: #00d9ff; }

div.gallerytextwrapper {width: 120px !important;}

Template:NorConDragonLogic

2021-03-06T12:51:42Z

K'del:

<includeonly>{{#set:Dragon={{#ifeq:{{{3}}}||{{{4}}} {{{2}}}|{{{3}}} {{{2}}}}}}} {{#ifeq:{{{9}}}| | |{{#set:Clutch=Clutch:{{{9}}}}}}} {{#ifeq:{{{15}}}||{{#set:Clutched={{{10}}}}}|{{#set:Clutched={{{15}}}}}}}
{|class="table table-striped" style="background-color: #FFFFFF !important; float:right; width:280px; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left;" cellpadding=5px
|-
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{15}}}|{{ {{{15}}} }}|{{#ifexist: Template:{{{10}}}|{{ {{ {{{10}}} }} }}|<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}}}; border:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{15}}}2|{{ {{{15}}}2 }}|<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"| '''{{{3}}} {{{2}}}'''
|-valign="top"
|style="width:100px;" | '''Impressee''' {{!}}{{!}} [[{{{6}}}]]
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{14|}}} | | | {{!}}'''Hatching Date:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{#time: d F, Y | @{{{14}}}}} <br>{{#ifeq: {{{14}}}|||{{ICDate |secs={{{14}}}}}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{11|}}} | | | {{!}}'''Current Age:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{#expr:trunc {{#expr:{{#expr:{{#expr: {{#time: U | now }}-{{{11}}}}}/31536000}}*3}}}} turns }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{7|}}} | | {{#ifeq: {{{egg|}}} | | | {{!}}'''Egg Name:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{egg}}} }} | {{!}}'''Egg Name:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{7}}} Egg }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{8|}}} | | | {{!}}'''Size:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{8}}} feet}}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{12}}} | | | {{!}}'''Dam:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{#ifeq:{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{12}}}]] [[DragonData::+]]|?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}||[[Dragon:{{{12}}}{{!}}{{{12}}}]]|{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{12}}}]] [[DragonData::+]] |?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}}} {{#set:Dam=Dragon:{{{12}}}}}}}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{13}}} | | | {{!}}'''Sire:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{#ifeq:{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{13}}}]] [[DragonData::+]] |?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}||[[Dragon:{{{13}}}{{!}}{{{13}}}]]|{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{13}}}]] [[DragonData::+]] |?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}}} {{#set:Sire=Dragon:{{{13}}}}}}}
|-valign="top"
{{!}}'''Lineage:''' {{!}}{{!}} [http://norcon.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Special:FamilyTree&Special:FamilyTree&page={{FULLPAGENAME}}&type=ancestors&gen=5&page2= Here]
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{9}}} | | | {{!}}'''Clutch:''' {{!}}{{!}} [[Clutch:{{{9}}}]] }}
|-valign="top"</includeonly>
<noinclude>Nothing to see here!</noinclude>

Template:Dragon

2021-03-06T12:48:13Z

K'del:

{|class="table table-striped" style="background-color: #FFFFFF !important; float:right; width:280px; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left;" cellpadding=5px
|-
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}|{{ {{{weyr}}} }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}; border: {{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}2|{{ {{{weyr}}}2 }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"| '''{{{name}}}'''
|-valign="top"
|style="width:100px;" | '''Impressee''' {{!}}{{!}} [[Dragon-rider::{{{impressee}}}]]
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{date}}} | | | {{!}}'''Hatching Date:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{Date | {{{date|0000.00.00}}} }} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{egg}}} | | {{!}}'''Egg Name:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{egg}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{size|}}} | | | {{!}}'''Size:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{size}}} feet {{#set:Dragon-size={{{size}}}}}}}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{dam| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Dam:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{#ifeq:{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{dam}}}]] [[DragonData::+]]|?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}||[[Dragon:{{{dam}}}{{!}}{{{dam}}}]]|{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{dam}}}]] [[DragonData::+]] |?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}}} {{#set:Dam=Dragon:{{{dam}}}}}}}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{sire| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Sire:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{#ifeq:{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{sire}}}]] [[DragonData::+]]|?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}||[[Dragon:{{{sire}}}{{!}}{{{sire}}}]]|{{#ask:[[Dragon-name::{{{sire}}}]] [[DragonData::+]] |?Dragon-hname=|?Dragon-name=|template=Parents|format=Template}}}} {{#set:Sire=Dragon:{{{sire}}}}}}}
|-valign="top"
{{!}}'''Lineage:''' {{!}}{{!}} [http://norcon.louisebennett.name/index.php?title=Special:FamilyTree&Special:FamilyTree&page={{FULLPAGENAMEE}}&type=ancestors&gen=5&page2= Here]
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{clutch| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Clutch:''' {{!}}{{!}} [[Clutch:{{{clutch}}}]] {{#set:Dragon-clutch={{{clutch}}}}}}}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{egg credit| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Egg Credit:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{egg credit}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{dragon credit| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Dragon Credit:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{dragon credit}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{puppeteer| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Puppeteer:''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{puppeteer}}} }}
|-
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}|{{ {{{weyr}}} }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}; border: {{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}2|{{ {{{weyr}}}2 }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"|
|}
{{{body|}}}

{|class="table table-striped" style="background-color:#FFFFFF; float:center; text-align: left" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" width="100%" align="center"
|-
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}|{{ {{{weyr}}} }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}; border: {{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}2|{{ {{{weyr}}}2 }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"| '''Clutch {{{clutch}}}'''
{{!}}-valign="top"
{{!}}{{#ask:[[Dragon-clutch::{{{clutch}}}]]
|?Dragon-name
|?Dragon-rider
|?Dragon-color
|?Dragon-hname
|format=ul
|link=none
|template=DragonNames
|headers=show
|searchlabel=... further results
|class=sortable wikitable smwtable
|columns=2
}}
{{!}}-
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}|{{ {{{weyr}}} }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}; border: {{#ifexist: Template:{{{weyr}}}2|{{ {{{weyr}}}2 }} |<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"{{!}}
{{!}}}
{{#set:Dragon-color={{{color}}}}} {{#ifeq: {{{insta| }}} | | {{#set:Insta=PC}}| }} {{#ifeq: {{{insta|}}} | NPC | {{#set:Insta=NPC}} | }} {{#ifeq: {{{insta|}}} | Yes | {{#set:Insta=Insta}} | }} {{#ifeq: {{{hname|}}} | | | {{#set:Dragon-hname={{{hname}}}}} }} {{#set:Dragon-name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}} {{#pagetitle:{{{name}}}}} {{#default_form:Dragon2}}

Log Search

2021-03-06T09:11:33Z

K'del:

Use this form to search for logs between two (or three!) characters.

{{#form:action=<nowiki>http://norcon.louisebennett.name/Log Search Results</nowiki>|method=GET|}}
'''Name 1:''' {{#input:type=text|name=DPL_arg1 |value = }}

'''Name 2:''' {{#input:type=text|name=DPL_arg2 |value = }}

'''Name 3:''' {{#input:type=text|name=DPL_arg3 |value = }} (Optional)

You may also exclude certain characters from the search:

'''Name 1:''' {{#input:type=text|name=DPL_arg4 |value = }}

'''Name 2:''' {{#input:type=text|name=DPL_arg5 |value = }}

'''Name 3:''' {{#input:type=text|name=DPL_arg6 | value = }}

{{#input:type=submit|name=submit}}
{{#formend:}}

MediaWiki:Hf-nsheader-HRWClutch

2021-03-06T09:08:01Z

K'del:

__NOTITLE__<center><span lass="plainlinks">[http://norcon.louisebennett.name/HRW:Home http://norcon.louisebennett.name/images/hrw-logo.jpg]</span></center>
<br><center><h2>'''HRW Clutch {{BASEPAGENAME}}'''</h2><br>

MediaWiki:Hf-nsheader-FTW

2021-03-06T09:07:46Z

K'del:

__NOTITLE__<center><span lass="plainlinks">[http://norcon.louisebennett.name/FTW:Main http://norcon.louisebennett.name/images/fortbanner.jpg]</span></center>
<br><center><h2>'''{{BASEPAGENAME}}'''</h2><br>

MediaWiki:Hf-nsheader-FTWClutch

2021-03-06T09:07:14Z

K'del:

__NOTITLE__<center><span lass="plainlinks">[http://norcon.louisebennett.name/FTW:Clutches http://norcon.louisebennett.name/images/fortbanner.jpg]</span></center>
<br><center><h2>'''FTW Clutch {{BASEPAGENAME}}'''</h2><br>

MediaWiki:Hf-nsheader-HRW

2021-03-06T09:06:50Z

K'del:

Logs:Something... New

2021-03-05T15:27:01Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Lilabet |what=Lilabet's life plan veers off course. |where=Benden Weyr |involves=Harper Hall, Benden Weyr |day=3 |month=7 |turn=42 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=20..."

{{Log
|who=Lilabet
|what=Lilabet's life plan veers off course.
|where=Benden Weyr
|involves=Harper Hall, Benden Weyr
|day=3
|month=7
|turn=42
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2021.03.04
|quote=And Lilabet… Lilabet was no longer sure.
|mentions=Suireh, H'kon, Madilla, Teris, Leova,
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon lilabet serious.jpg,
|log=It was, in effect, a 'starter' posting. The kind of place a young journeyman could find his or her feet - and get some life experience. Lilabet knew she was not a once-in-a-generation talent: it was highly unlikely that her work would ever form part of the core canon. Still, she was well-trained, with an eye for what would (and would not) make a good work, and her work was good.

(There was a part of her, deep down, that wished for better-than-good. The childish part of her who had dreamed of taking Pern by storm, writing the epics of the age that would be sung forever. To be… to be like Suireh, perhaps.

She had always admired Master Suireh.)

But she was nineteen, a journeyman, and this was her first posting. It was the first time she'd lived outside of a Weyr or the Hall, and she approached it with fascination. It brought back memories of that time when she'd been little (well, little-ish) and asked Auntie Leova to take her to meet Mama's family.

She'd never gone.

This little hold, out beyond Telgar Hold, barely a blip on anyone's map, was a long way from the Fortian cothold where her mother had been born, but it was the closest she'd ever been to anything like it. Mama's birthplace, she knew, was smaller still.

She'd expected to feel constrained by the size; was surprised to find it freeing. Though she'd never be one of them, they welcomed her with open arms. The children weren't always eager to learn, but nor were children most places, and the ones who were more than made up for it. Despite herself, Lilabet found herself enjoying teaching.

She wrote, but not as much as she would like. There were no grand, epic, sweeping sagas to be told here, not of the variety she preferred (though that in itself was wrong: there were always sweeping sagas, people were always people, it's just that the impact was so much less… barely a ripple, barely anything to latch on to for something truly great).

She wrote a love song for a young couple, a wedding gift, and was touched by their emotional gratitude. She wrote a lullaby, and then a second. Not great works, either of them, but the gratefulness - the awestruck gratefulness - of the beneficiaries struck her, deeply.

Perhaps, she realised, a person didn't need to be great in order to be of value. Perhaps, she acknowledged, that had been half the point of sending her out here in the first place.

It was, thus, with exceptionally mixed emotions that she received her transfer orders, some half a turn after her arrival. She would be sorry to leave these people, with whom she'd made such connections. Equally, of course, even being the most junior harper at Benden Hold would be good for her career. Rumours weren't officially part of the Harper curriculum, but politics were, and she remembered a particularly engaging discussion about the appointment of Matthias as heir over the Lord's own baby son… major holds were, without question, a plum posting for composers in search of an epic.

So she'd packed her things again, made her farewells, and off she'd gone again: a cart back to Telgar Hold, another heading eastwards. A caravan. Travel, they say, broadens your mind: Lilabet felt it, embracing the opportunities to see things, experience things, learn things.

But the riding life, she knew, was not what she wanted. Engaging for a few sevens, and full of sore feet and uncomfortable beds and endless amounts of rain after that.

It was a relief to get to Benden Hold where, she assumed, she could truly settle.

----

The junior-most Journeyman Harper at a prestigious major hold doesn't hold much clout. It's not that Lilabet had expected more per se, though she hadn't taken into account the hold ladies staring down their noses, or the smirking taunts from some of the hold men who saw her weyr background as making her fair game. 'Loose' and 'uncultured' as if she hadn't spent most of the past eight turns at the harper Hall, which was surely the most cultured place on the planet!

Even her superiors seemed dismissive of her music, pushing her away from bigger works to something smaller, "more suitable" whatever that meant. It was a fine line to walk: she wanted to succeed, and that meant working with her superiors, but she'd never done well being put in a box and told to stay. But she was studying the great works, too, and found herself perpetually frustrated when her own words lacked that perfect, clever turn of phrase, her melodies just slightly lacklustre. Good, but not brilliant.

More than she'd expected, she missed that little holding. She missed the freedom of it, of being responsible for herself, with the freedom to do her job as she chose. She even missed the teaching, and that's not something she'd ever thought to think. It made her miss home, too.

None of which was to say that she was looking for a way out, when it came.

It was the Benden spring gather. For Lilabet, it was a day of both work and play: of playing for the punters, assisting with auditions of young hopeful apprentices, and of dancing and enjoying the stalls and their collection of wares.

(Later, she would romanticise it in verse, turning grey skies to blue, muddy ground to the greenest of grass, a tipsy stranger to a handsome hero. The fiction was more satisfying than the reality, for all that she couldn't sing the damn song without wanting to wave her arms around and scream about how fake it was. Art!)
She'd accepted a dance from the slightly tipsy young man wearing Benden knots - a greenrider. It had been a middling dance: he didn't know the steps well enough to follow, but at least he wasn't inclined to step on her toes in the process. They'd been interrupted partway through when a friend of his had started a scene of some kind-- with noting better to do, she'd accompanied them to the field where the greenrider dumped the other into a water trough to sober up.

She'd sat on a fencepost and watched, and once the drunken sot was sitting on the ground, eyes closed but largely in one piece, there had been a conversation. The greenrider had told her of his childhood in the Benden vineyards; she'd shared her own, life at High Reaches, then the Hall. The Telgari hold.

"Do you miss living in a weyr?" he wondered, having perched himself upon the fencepost beside her - a respectable distance between them, she was pleased to note. "I can't imagine going back."

"I do and I don't. Remember, I was a child the last time I lived at High Reaches. Eleven. When I go back, I'm a visitor. Everyone's moved on without me. And so have I, of course. I'm not the same person I was when I was eleven. You can't really go home again, not like that. Not to stay. I don't think."

"But you miss weyr life."

"Holds are significantly more prestigious postings than weyrs, for a harper. If my career goes to plan, I'll never end up at a weyr."

He glanced at her, and she could feel his gaze on her, studying her. "Sunfialth," he said, finally, "laid her clutch two days ago."

"I'd heard, yes. A solid clutch."

"My Alianath would have you as a candidate for it."

Lilabet found herself sucking in a breath. It was… unexpected. Hadn't she spent her childhood imagining that first she'd be a harper, then he'd be a greenrider? It was a dream she'd cast aside in her quest to be the best harper she could be - and besides, until now, no dragon had ever cast a glance at her in that way.

"Say yes."

"I can't."

"You… can't?" His bewilderment was, she realised, quite genuine. "You could be Weyrwoman! Back in a weyr, where you belong. Not the weyr of your birth, where you'd always be the healer's daughter, but somewhere different. Isn't that what you want?"

"I'm a journeywoman. I have responsibilities. My Hall has invested a lot of time in my development and training. You don't just walk away from that on a whim. Even if I decided I wanted to, I'd still need their permission, and I don't even know if I want to."

"You could be a dragonrider. Shells, you could be a weyrwoman: Sunfialth's laid a queen, our first since Sunfialth herself was clutched. Wouldn't that be even better than being some famous harper?"

"When I was little," Lilabet told him, the corners of her mouth smiling though just barely, "it was a green I imagined - a green like yours. But I love my craft, Greenrider. I'm good at it. I've spent the past seven turns perfecting it, and I'll likely spend the rest of my life at it, too. Why would I choose to give that up, just on a whim? And…" She found herself drawing a deep, ragged breath, comprehension dawning, six turns late.

"And?" his voice was very low and quiet, barely more than a breath.

"When I was thirteen, my aunt died. Her dragon went between without her, and I saw what happened to her." She didn't mention the keys she'd stolen. What had happened next. "And I think maybe that's when I started moving away from that dream. Because I couldn't cope with that."

Her greenrider companion paused, his own breath uncomfortably deep. "Ah," he said, finally. "Well… if you change your mind?"

----

She didn't set out to change her mind. It was just that… that flicker of a childhood dream, the ember still just barely alight, had been nourished by this Search. And maybe, too, part of it was in response to that fear: you can't let what happened to Teris change you so much.

And journeymanship had certainly taught her one thing: she really wasn't ever going to be the best of the best, no matter how hard she worked. And maybe that was fine… maybe the sensible thing to do would be to accept that, and move on, and simply be the best that she could be. But it hurt, too: the loss of a dream.

Riding a dragon wouldn't stop her from composing. It meant she'd never be a Master, but how likely was that anyway? And - and this was important - hadn't she seen what being a master had done to her own mother? And maybe, instead, riding a dragon would give her a different insight. Maybe it would make her stand out as a composer.
And maybe this was all self-justification, and completely ridiculous. A dragon, she knew, would disrupt her focus. Her first priority would be to the dragon, not to the music. Some dragons might even resent it-- there was no guarantee her dragon would be a compliment to her desires.

Briefly, she considered reaching out to H'kon for advice, but found herself shying away from the thought. It was… uncomfortable. Dilan was supposed to be the dragonrider in the family, and yet he'd ultimately turned down the opportunity: his craft was enough. He'd traded a dream of dragon wings to one of sails and sea, and seemed so much the happier for it.

And Lilabet… Lilabet was no longer sure.

----

She wrote the letter. She still wasn't sure if she was going to actually send it, but time was short: if the answer was to be yes, she had no more than a week or two in which to make the decision.

Writing it was both difficult and… somehow not.

<i>I know I am not the first to write with such a request, nor shall I be the last. I know how much the Hall has invested in me; I know, too, how grateful I am for it. Over the past eight turns, you've given me so much, and that makes me feel churlish to even consider asking for this. If the answer is no, please do know that I will abide by it, and have no regrets.

I wanted to be a Harper from childhood. I've always known. Walking the tables to Journeyman was the proudest day of my life so far, aside from, perhaps, the singular joy of hearing my music performed.

But now there is this. Is it possible for me to do both? Could I do it better: write my music through the lens of a dragonrider. I know I wouldn't be the first to do so, but I do believe I could bring something novel to it.

I wish to try. Once - once and then done. If there is no dragon for me, that would be it, and I would be happy. </i>

She burnt that letter, aghast at her own emotiveness.

The final draft was simpler, more succinct.

The answer was affirmative.

(She was almost disappointed by that. Both because it would make the decision for her, take it out of her hands, and because… because it would have meant they valued her enough to fight. She knew, logically, that it wasn't so simple, but since when had logic played into emotion?)

----

Benden, then, which was both like and unlike High Reaches.

Candidate barracks. Candidates. No one with whom she made an instant, deep connection, but that was hardly unexpected. No one with whom she felt inclined to hold hands with, when it came to the sands, though that was fine too.

By then, she wasn't sure if this was what she wanted or not. She'd not been able to explain herself to anyone who asked: not her mother, not Dilan. H'kon's silences somehow often made her want to blurt out how she felt, but not this time: this time she simply shook her head, shrugged her shoulders.

And then… there she was. Not the green of Lilabet's childhood, not the blue-or-brown she'd given due consideration to.

Life-changing.

Dream-ending.

Something new.
}}

Logs:All Kinds of Growing Up

2021-03-05T15:22:21Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=H'kon, Madilla, Raija, Lilabet, Dilan, |what=Raija's growing up. Lilabet and Dilan are visiting home. |where=High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Seacraft..."

{{Log
|who=H'kon, Madilla, Raija, Lilabet, Dilan,
|what=Raija's growing up. Lilabet and Dilan are visiting home.
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Seacraft Hall, Benden Weyr
|custom=This date is a complete guess.
|day=2
|month=6
|turn=44
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2021.03.05
|quote="Nobody says we can't go back, or that mostly people don't, anyway. They should tell us."
|type=Log
|ooc=Gdocs scene, summer of 2020.
|log=The girl sits atop the railing, more of a silhouette than anything, all drawn-up knees and pulled-up shoulders. "Look." She eyes the rest of them. "They're /talking/ about us." Her own voice is muted, a little flat, like the ambiguous shape of her body: like she can't quite remember how she was, how she wants to be. But, in a mutter: "/No/ /puberty/." Pee-yooou.

"No news there: they're always talking about us." Rather more resigned, more collected, this member of their little group, though there's a good chance it is - as it so often is - well-crafted cover for deeper feelings. "My cousin told me about a kid who put dragon doody from the weyrlings under his arms every day for months, and it stopped him, you know." Growing up is hard to do.

"Your cousin lied to you." Less resigned. Less collected. Leaning on the railing, forearms laid on on the other, chin on forearms, body at an angle. One foot bracing, the other crossed over the back heel of the first, and bouncing, a constant fidget. "It's not -doody- that helps." The end of the statement is slightly muffled by a shift to look down over that rail, a press of mouth to arms. "And it's not your armpits." This one's got older siblings.

There's a snicker—doody, times two—and, in lieu of words (perhaps she's used them up already), a long sideways glance complete with dubious hook of brow. The faint breeze catches at her raggedy bangs, but briefly. Perched like this, to the extent she fidgets, it's more of a gravity-testing slow-slow-motion sway.

Loath to be challenged, shoulders (not so broad, yet) square; chin lifts. "So what is it then? And how do you know it's not? Could," and isn't this the kicker? "All be lies." Silence, now, and the reflective resignation of a mouse that is beginning to suspect it really has been caught in a trap.

A moment of stillness in that foot, for a steely sort of glare, head lifted up from forearms and everything. "Could be. Doesn't matter." Two quick twitches of the foot, then still again. "Gets said it's worth not knowing." Then, the top arm unfolds, to point. "They're lookin'." Totally not an attempt to change the focus.

/At you/, says her own sepulchral point, sleeve falling back along her arm... into the quickness of a frown. Habit makes one move out of plucking it back with her free hand, tucking it into the scruffy leather bracelet. It doesn't stop her from extending her point, then, her lean toward a shoulder-/poke/. But to the mouse, "All lies—do what 'ǝ want." Could be /you/; more likely, /we/.

The mouse isn’t looking. Gamely, defiantly (determinedly). Not at the watchers, anyway; blue eyes, instead, study youthful companions. “And what’s that, then?” What DO they (we!) want?

/At me/, says the shift in posture, standing, gripping the railing now, both hands, leaning over. That focus changes, though. Pointedly. Rather than echo the question, this one just widens eyes, and waits.

A brief, lilting whistle provides musical (dramatic!) accompaniment for that change in posture; hands retracted, post-poke, they compress just short of knuckle-cracking as amber eyes return to blue. And to those wider. And back, both. "Mm." It's /happy/ contemplation. "Aught grand, before we're sent, 'prentice or shells or what." Before /specialization/. "See the sights. Scrounge the stores. Filch—more'n your aunt's sweetcakes, hm?—a prize to put back."

Just for a moment, there's a flicker of unease from the mouse-that-isn't-really-a-mouse, the mouse-that-pretends-to-confidence. But now's no time to be shown up by another, and so those shoulders square once more, that chin lifts. "Something /big/. The heist to end all heists."

The lookers are forgotten; this is more interesting. Eyes dart, just barely, pressed on by the rapid mental search. What was showy posture slides into a sideways lean, all asymmetrical. But no fidget. Eventually, eyes stop, and the failed search is masked with, "What, you gonna steal a dragon?"

It's not cheesy, that quick smile of hers, reward without a trap-- that becomes, as their fellow chimes in, an equally silent but ever-broader laugh. "Could steal 'Koth," she lays out there. "What about you?"

"He'd let himself be stolen, too, wouldn't he?" It's unfair, almost, says the merest breath of a whine in low-toned voice: not all dragons are so amenable. "That's basically just too easy. Cheating. No, this has to be something ''big''. And not ''stupid'' big, like… like stealing one of the eggs." Because that really would be stupid. "Just… something cool. Something awesome."

The mouse gets a nod and a 'hm,' of not-quite-tacit agreement. Way too easy. Halfway into trying to make that lean cool (again?), everything gets put on hold. A flash of wide eyes, a flash of, good - obedient, even - kid. The cool remains forgotten. "We gotta do it sneaky anyway. They can't notice. Not right away. Then there's no fun."

"Might help us steal some more," she speculates, teasing it out. But she has a quick nod-and-grunt for not-egg, not-stupid, got-/that/-right. For sneaky, she pauses to pick a split end off her bangs with her nails. "Not stupid, not noticing, need a not-not." More picking. "...How many dragons /would/ we have to steal 'fore it counted?"

"A whole wing," decides the mouse, in a burst of determination. "Make 'em write letters in the sky or something. Maybe not our whole names, but initials, at least? No one could ignore /that/." He-or-is-it-she straightens, determined. "But it can't just be, like, Arekoth telling the other dragons. Because that's too easy too."

"And what are they gonna write with, huh?" Skepticism has returned; the lean gets all cool and sardonic by association. Hard glances alternate between the first and the second co-conspirator. This one will hold court.

"Firestone 'most seems harder than the dragons," says she with a bit of a sigh-- if not /daunted/, not at all. While she's at it, "A whole wing, the same wing? Or some from here, some from there. Wingleader shouldn't just tell." She picks at her hair, tosses the resulting end into the ring.

Does the mouse need to explain everything? A roll of the eye and a majestic shrug of the shoulders suggests that, surely, mere details can be come up with by others. Surely! "They could hold themselves in the air in a pattern," is suggested, then, a little long-suffering. "Not necessarily a whole wing like /that/. Just… enough of them to notice. For the Weyrleader to glance up at the sky and see."

A snort, derisive. "And how are you gonna get a whole wing to fly in your initials like that without cheating with Arekoth?" Eyes roll back, as hard as eyes can roll. With the shortsightedness hopefully covered, it's back to the other train of conversation, lips pressed together while digging back the words. "Firestone... Where do they keep that?" Good. A chance at proving gumption.

A quick nod for the pattern, a quicker shrug for firestone after, "'Enough,' 'member? Like it's so easy. Like he'd not have his own fee." Which she might exaggerate. Which she might be happy to pay, anyway. But, focused, /leaning/ atop that rail if only with her attention, "Weyrleader? ... How come?" Interested, like it might be a story, like it just might be more than his having that before they were born.

A criminal mastermind perhaps this particular weyrbrat is not, but the questions - all of them, floating around - are given due consideration nonetheless, chewed over much like the rough skin of a lower lip. "Weyrleader," comes the answer, snottily, "because he's going to /notice/ drills that aren't his, dragons that don't belong. Because it makes it big. Bet there's leftover firestone in the weyrling barracks, /and/ they've all moved out so there's no one going to be there."

Due consideration is catching, and has this one - in the moment at least - forgetting the attitude. A little. That one foot even finds a way to resume its bounce-bounce, though the rhythm is occasionally broken. "I hear you can do things with firestone. If you hit it hard enough, make it explode."

Her shoulders fade a bit; she glances up at the sky, at the few floaty clouds up there, attention diffused. Oh. Still looking up, "How much," is a distracted question-- that becomes a slow but head-turning, "/Explode/." She beckons one-handed: keep going.

"/Explode/." Ok, attention caught; this might (might!) be a better idea than all the others so far. Head tipped, lip chewed, eyes narrowed. "Bet there are some bats in the games cupboard. Would that be hard enough?" Beat. "Though would that be too close?"

"Explode." A word to bask in, and wear like laurels. "Yup." One more time, "Explode," with all the certainty that comes from attention. Beaming face, dancing eyes. "Bats could be okay. If we can't get anything with metal. I-" no, start over, "Metal works better." Certainty. "How close depends on how much we get."

/Explode/. It's still dreamy in her amber eyes, but increasingly a-sparkle. "Could try it with just a little, first." In case that's too prosaic, "So we'd know what we'd get, /and/ they wouldn't know." And, "Could throw a piece from up on a ledge maybe, see when it hits the ground." And-- "It would be... wrong to get a dragon to step on one. In case he hurt himself." But her young voice's speculative all the same.

There's a lot to unpack here, but maybe most important of all: "We might end up blowing Arekoth's foot off!" Because it goes without saying, that if any dragon is stepping on firestone, /clearly/ it's got to be Arekoth, so conveniently accessible.

"Whose ledge?" With the renewed authority of explosion comes an unintended renewed skepticism. One that is caught, and gets, "I mean, we'd need one we could get to from the ground." An attempted softening, and one that again sets the fidgetting in motion, this time, fingers drumming the railing. This is all getting out of hand. And attention is on the two companions, and certainly not on the figure, the -adult- figure, approaching the group from behind this one's back.

Her shoulders twitch outward, protective; "Which is bad!" just in case anyone isn't sure. As for whose ledge, that gets a literal handwave, though her expression eases a bit at the softening. "Got to check out the 'stone, next. See what we /have/. And the bats, yeah?" for the not-always-mouse. "And--" if she'd only listen to her mother, and braid her hair out of her eyes, she mightn't get so /surprised/. As it is, her half-turn becomes a hard swallow.

"One of the ground weyrs, then, yeah?" Because the mouse is far too caught up in this plan to consider the downsides, the risk… or the potential for being overheard. Or indeed the not-even-potential-anymore, because unfinished sentences are, surely, merely gaps in which to throw one's opinion, and not at all reason to /just stop talking/. "There's an empty junior queen's weyr, isn't there?"

And he, all he has to do is stand there, come to a stop on - were they that silent? - feet, chin brought just a bit down, better for staring out from under greying eyebrows. Well, maybe that's all he has to do for Raija. When the kid he stands behind starts talking again, H'kon goes so far as to clear his throat. (The kid stops.)

That's /right/, got to remember that for next time-- and she nearly says as much settling just in time for a speaking-if-silent look at the mouse. Followed by, upon shifting for better balance on the rail-- plus a better look at you-know-who-- a slightly-louder-than-necessary, "Hullo."

Red-faced, the mouse shifts position, uneasily adjusting weight from one foot to the other, chin lifted once more. The silence is defiant-- so is the mulish expression now settling into still-childish features.

When the one comes off the laurels and glances -almost- around, enough to make him out, H'kon figures, there's a slight furrow of brow, a slow intake of breath. It is held, his chest rounded out by it. It does not get allowed into a sigh. (Young people!) When he speaks, the decision is: "I have heard you. I know your names." As demonstration, eyes sharpen, on his. "Raija." It's left to his look, to say, 'you're late.'

Heard /what/, /how much/-- she swings her legs to the other side, then stops again. "Sir." She looks at him, then at her friends; "Later." /Then/ Raija pushes off and down, landing flat-footed, the better to accompany-- herd?-- her father away. But it's with a bump of knuckles for the one's shoulder, as she passes, and for the mouse, an under-her-breath, "Sorry." /Parents/.

Once they're out of sight, out of ear-shot, the mouse may be tempted to make dismissive remarks - likely enough there will be eye-rolling, and mutters of 'parents!' and the usual. In the short term, however, there's just silence, gaze slightly lowered despite earlier bravado. For once, this particular weyrbred knows better than to make it worse. Arekoth, he's one thing. Arekoth's rider? Quite, quite another.

(Currently) silent weyrbrats in his wake, H'kon still waits - waits until they are well out of earshot, well on their way. His fingers twitch, arm lifting only a little from the side to which it fell when he'd turned to go, but all are stopped reaching out. Friends are watching. He presses his mouth into a line instead, waits another step or two more. Then, "We will meet in the bowl, then."

Well away from her people-- her newer people-- to run with and watch over, at least with the (singular) likes of him. Her face lifts up, not just her chin. "Good."

Only a non-verbal 'Hm,' to acknowledge that one word. The one hand has resumed its disciplined position at his side, not quite parade-strict, but restricted, formal. The formality ends at his shoulders. H'kon is watching her, brow furrow less severe, but present. Not worried, exactly. But there are Thoughts.

Once her father's responded, even if he /is/ still watching her, she looks briefly at where his hand is now (where it was (where it had been, before)). There, and back up to his expression, and then she's walking towards the bowl. Raija doesn't drag it out, but neither does she rush. If he pauses, for now she'll pause-- not with the immediacy of someone matching a march, but with the naturalness of each being in the other's orbit.

The pause does come (didn't she know it?), those fingers curling in on themselves again, then, almost airily, lifting toward that one bit of hair, the tip of a shoulder. Furrow's still there, changing, only barely, in that way it does in these sorts of situations.

It's natural, too, to... not exactly /lean in/, nothing so overt, but it just so happens that she's there for it. Amber eyes slide sideways in a not-quite-smile. It's not overt, either, how she watches out for others-- differently: those on two legs, the shadows of dragons, all to be left behind.

Another 'hm,' satisfied. H'kon looks along his path, now, and takes it back up.

----

It's an unexpected family reunion at home (though it surely cannot be wholly a surprise, not when there's a Benden queen come visiting, throwing her weight around the bowl): Lilabet's dropped in at Tillek to pick up her brother from the seacraft, and so it's the two of them, and Madilla, cozily arranged in the weyr with tea and pastries that on any other day would surely spoil your supper.

"Watch out." Dilan, long-haired and beleagueredly amused, keeping a closer eye on the entrance than his mother and older sister, who are busy ganging up on him. "They'll start on /your/ hair next, Raija." (To which, of course, there is an answering chorus of welcome: hello H'kon, hello Raija, oh-Raija-your-/hair/.)

H'kon - /H'kon/ - doesn't manage to keep back a flash of smile upon seeing Dilan. He does keep himself back, though, near the entrance. Out of Raija's way, but without overt command to send her forward. From here, he can see them, see the scene that's familiar, and yet... Lilabet gets an inclination of his head, a bit more formal - or perhaps just a quieter non-verbal salute.

Not that Raija stays out of her father's way, bumping up at his hip before further eyeing the room... and not-quite-stomping far enough that Dilan can properly see her welcome-scowl. Not that she gets that hair out of her face to do it, so it winds up being close enough to /also/ spot the pastries. As well as her sister, of course. "What're you," /you/, "doing here?" is actually positive, though it's by their mother that the girl sits. Close by, too. Within pastry-range, ideally.

Close enough that Madilla can reach out and ruffle her youngest's hair in a gesture that's likely intended as both greeting and affirmation, though there's no tell in her expression beyond the usual fond pleasure: so rare, these days, to have the whole family together. "Visiting /you/," is Lilabet's prompt answer, flippant, but also edged in pride. "We're cleared for /between/, so I thought I'd grab Dee and say hi."

("/Dilan/," puts in the bearer of that particular nickname, with a roll of his eyes.)

Still at the edge of things, still with feet firmly in contact with the ground, showing no particular urge to lift, the last overt motion the faintest postural acknowledgement of Raija's brush. Still H'kon - except the eyes that are moving, for the time at least, over the teenager in their midst. Looking for cheeks red from sea-reflected sunlight, or, "That craft is making you stronger." He'll probably move eventually.

Raija doesn't complain, and if her head rests ever so momentarily within her mother's palm, she's soon enough reaching out for the goods. "D'you have to have a minder still?" she asks on the way, something peculiar in her voice that isn't quite envy. She flicks a glance at the teenager-who-gets-to-travel, sniffs, brief as anything.

"Ought to be!" agrees irrepressible Dilan, not without a hint of pride. He'll never be tall (though he's taller than H'kon), and he's stocky, but the muscles are there. "I won't be getting fat any time soon, anyway. Everything's good here?" A tip of his head towards his mother, his little sister, though presumably he doesn't expect much of an answer.

"Not as of today," is equally proud, and announced at much the same time as Dilan's reply - Lilabet launches forth into her own remarks with pleasure. "I'll have to take you out with me sometime, Raija, just the two of us. Three." It's not quite an afterthought, remembering her own dragon. It's just… different. Different realms. "If you'd like."

That flicker of pride on H'kon's features can't rightly be called reflected; refracted, maybe, from a similar source. "Well," deeper in his register, perhaps harder to pick up in the other knot of conversation, "the day is young. And your mother's brought a good many pastries." The corner of his mouth even twitches as he, finally, takes a few steps in, toward Dilan for a quick, firm squeeze to the boy's shoulder by one hand. And then, to sit, an available stool, not quite next to anyone.

"/Yes./" Some of those pastries-- now minus one-- are even still left. Raija's engulfed her first with her hand but eats delicately if not exactly tidily, not letting a crumb go to waste, licking them off her thumb when she has to. More careful with her words now, "I could go after class and chores. Or before. Benden is east," and she has a map hidden amongst her things, with marks for where her siblings are.

Dilan's still a teen, and not quite as perceptive as perhaps, one day he will become; his gaze lingers on H'kon a fraction of a second longer than perhaps it needs to, though his smile - in reply to that shoulder-squeeze - is bright. "As long as Raija doesn't eat them all first," is a tease, slightly louder.

"It's late at Benden right now," agrees Lilabet, so calm about it that if she's not actually supposed to be out and about so late, it's not obvious. "So earlier in the day is better, but we'll make it work, I promise."

(It's not that Madilla is deliberately saying nothing, but she just looks so pleased, so contented: everyone's here! Likely that's part of what prompts her glance at H'kon just now, too, and the shallow dip of her chin, both greeting and acknowledgement.)

Something almost like contentedness works at the corners of H'kon's eyes (or affection, for those who know where to spot it) at that tease. And that same look, whatever it is, gets turned toward the gathered women(-ish) folk, might even be there to meet Madilla's eyes. Of course, the word 'late' dims it into something else. Not the first time H'kon's been not-quite-worried, but there's another Thought. Unspoken.

Just for that-- so easily provoked? or just the sound of her name?-- Raija reaches for her second, dealing Dilan another of those half-hidden glances. Not that she eats it, yet; that calmness cloaks 'late' enough that she doesn't think twice, and so she's replying in a voice pitched to be steady, "Could do tomorrow. Any time in the seven, really. It would be nice." As though weyrlings could pick whichever time they chose, or much-older sisters would want to. Less steady, just a little, "...Didn't see her on the ledge. Or Arekoth."

Madilla's fond smile tightens just ever so slightly in acknowledgement of H'kon's shift in expression (not to mention her eldest daughter's blitheness). It sends green-eyed gaze sliding back to the weyrling, even as her fingertips, again, seek to brush at Raija's hair (or as close as they can reach).

Oblivious to this, Dilan reaches to snag himself a pastry, grinning winningly at Raija (and then sticking his tongue out for good measure), while Lilabet says, "Probably not tomorrow, sorry Raija, but definitely soon. We'll go anywhere you like." And as to the location of her queen, gaze momentarily unfocused as she confirms? Smiling, "She's on the rim, bothering everyone. She says she's not, but you can't really trust her."

It's not exactly a laugh, nor chuckle, but it's something terribly close and familiar, perhaps even vaguely influenced by a certain brown in good company on the rim. This is maybe the first time H'kon's looked fully at Lilabet since his arrival in the weyr. His lips even part a bit, as if preparing to allow words through. But those words aren't quite found. Just a sympathetic flick of his chin, then.

Oh. The girl files that away, gaze dropping-- to her pastry, which needs a nibble before she can say a proper, "Thank you." She curves her mouth in a smile to go with it, then turns partway, making her hair that much more accessible to her mother... for now. Distractedly-- gaze drifting to Dilan-- "Why can't you trust her?"

"She's enjoying Arekoth's company, which is probably terrible news," Lilabet continues, meeting H'kon's gaze with a genuine smile.

Dilan: "She can't trust her because she's a bad influence, I bet."

Lilabet: "No, because she has no self-awareness at all. Much like you, peabrain."

Some things, it seems, never change: Madilla's amusement is visible, though perhaps Raija will feel the faintest tightening of that hand upon her hair, not quite a restraint (because it's not Raija who needs restraining!) but certainly very present.

"Terrible," H'kon agrees. Gravely. The way he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped in front of him, then, the way he looks even somehow satisfied in this more casual position, is surely unrelated. Dilan gets a glance, rejoinder awaited.

Bad influence is one thing; 'no self-awareness'-- Raija stares at Dilan now, not testing Madilla's hold enough to turn her head-- though it /is/ such a subtle tightening-- and, of all things, giggles. Pee-brain. "Your mouth isn't full," she reminds her brother.

Faux sotto-voce, Dilan leans forward just slightly to impart to Raija: "Bad influence. Such a shame, too. Defective." And then he takes a big - big - bite out of his pastry, chewing exaggeratedly, just for emphasis.

Lilabet's eye-roll is probably affected, much like the way she shakes her head, glancing at first her mother, then H'kon, as if to encourage a tsk of disapproval for her younger brother (quite as if she hadn't been name-calling just a moment ago, of course). "Anyway," she says, firmly. "She's quite content, and so am I. It's lovely to see you all."

Raija holds what remains of her pastry in front of her mouth for a long moment as though she will /also/ take a big, big, /big/ bite-- but in the end, after a glance around through her hair, settles for a nibble. It's not a prim nibble-- her knees are splayed, and so is her elbow not on her mother's side, and she's sort of hunched-- but it isn't quite the copying (much less /escalation/) it might ordinarily have been. "Good," the girl says right after the 'content' bit... just that, and she shifts upon the wood of her seat.

"And it's good to see you, too," is a bit stiff, but it's verbal, and audible. A sweep of H'kon's eyes includes Dilan in the comment as well as Lilabet. But with the former incapacitated by pastry, it's this suddenly - even if she's travelling solo now - weyrling who gets the deeply interested, and yet somehow also dryer-than-any-pastry follow-up, "How is training?"

How did Madilla manage to raise two children like Dilan and Raija… and then Lilabet, who sits with such poised confidence? At least the healer seems inclined only to glance at son and younger daughter, mouth twisting in amusement, rather than to chide - though that's not her way at the worst of times, truthfully. Dilan's aware, and unrepentant, though the glance he gives Madilla is affectionate. (So is the one he gives H'kon, for that matter.)

It's well over a decade, now, that H'kon's been part of Lilabet's life - more than half her lifetime - and so she leans forward to respond to the brownrider's question with enthusiasm, and not mere dry politeness; it's a long-established habit. "It's going well. We'll officially be senior weyrlings in the next few sevens, and after that I'm likely to spend most of my time with Margaut, which is a whole new kind of training, I think. My hope is still to fly with the weyrling wing, though, as we can. I think there's still a lot we can learn."

And now that her father's turned to her sister-- Raija gets rid of the crumbs and is still licking her fingers as she slips off and away. There's Dilan's jacket to hunt out, after all, and the frequently-fascinating contents of its pockets. She does glance at him along the way, less for permission and more to make /sure/ he knows.

H'kon leans forward, too; this isn't so much a serious change of position as of attention. Clasped hands are tighter, attention on Lilabet, sharp. Nods to each thought. "Hm," to different training, strong agreement, but that of an outsider. But on flying with the weyrling wing, there are full sentences: "Good. Do that. They will matter, I imagine, for many reasons."

Dilan knows, though aside from a raised eyebrow and the twitch of one (ever-so-slightly hairy) upper lip, he doesn't react. His pockets, though: they're predictably full of treasures, from a handful of seashells, to an apprentice-grade knife, and - interestingly(?) - a piece of pink ribbon.

"Because…" Lilabet begins. "Because they're my clutchmates, and that bond matters. And because it's good to belong, and to know how things work, even if we won't be flying in the wings. And it's good exercise, too. I have," and she grins, both at H'kon and also, with amusement, at her mother, "muscles I didn't even know existed. I'd quite like to keep it that way. Fresh air and exercise; I remember, Mama."

Treasures which Raija, as is her wont, sorts through; she drops cross-legged to the floor, his jacket sprawled over her knees as a table, and starts sorting. Seashells, she pounces on those, though she saves them for last; the knife is attractive, and she opens it long enough to test its sharpness on-- with a glance at her mother, /not/ the ribbon but instead a frayed thread. But as long as she has that ribbon in hand... she holds it high to look for telltale wrinkles, all set to give it a sniff before gauging its length against her wrist.

More semi-tacit, non-verbal agreement from H'kon, as Lilabet speaks. And even a twist of a smile, right at the corner of his lips. "I remember our weyrlinghood," no directional nod to explain 'our', because Lilabet will know who the other is. "I was surprised, when throwing firestone from dragonback was so different from throwing nets." His eyes sweep sidelong for Dilan, in case the teen is paying attention.

Madilla's attention is drawn in multiple directions, but it's not unfair to say that her two eldest - the two she sees so much less of - are awarded more than their fair share, and so she's ostensibly oblivious to Raija's experiments with the knife (which is plenty sharp). Still, both she and Dilan are drawn back in her direction as the ribbon is lifted. It's a decent length, that ribbon, a little frayed, and faintly scented with something floral - not the kind of scent that might fit with a little girl's hair ribbon. Dilan glances away again, as if embarrassed (the concurrent conversation is so convenient); Madilla leans forward.

"Nets are nothing to the weight of firestone," declares Lilabet, confidently.

"Have you ever thrown a net, Lily? A wet one?" Dilan's dismissive, and more engaged than is strictly necessary. "They're plenty heavy. But they'd be pretty different to throw, right, H'kon?"

Raija does wrinkle her nose, and yet, and yet... her cheeks have lifted in her version of a smile, and she swiftly starts sorting through shells. She picks those with an interesting gleam, or a complicated texture, before those that are simply whole; and of those choices, she selects a nicely-sized spiral with a very convenient hole. A few wraps of the ribbon later, knife and the-- well, most of the-- remaining shells slipped back into the jacket's pockets, she's prancing back towards the group with the back of her hand grandly proffered as though to kiss. "Look, mama," see her knotted-on trophy? "Look what Dilan brought me." Such a good brother!

H'kon is careful. Careful, not to agree to quickly with Dilan. It's a careful inclination of his head, that's almost a nod. "More than a question of weight, the difference was a question of technique. It's a very different throw, of something very differently shaped. You want a different flight..." And was that an almost envious look to the young seacrafter, as hands now callused with dragonriding duties close just so, over an imagined, and long absent [thing grasped, pose away, still working on it].

Lilabet's chin sets, as if, just for a moment, she's inclined towards being huffy - but no, she's too practical for that, and just shrugs her shoulders, accepting the difference (more or less, anyway). "If you say so," she declares, and perhaps there would be more to follow that, but there's Raija and her prize, and Dilan's sharp intake of breath to interrupt, and the latter? That's definitely of interest to both mother and sister.

"Raija--" begins the apprentice, who then stops, cheeks pink about the edges and gaze abruptly dropping.

And from Madilla, who has absolutely noticed her son's reaction, but is too kind to push it: "Manners, Raija." Because what do we say to people when they give us ('give' us) gifts?

"Thank you, Dilan," Raija chimes in sweetly, a moment after her cue. Her eyes are bright, and she tucks her curtain of hair behind one ear before displaying her trophy to her father-- the shell-- and sister-- the ribbon?-- to look in turn. But then she's sidling back to her brother for a hug and a quiet murmur of a tug, "Won't you come tell me where you found them? ...After you're done talking nets, anyway." Away from the rest of the class~

Unclear whether H'kon first notices Madilla's response to Dilan, or Dilan himself. Either way, the dragonriding talk, the sea talk, all is put on hold. The muscles of his jaw twitch, and, "Raij-" is started in that low, almost tired tone that has met any number of pre-teen antics of late. The final vowel gets lost, caught up in the girl's wake as she moves away. And yet it's Lilabet who gets the look, seeking... support? Assistance? Sympathy?

And what is Dilan to say, to do? One arm goes around his younger sister, holding her against his side even as he's sighing; giving in. Perhaps that ribbon once threaded the bodice of a beautiful woman; perhaps it threaded somewhere else. It probably doesn't matter-- not now. Still sighing: "You're welcome, Raija. Maybe I'll show you some of the best shell-collecting beaches, one of these days."

Lilabet's head shakes, a rueful gesture matched by the amused-resigned-rueful expression on her face. "I think," she says, just quietly, "As someone who has spent at least some time teaching, I'm allowed to say: all you can do is try. Also, aren't you glad I disappeared off to Harper Hall when I was Raija's age? And Dilan went to the Hold?" Still, the glance she aims at Raija is affectionate (if that even counts).

Her name, in that voice, /again/... Raija's shoulders twitch together, and it's work for her to loosen them, until-- at her brother's capitulation, his /hug/, it's no work at all. She aims to help herself to his knee, even, and lean in: "You're my favorite brother." Even if he weren't her only! Also (not looking at Lilabet, who is being quiet; not looking at Lilabet, even if she did hear; not looking at Lilabet, even more if she had heard), "Let's do. When do you like to look? What makes the best /best/?"

H'kon, too, has stiffened up a bit. His gaze has gone from Lilabet and on, with a significant pause at Madilla, to Raija and Dilan. But the slightest inclination in Lilabet's direction comes as the initial answer. It takes a moment of reflection for him to say, so quietly, "Yet you were both missed." A bigger shift on that stool now, as he pushes his shoulders back. Hard to loosen them, too, but more effective than it might've been before.

"Oof," says Dilan, though not in disapproval: Raija's getting big for a knee, but luckily her brother is a sturdy, seafaring type, ready and willing to take on the challenge. "I'm your only brother, sprout, but I'll still take the title. The best ones… they're the ones with the shells that are least broken. Or the ones where you can find sea glass."

His mother's got half a wary eye on Raija, and half a glance on Lilabet - mothers are powerful creatures, able to express themselves in detailed and intricate ways in multiple directions at once - and the latter twists her mouth and looks, for a moment, repentant. "Very much missed," agrees Madilla, low-toned. "And still missed, now. Even if you are all grown up." And - supposedly - past the trying age. Supposedly. (Lilabet's cheeks go faintly pink; message received.)

Raija, settling in: "Which are those?" She wrinkles her nose and edits, "What /kinds/ are those? Do really strong waves break them, or carry them in real well? I like the blue sea glass best," does he remember?

Enough of sitting. H'kon's shoulders roll back again and this time the motion seems somehow to push him up from his seat, entering a bit more into the centre of the group - all to retrieve a pastry. The first one grasped, however, is held in Madilla's general direction. He can always grab himself another.

"I remember," grins Dilan. "It's all kinds of things, I think. The way the tide comes in; the angles, and the force of it. Whether there are too many rocks around. Tillek's got a pretty rocky shoreline, but there's a few more sheltered beaches: those are pretty good."

Madilla's still keeping an eye on her eldest daughter (not to mention one on the younger, as often as she can spare it), but the motion of H'kon's hand draws her gaze-- and she smiles. Arm extended, she accepts the offered pastry, and says, just quietly, "This was a good surprise. Lilabet, how much longer can you stay?"

"Hm," next thing to non-verbal. Raija has that look, that memorizing /look/; her fingers press into her own knee as he talks, //tide// before /angles/ and /force/ and //rocks// and /shelter/. She's silent for the next moment, and the next. Until, in much the same tone but oh so quiet, "Did you go to it, or away from here?"

H'kon's eyes fall to the second pastry, his pastry. He sits slowly, near Madilla [look, I can't remember what the seating arrangements are, so imagine either furniture or floor], and begins eating almost ritualistically. Ears are active, but no one gets acknowledgement. Yet. Pastry.

Lilabet's mouth is already open to respond to her mother, but she's too much a harper-trained listener not to have caught Raija's question, and it has her lips pressing together again in lieu of answer. Madilla, too, stills, though her free hand /had/ been reaching towards H'kon, as if intent upon resting in contact, just present.

If Dilan's aware of that silence, he shows no signs of it, instead furrowing his brow in apparently intent thoughtfulness. "What do you mean? Did I…" And a pause. "/Not/ away from here. The sea called to me, squirt. More then flying. I saw what they did, when I was at High Reaches Hold," seacrafters, presumably, "and I knew it was what I wanted. And that's ok, right? You get to decide what you want. /And/ you can change your mind."

"Like I did." Lilabet.

"What--" Raija had been leaning in, drinking it in, but now her gaze turns sharply: Lilabet. Who'd been /listening/. She stares, amber gaze wide, and then looks immediately back to her brother, expression contrite-- but given /he/ seems unfazed, she puffs out an unsubtle breath that should be relief. Mostly, it is. Disquiet lingers, delaying her breathy, "She can't." Lilabet. "What... did you see? In the sea."

H'kon must have seen, or must know. The reach is completed, a little lean, a shift of the angle of an elbow. He could surely carry on with the last bite of the pastry one-handed, but there's an Arekoth-esque tug at the corners of his eyes with Raija's last question to Dilan. Whatever -did- he see, the attention now on the seacrafter prompts.

Madilla's hand makes contact, and settles: just the lightest brush of fingertips, really, but present. She's as silent as her eldest daughter is, the daughter that acknowledges the choices she no longer has with a nod, her shoulders shrugging easily (even if it's clear the attention is not on her).

Dilan frowns, his brow furrowing intently in a way that is reminiscent of H'kon's (even if the younger man's brow is less expressive). Deep thoughts aren't really his way: he's a doer, not a thinker. "I guess…" He hesitates. "It felt like freedom. And not freedom from something, not like I felt like I was trapped before. On the water, I wasn't mama's son, or Devaki's, or anyone's anything, except me, doing something I loved."

/Raija's/ brows draw in. She's silent as the apprentice seacrafter-- as Raija's brother!-- talks, her breath held and ready, until she has to replace it with another, and another and... then he stops. She must feel Dilan's last description deserves /some/ space, mustn't pounce lest it deflate, but still-- what if someone interrupts? After only another finger-press, then, her still-treble voice quieter than his, "What about bad-weather days? Or when you have to scrub things. Keels and things."

In that time when Raija waits, H'kon simply, slowly, leans back, letting out a slow exhalation, until his back hits the rest. It's a sigh of understanding, and an unfocused look that might be Arekoth, or might just be watching somewhere else altogether. Eyes close a beat. A more regular breath comes and goes. And then he's looking back to Dilan. If it weren't H'kon, he might be beaming. As it is, there's just something knowing there, in that brow.

Madilla is so very silent, so very still, gaze locked upon her son. Have those lips pressed together ever so slightly in acknowledgement of his words? Perhaps, yes, though the look to her eyes is far more one of understanding than anything. (Lilabet tosses her head, as if intending to toss the hair that's been cut so short and still hasn't grown back; but at least she doesn't interrupt).

Is Dilan especially conscious of being watched, of all eyes on him? If he is, he's as placid as-- well, not the ocean, but there's a descriptor there somewhere. "Mm," he says. "Bad weather's not always fun, nor the scrubbing, and the rest. But it's /outside/ and it's all part of the balance, isn't it? If the days were only ever sunny and still, we'd never sail. And the decks? Well, they're /your/ decks, and there's pride in keeping them all shipshape." One imagines this might be a romanticisation.

And one that a not-big sister might /want/ to fall for, at least a little. Raija settles for a bit of a sigh, sheltering in his shoulder, fingers playing quietly with her bracelet. A sigh, and-- putting all those would-be questions aside-- "Hm."

The nod is somewhere between approving and understanding. Who knew H’kon was a romantic? “What of your shipmates?” Okay, and also still practical. The reverie has been put aside. He sits up a bit more and finishes his pastry.

Dilan ruffles at Raija's hair, idly, though with the end to her questions - and the inclusion of H'kon's - his gaze has shifted towards the brownrider instead. "They're like wingmates," he decides. "Or what I imagine wingmates would be. Everyone's got their things to do, separately, but the important thing is that, collectively, you're… steering the ship, I guess. Literally. You gotta trust them all, and they've gotta trust you too."

Raija doesn't complain when //Dilan// does it; her laugh is quiet, but still: no questions. Nor is she going anywhere, yet.

H’kon hesitates with a response to that, and ultimately, after a quick glance to Raija, presses no further. “Ours was always a smaller matter - different from the craft I’d imagine. Small boat.” He turns to take in Lilabet, sidelong. “Long ago.”

"Long ago," agrees Lilabet, her smile one of thoughtfulness and perhaps a hint of wistfulness, too, or perhaps it's just the one she wears when she's half lost to the process of composition (even now). "A different life, even."

Dilan's far more practical, agreeing easily: "Small boats are different. Still need the trust, though, I'd imagine."

Small girl leans her cheek against big brother's shoulder, more of a bump than anything, then slips off and is off without looking back. Her heading's back for that jacket, though, this time to slip it on.

“Mmm,” is an affirmative, to Dilan. H’kon might have said more, but now there are hints of Arekoth in his face, to redirect him, and perhaps also leave Dilan conveniently free - at least, from this side - to follow Raija’s antics. To Lilabet, once he’s back: “How strict will your duties become? How soon?”

Dilan - well, he's content enough to watch his younger sister, half an eye and likely most of his attention on her; only lingering awareness for the rest of the family. Madilla's probably managing to keep it all in view, though that's likely part of her quietness: that, and the sheer simple pleasure of having her family all together.

"The Weyrwoman," a pause from Lilabet, somewhat wry, and then a correction: "/Margaut/ is expecting to ramp up my time with her, going forward. She's only had Cora for support," Cora, finally officially retired after turns and turns without her queen clutching, "so she'll be glad of my help, but of course even harper-trained, there's a lot for me to learn. She's… young." Not so dissimilar in age to Lilabet, though clearly the weyrling sees herself as more worldly-wise, despite her relative goldriding inexperience.

Raija adopts his jacket (her coat) with complete disregard of boy-smells but consummate attention to other details: tucking the collar just so, turning around as she-- given the motion of her elbows-- does up buttons and then undoes them again, and arranging the shoulders with particular care for her new knot. Then and only then can she tromp with her not-so-seagoing swagger back to... not Dilan, not the riders, but their mother, their quiet mother. She sits, right there. She even leaves the remaining baked goods alone, hands disappeared into the too-long sleeves, though her gaze settles on one with currants.

H’kon nods a little, with the corner of his mouth twisting off to one side. “Of course.” A little stream of air, not quite a sigh, escapes. “You’ll have many expectations to meet.” Lips press together, and Lilabet is eyed up. “But if you need - have - a moment away...” he’ll leave the rest to the brown on the rim. Oh look, Raija is up to something. Welcome distraction.

There's a glint of amusement in Madilla's green gaze as she watches Raija with that jacket, visible at a close glance but likely easily missed otherwise. "Trying it on for size?" she asks her youngest. "How does it feel?" She's got a glance for Dilan, too, though the shake of his head is slightly more uncertain.

Despite the distraction of her sister, Lilabet's gaze is square as she returns H'kon's regard. "We're only ever a moment away," she reminds, an acknowledgement that is not much above a murmur, though intent all the same.

Amber eyes peek up and over, away from the currant-trove and through the wilderness of her hair. "I thought you'd like it, mama," Raija chirps. "It's a dress, on me." A /short/ dress, sadly devoid of lace.

It’s Raija’s words that seem to allow H’kon’s attention to slide back, a little, toward Lilabet. But time enough can pass before that the last subject can, too. Instead, “This was a good thing you did.” The nod to the familial gathering, to Madilla, Raija, Dilan, is the sort that is wont to get shared especially with the eldest.

Dilan: "It suits you, sprout. But I still want it back." He's grinning, but really: the ribbon's loss is bad enough.

"Beautiful," declares Madilla, though no doubt she'd be more pleased by her youngest in a real dress, preferably with a hair-cut to go with it… though the hair is probably the bigger of the two wishes.

Lilabet's quiet, gaze seeking away from H'kon and towards the others; her family, collected in full for the first time in so very long. "Family is important," is what she says, when she does finally open her mouth. "I've missed… this." But she's looking, above all, at her mother, and her mother's so-obvious pleasure.

"I wouldn't /keep/ it," declares Raija, so offended! She tips up her nose, too, in a way that turns into a head-tilt to her mother. She smiles. She /smiles/, warm, loving, one confidant to another. And then she turns to, "Papa." It's louder, designed to get attention, before she drops it once more to ask, very seriously, "When is mama the most beautiful?" She reaches for her mother's hand, preferably under the table.

Papa’s attention is duly obtained. The breath on its way out, that gets caught by the question, maybe sounds like ‘oh’, but this must be mere accident. No amount of breath catching can impede that flush up his neck and beneath the stubble. “Um,” is almost an actual utterance. Eyes find Madilla, quickly, but the answer gets directed to Raija: “When she’s happy.”

"Well, /good/," says Dilan, sticking his tongue out at Raija.

Madilla's hand is easily caught, long fingers wrapping about Raija's shorter ones, squeezing gently. She flushes, though, gaze slipping from Raija to H'kon, meeting his gaze for a moment - but no more than that. She, too, glances back at Raija. "I'm very happy," she says. And clearly very beautiful.

Lilabet's smile grows, a certain amount of smugness visible there; good work, self.

Raija sits /almost/ still, a barely-escaped quiver of happiness; she's grabbed her mother's hand tighter-- still under the table-- but her eyes remain on her father with great interest, even after her slow benediction of a nod.

That happiness coming from the youngest is enough to get a bit of a pull, not a full smile, from H’kon. But even after so many years as a unit, there’s a level of exposure here, the unstated reality that he assumes everyone knows but prefers unstated, very near being voiced openly. His weight shifts,as if to stand, though he holds himself back. “Dilan,” is the escape route, fairly or not; also, perhaps, the assumed ally, “when are you due back? I’d see that ship of yours...”

Look at Dilan. Look at Dilan trying--valiantly!-- not to laugh. Oh, not /at/ H'kon, not as such, though the grin he aims at the brownrider is irrepressible. "Soon," he allows, with a glance towards the exit quite as if he could see the time from his position (which he clearly cannot). "Likely, anyway. You'll take me? Not," with a hasty glance at his eldest sister, "that your girl's not a smooth enough ride."

It can't be easy for Madilla, to acknowledge that her two eldest must depart, but her smile doesn't shift: perhaps it's enough, for now, that they've been here at all. "You'd better take the rest of the pastries with you," she decides: that Dilan is (at least in theory) still a growing boy goes unstated.

Lilabet--as valiant as her brother--elects not to stick her tongue out, but there's a glimmer in her expression, and something that keenly resembles mock-disapproval.

/Mother/. After all Raija's done for her! Her nascent scowl is not-so-mock-aggrieved, and she swoops for the currant scone with her free hand, sleeves or no sleeves, seeking to untangle her other hand to make her hold good. (But at least she's not staring at her father.)

“We could,” H’kon nods. ‘We get to,’ more accurate, is to be found only in the hint of anticipation, a twitch really, right above the corner of his mouth. “Do you remember how to fit straps?” A vague gesture, as he now makes good on standing, toward their usual place near the dragon’s couch. But the feet he’s gained are used, rather, to approach Lilabet. “Someday. Soon. Have her call. We’ll show you our favourite places.”

"I'd like that," is Lilabet's response, as she draws herself up in a fluid motion, standing, so that she can meet H'kon's gaze squarely. "/We'd/ like that." The nod is just subtle, but nonetheless an acknowledgement of more than her words; connection.

Dilan's slower to respond, despite the way he's already standing, already in motion: it's better to let his eldest sister have her moment, better to be silent a few moments more than's actually required. "As if I'd forget," is quiet, even then, and anyway: he's already in motion, isn't he?

It could be-- must be!-- difficult for Madilla, but she remains where she is nonetheless, attention caught between her two eldest. Not that there's not attention enough for Raija, too; not a knowing smile in /that/ direction, currant scone and all. "And you'll all come back soon," is not a request.

Surely her brother can't leave without his jacket. Raija hunches there in her seacraft-knotted nest, picking the currants out with her teeth and licking up whatever crumbs and chunks threaten to fall. She eyes them, the people. The would-be /leaving/ people. Moment or no moment, she's not audience but analyst, apprehension-- rebellion?-- tightening her elbows against her ribs. And she stays there. [LONG PAUSE] Something happens, then (a movement, someone passing between her and the glows, a sound from beyond their table); she does dislodge herself (where, not that long ago, littler Raija had not) and shuffle out where she (and the jacket) can be better accessed. So there.

There is sound from the couch: dragon sound, as Arekoth makes his way back. Between Dilan and him just what sort of greetings are exchanged, though the chances of, at the least, a jet of dragon breath directed at hair are good. “Hm,” is, this time, solid approval from H’kon, maybe some acknowledgement as well. Lilabet gets that much longer of a look in exchange before he shifts, a glance over his shoulder to Madilla as he heads to the ledge. Not exactly apology, but not so unrelated.

From Dilan, by way of a reply, a hand lifted to press against dragonhide, expression fond but not - as it might have been, once upon a time - wistful. And then he's turning, attuned to Raija's shuffling footfalls, and extends his arm: jacket, please. And if his gaze lingers on her briefly, perhaps seeking out that purloined ribbon? Well.

Lilabet's steps have her bypassing Arekoth (though not before she gives her mother a quick squeeze - nothing lingering, no dramatics) to walk towards the edge of the ledge, eyes upwardly seeking the young queen still perched upon the rim, quite at home in this foreign Weyr (quite as if she owned the place). There's that smile, that hint of incandescence in it. But, "I'll be back again soon."

Madilla? She leans up against the weyr wall, watching; waiting.

Raija? Still on course, of course, with only a step or two more to reach her brother and deliver the goods. She doesn't hurry, exactly, though neither does she stall, exactly. Nor does she hand over the purloined pinkness, exactly. Unless it counts that the ribbon's looped through the lowest buttonhole of what she does hand over, where it had hidden beneath the tabletop during her snack. "Come back soon," she instructs with upward-tilted chin.

H’kon sets up to watch Dilan, supervise the equipping - but trust wins out, and it’s a glance back to Madilla instead (with one arm held out, just in case Raija cares to brush his hand on her return). “We won’t be too long.”

For Raija, Dilan has a nod, that subtle inclination of his chin that likely acknowledges all kinds of things as he accepts the jacket, shrugging it on immediately though surely it would be easier to wrangle straps without it. He winks at his sister, with a sideways quirk of his mouth, but turns back to his task without further comment: true to his word, he's not forgotten.

"Take your time," assures Madilla, smile curving into position. "There's no rush."
Above, the young queen takes flight from the rim, taking what could almost be termed a victory lap around the bowl as she makes her descent. Lilabet nods, satisfied, then turns back, considering her family.

It /just so happens/ that Raija's shoulder (and some of all that hair) bumps into her father's hand, though she doesn't look at him; at least, not until a step or two later, a sliding, near-smiling glance. She's on her way to Lilabet, and that's where she stops, her closed hand held out for her sister's palm. Presumably she doesn't have a worm in it /this/ time.

Half her attention's on the boys as they make their departure, but Lilabet's got time and notice, too, for her sister: for that closed hand, and her own palm, which is extended. Maybe those dark brows lift, just a bit, but the expression is as open as the palm she offers. (So maybe she catches her mother's glance over the top of Raija's head, but it's only for a moment, and only so that they can smile at each other.)

/Raija/ doesn't look at her mother, no glance back, though for a moment she might be a pillar of /something/: her heavy brows drawn in over a thinned press of mouth, aligning palm-over-palm as though... divining. Their hands don't touch when the-- no, not wriggly, not sticky, so /not-worm/ falls for Lilabet: small, light, unalive. Small; symmetrical; shiny, if only on the inside of the cone, with a waft of pearly iridescence; a shell. Raija doesn't take her hand back right away, glance angled at Lilabet, as sidelong as straight-on can be.

Lilabet lets the shell fall where it will upon her outstretched hand, palm steady as she drops her gaze towards it. There's the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth, and then less of a hint and more of something real and true: genuine pleasure, unfeigned. "Benden's coast," she tells her sister, "has nothing on High Reaches'."

Turns out, Raija had held her breath; its release is near-silent as she sinks on her heels, hands knotting behind her back, square as her father but nowhere near as settled: high-strung and not /relieved/. She ducks her head. She stands there until finally she shuffles back, their mother at her back. "Good."

Madilla's arms extend, aiming to draw Raija snug against her. Green eyes studying the elder of her daughters, taking in the way Lilabet stares at the shell, turning her palm this way and that before her fingers finally close around it. Carefully, the shell gets stowed in the top pocket of Lilabet's worn riding jacket. "I'll keep it on the mantel of my weyr," the weyrling promises.

The girl accepts it (presses back), her eyes part-closing (still studying, or trying), her heels nudged up against her mother's toes (much too old to step on them). From that vantage, "You can show mama. When we come."

Madilla's arms form a warm cage around Raija's shoulders. "Soon," she says, following so quickly on after Raija, wistful and pleased too. "We'll have to come soon." She drops her chin so as to press a kiss to Raija's head.

"Soon," agrees Lilabet, with a grin, one hand on her hip in a gesture that is jaunty and confident and so completely unlike either of her parents. "We'll have to show you everything. The coastline may not be as good, but-- well, Benden's still got plenty going for it."

Raija doesn't nod (she might bonk her mother in the chin). Her hesitation opens up all that coastline, lesser or no. Finally, "What kind of soon?" /Practically/.

"Lilabet's busy," says Madilla, straightening, gaze intent upon the weyrling. "We can't make too many plans, not until she's more sure of her availability."

"No--!" Pink floods Lilabet's cheeks in the wake of her outburst; she ducks her gaze to the floor. "No, no, I'd like you to come. I'll make time." One hand curves into a fist at her side, while the other sits flat upon her thigh.

Fascination floods Raija's eyes in black; she doesn't wiggle, exactly, but muscles move in her bony shoulders without those bones going anywhere. Her cheeks lift, on another-but-different, "Good." (So quiet. Just a little chorus. Or witness.)

Madilla-- a healer for how many turns now? Long enough to have a daughter grown to adulthood-- is far too observant to have missed Lilabet's reaction, and were it not for Raija… but Raija is here, and her hands press upon her shoulders, gentle, though she may not even be aware she's doing it. "Then we'll come." What goes unsaid might as well still be audible, though: we'll always come.

Lilabet sucks her upper lip into her teeth, then lets it go in order to smile: bright and cheerful and everything-is-fine. (Everything /is/ fine.) "Then it's a date. Do I get a hug, Raija? Before I need to go?"

/There's/ the relapse into the not-quite-teen, the skew of head and all that hair; she might say yes (reluctantly), she might say no (daringly), she might wrinkle her nose (or just lift it)-- but, a beat later (also daringly), "Come and get it." While they're all right /there/.

Fine dark brows lift, a half-hearted, mostly teasing challenge. Madilla's arms tighten in response, quite as if to claim all those hugs for herself… or perhaps simply to pin her youngest down, so that her eldest can launch herself at the pair: ready or not!

Little Raija would have squealed and tried to bounce up and down (when she wasn't clamming up the way littlest-Raija had); this Raija lifts her chin: she can take it! (And, just for a moment, /squeeze/.)

And so it's a hug for one, two, three of them; Madilla and her girls. Lilabet's arms go for Raija, of course, but Madilla's shift so that she can envelop both of them into her embrace, poor Raija right in the middle of the sandwich (or is that the best place to be?). "It's been so good to see you," says Lilabet, voice muffled. /Both/ of you.

Absolutely the best, and Raija doesn't pretend otherwise, even if that means a faceful of sweater; her smothered sigh's a happy one, and she holds tight, even if it's not (beyond that moment) as hard as she can. (Best not to break, nor to be broken.) Lingering: check. Dramatics: real. It's only when one of the others starts to let go that she'll wriggle as though for freedom.

Madilla doesn't /say/ anything to her eldest, but there's probably something in the way she clings, just a little longer than maybe necessary, to suggest some unspoken conversation. But she withdraws, and so does Lilabet, and both let Raija loose.

"Right," says Lilabet, straightening sharply. "I should go. It's /late/ in Benden."

Raija's retreating towards the table-- perhaps there are leftovers she'd missed-- without apparent inclination to wish further goodbyes, or to be (re-)introduced to the source of Lilabet's someday-maybe-even-soon ride, or witness the ceremonial donning of flight gear. (Which won't prevent her from skulking afterward if Madilla goes too far, the better to stay in earshot... but otherwise stay clear until she has her mother to herself again.)

The moment is over: Lilabet's bravado has been picked back up, shaken out, and donned as surely as her riding gear, vulnerabilities tucked away tidily beneath jacket and gloves. Cognizant of this, Madilla's goodbyes are brief, and in no time at all that foreign queen is launching skywards, and then gone, as if she'd never been there at all. And so it is a thoughtful healer that returns, dry-eyed but wistful for all the forced cheer she directs to her youngest by way of a smile.

Raija's not looking (not /now/), engrossed in wiping the table (without being asked!); the chairs have already been straightened, more precise than necessary in their configuration, except for the one-- H'kon's-- askew. She's old enough (well-behaved enough?) to not lick the found crumbs off her palm, but before she shakes them into the basket, she rescues a stray currant. And eats it.

"Raija! Thank you." Madilla's tone is slightly brighter than it needs to be, but her pleasure at Raija's initiative is genuine nonetheless-- or certainly sounds it, at least. /She/ moves to straighten cushions on the sofa, an act more likely to be completed out of desire to keep busy than true need.

The girl mutters something like a grunt. She nudges the table leg with her toe, a low-level push rather than a poke. She nudges again; it creaks. Eventually, not much more intelligibly, "Do you think she will? Soon."

Grunts are part-and-parcel of (pre-)teens, and Madilla takes no notice. It's that later vocalisation that has her turning her head, glancing over her shoulder at her youngest. "Lilabet keeps her promises," is what she says, quietly. "She always has. And--" She takes in a breath; releases it. "I got the impression she misses us, didn't you?"

"Hnh." And, "Didn't promise soon," says she who keeps track, not /not/ resigned. This time the nudge is more of a lean; the creak is slow, low. "Would you go?"/Go./

Madilla doesn't answer that first, though there's /something/ in the way she looks in Raija's direction, and, too, the way she pauses in what she's doing. "Go?" she asks. "To Benden, to see Lilabet? Of course I would. /Will/."

"/Go/-go. And papa."

And again: "/Go/-go? Raija?" She's not following.

"So you could see her every day."

Oh. /Oh/. Madilla's cheeks go pink, and she straightens, but her words are quick: "No. High Reaches is home, and I think… even if we /wanted/ to, it wouldn't… no. High Reaches is home."

"How come?" Half a pause. "Even if."

Madilla hesitates, and after a moment, sits onto the couch, hands clasped into her lap. "Lilabet's growing-- no, /grown/ up. She misses us, but she's been away from here a long time. A /long/ time. Us moving to Benden would never be on the cards, Raija, but… but especially not for Lilabet. It's better for her, easier, to miss us from a distance."

That gets digested in relative silence, the occasionally-repeated wood-sound the only protest. "We were there, wouldn't have to miss."

"If we were there, she'd wish us gone again." There's resignation in Madilla's tone, and she's smiling. And then a clarification: "Not because she doesn't love us, but because we would crowd her."

Her treble giggle, at last, leaves the table alone. Raija moves on, moves around, moves to the couch and sits-- by her mother's feet, a squat, then on the floor. "Nobody wants you gone ever." How could they?

Madilla drops a hand to her daughter's hair, running her fingers through it-- then smoothing it down (tidy, tidy). She laughs.

"Ow," isn't very loud and maybe pro forma besides. Raija goes rummaging in her pockets with a clack too hard to be crumbs (at least, not fresh crumbs).

"Give it a turn or two," says Madilla, dryly. "Eventually… sometimes we all need space to grow in. To become who we need to be, without… well."

Maybe Raija's stopped listening; her head's still tipped down to whatever she's fiddling with, which now happens to be (also be?) the laces of her mother's shoe. But then there's another nudge, a grunt of a nudge: keep going.

Silent, as she watches Raija play with her shoelaces, Madilla starts - just slightly - at that nudge. She pauses, a breath taken in but not immediately released. After her exhale; "I was about-- no, a turn or so older than you, I think, when I left my mama. And once I had, I couldn't have gone home again, and they could never have followed."

That's forever; that's no time at all. But mostly forever. "...'I couldn't come back.'"

"We… our worlds get bigger, sometimes, when we grow up." Madilla's words are slow, more of a staccato beat than a melody. "And it doesn't mean we love our homes and our families less. It doesn't mean we can't /visit/. Or /miss things/."

There's the shush-shush sound of laces through grommets, loosening, and every now and again an aiglet's tap. (Staccato tap.) "Papa too?"

"Papa too," confirms Madilla. "But that doesn't mean /always/. Lots of people are fine just where they are. Or can leave, and come back, and that works too."

"But you said-- you couldn't go back." That Raija couldn't. Raija, who still hasn't looked up from her /very important task/.

Madilla holds her silence for a moment, perhaps mulling over her words before she can string them together into something coherent. "/I/ couldn't."

/Raija/ can string them together. They just mightn't necessarily be what her mother would mean. But: "Why?"

"Healer Hall taught me all kinds of things," says Madilla, slowly, though not as slowly as that earlier response. "And some of them didn't fit with what my mama taught me. Where I grew up, it was different. And once I'd seen other things, /I/ didn't fit anymore. But that's not always true. Look at-- plenty of Lilabet and Dilan's friends are still here, and they're not going to go. Everyone's experience is different." (Once she's started talking, it's like she can't stop: the words start coming faster and faster.)

Though Raija doesn't interrupt (more than the shush-sounds, the occasional tugs, the sucked-in breath) it's a near thing. In the end, she goes back: "What didn't fit? If you went to Harper like Lily, could you then?"

Madilla's laugh is immediate, not /at/ Raija, but, as her words make clear, "Me, a Harper? No - it wasn't /Healer/, specifically. It was the world. Where I grew up, little girls, or less-little-girls, didn't make choices. And once I'd seen that I could…"

Next time they're in stores, next time Raija wants the shirt that her mother isn't so happy about, this topic may return; the flip side is that right now, the girl's shoulders have hunched up some and one side of the laces gets an extra tug. At least the other shoe is still pristine. "What did Lily learn?"

"I think… I think Lily learned how…" Madilla breaks off, shaking her head. "I think Lily realised she needed to not feel like /just/ my daughter, Teris' niece. She needed to make her own history." Does that make sense? Madilla seems-- sounds-- uncertain about it.

The short little grunt says she's /heard/. Lacing continues, only this time it's lace-up instead of lace-down, and not exactly the same as it was before. "History." Tug. "Story."

"Your sister has always been one for history," says Madilla. "History and stories, they go hand-in-hand, I think. And she's always had her eye on the bigger picture."

Raija finally looks up over her shoulder at /that/, one amber eye peering through all that hair, though it can't be a conscious parallel.

Somehow, being looked at interrupts Madilla's train of thought (as if it hadn't already been partially derailed), and the healer goes silent, lips pressed together. Then: "She'll be a good weyrwoman, one day. But she'll be better for not having our eyes on her /all/ the time."

Hm. The amber eye doesn't shut, not all the way, but-- after some seconds of studying-- it half-closes as Raija turns back, resting her head against her mother's knee. Then she lifts her head again; to the room, this time, "Nobody says we can't go back, or that mostly people don't, anyway. They should tell us." /She's/ going to tell them.

Madilla's fingers smooth Raija's hair, pausing as the girl lifts her head again. "Oh, Raija. Lots of people do, though. It's only sometimes." Nevermind the track record of /this/ particular family.

"But they have to know." Raija loops around loops, and gets up as swiftly as she'd sat, leaving her mother with two shoes tied in bows: one at the top, but one at the /side/. Destination: table, once more.

"Okay," agrees Madilla. "But-- Raija?" She'll leave the shoes as they are.

Her head turns in lieu of a, 'Mama?'

"You get to decide. If you want to /go/, if you want to /stay/, if coming back feels right or wrong. And whatever you decide… papa and I will be there if you need us."

Click click click. Three little shells where they sit: none at all as perfect as the one she'd given Lilabet, but all with /colors/. "'S not," she says, finally, "just /feeling/."

"No?"

Her eyes roll back and around, her palm planted on the tabletop. "Can't just do what you /want/ to," and in her voice are all the times she had to /put things away/ [as opposed to leaving bits in not necessarily obvious places to be stumbled upon, sometimes literally], all the tending of tots, all the minders that corralled her little pack until they could jump the fences [sometimes almost literally] back into the wild.

"No, that's true," Madilla agrees. "Sometimes you have responsibilities. Like-- when Lilabet as a harper she had to go where she was sent. And she had to ask permission to go to Benden to Stand, too, because she'd made a commitment to the harpers. And now, she couldn't just decide to come home, either. But if, when she was an apprentice, she'd decided that harpering wasn't what she wanted to do, and she was /really certain/, she could have come home then. Or Dee. But I /asked/ to stay at High Reaches, because I knew it was home and I didn't want to leave, and sometimes that can happen, too."

Her eyes narrow. "How did you know?" The emphasis goes on any of those words, and all.

"Because… because it felt right. I had Delifa, and then I had papa, and of course here was home for Lily and Dee and then /you/, and…" There are probably a hundred different times when Madilla could have left High Reaches, perhaps /should/ have, craft-wise.

/Feelings/. /Again/. Raija makes a noise, and pokes at the shells again-- bright shells, wild shells, none of them /perfect/ shells-- and so far as she's concerned, that can be that. She can stack the glasses, and disappear into her hidey-hole, and-- it'll be later, when she meets with her pack, that she describes the likelihood of /going/ meaning /not coming back/.

Words, like feelings, are so often never quite enough - certainly not explicable, quantifiable, easy to categorise. If Madilla's dissatisfied with her own part in this conversation (and she very likely is), it's not something to be dwelled upon (at least not /now/; perhaps later, with H'kon). She draws herself back to her feet. She lets her youngest go.
}}

Logs:Disaster Strikes High Reaches Weyr

2021-03-05T10:19:56Z

K'del:

{{Log
|what=Disaster at the meteor watching party.
|where=High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=11
|month=10
|turn=21
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2010.01.16
|type=Update
|log=The Meteor-watching party, intended as an autumn celebration for the Reaches, ended in disaster when one of the meteors smashed in to the Eye Rock, sending it hurtling to the ground. Aside from significant damage to the bowl wall, the debris resulting from the various impacts resulted in the deaths of several lower caverns staff (though no dragonriders), and a score of injuries.

Most pressingly, aside from the injuries, is the loss of the Eye Rock. It may not be needed for thread-prediction reasons for well over a hundred turns, but the time will come, and it remains to be seen whether the skills to recreate it - not to mention position it - remain available. In the meantime, too, word has been sent around Pern for everyone to Between to High Reaches Hold, instead, and fly straight, existing images now being deathtraps for the unwary.

In the days that follow the disaster, word comes in from around the immediate High Reaches Hold area, of more disaster and destruction, though none quite so impressive and staggering as that which has struck the weyr itself.

One might be forgiven for wondering: is the weyr cursed?
|Categories=Meteor Disaster Logs
}}

Logs:Always Choices

2021-03-05T10:15:44Z

K'del:

{{Log
|who=A'sran, Catling, Dahlia
|what=Two riders and a resident talk about choices and other things.
|where=Nighthearth, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=1
|month=11
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.01.15
|quote="I think we all have choices, but weyrs make people feel like they have a better chance at snatching them up somehow."
|weather=A nasty mix of snowy stuff and rainy stuff falls intermittently, leaving ice on some surfaces and the ground muddy but chill.
|mentions=Druala
|type=Log
|icons=a'sran blue eyes.jpg, dahlia politic.jpg
|desc=>---< Nighthearth, Fort Weyr(#2044RJs$) >------------------------------------<

An irregular archway leads into the alcove that houses the Nighthearth.
This cozy little nook contains a hearth, protected by a grate that can be
used to prop chilled feet to warm on cold days, that is surrounded with a
several leather, upholstered chairs. A small table pushed against the same
wall as the hearth is kept stocked at all times with fresh, hot klah, a
pot of stew, and a basket of baked goods including breads and both savory
and sweet filled rolls. The Weyr's aunties also keep the space supplied
with a stack of perpetually renewed afghans in interesting color choices,
while the Headwoman's staff ensures that some of the older towels are
always on hand on a row of hooks for riders ducking in off of sweeps in
bad weather. Otherwise, the Nighthearth is undecorated but for the motley
collection of mismatched mugs, bowls, and spoons that line the mantel for
general use.
|log=When the weather without is as it is today, a snowy, rainy mix of yuck, the Nighthearth sees an increase in use, cozy as it is with it's hearth, drinks and stew. Dahlia is stripping free her frost-sleet-wet slicked riding jacket in front of the hearth, helmet, goggles and gloves already arranged on the stones in front of it to dry. Her jacket joins them shortly and she snags up one of the old towels provided here to scrub down each leg to dry her leather pants as best she can.

Catling comes to the Nighthearth, shivering a little in her long sweater-jacket. It is rather wet, as are her boots. She shakes herself, moving close to the fire, and pulls off the jacket. She nods to the weyrwoman, ducking her head shyly. "Is there a little more room, weyrwoman? I was mistaken as a valid target in a slushball game."

Dahlia's smile for Catling is sympathetic, pausing in her rubbing efforts to lean down and shift her items a little more to the side, even if there's already plenty of room at the wide hearth. "One thing a person learns quickly is that at Fort, ''everyone'' is a valid target of snowballs, or slushballs." She resumes her drying as she goes on. "This is only the beginning of the season. A word of advice?" She offers, but goes on without waiting for permission, "Learn to dodge well, or throw well. Might not help in the end, but more fun if you're playing too."

"I throw well enough. And dodge well enough. I just can't dodge that many at once." Catling grins shyly. "Learning how to dodge and run... it helps a lot. I'm used to winter, though we're further north and higher up than where I grew up. So it comes a little later..."

Rain, and snow, and snowy rain, and erstwhile snowballs are not going to wipe the customary grin off of a certain bronzerider's face. It is ''that'' same bronzerider that drips his way through the caverns, leaving a trail of water behind him. "Not you too," A'sran announces loudly, pausing in the entryway to the nighthearth to stare with open amusement at the goldrider by the hearth. "I had hoped the rain spared you, but alas.." As he moves inward, taking strides towards the brunette, his blue eyes flick towards Catling with obvious inquisitiveness.

"Ahh," the weyrwoman accepts the younger girl's answer with a nod. "Then the next step, since throwing and dodging aren't problems, is getting ''friends'' enough that you can outnumber them." Dahlia's already smiling her amusement before she turns her head to glance over her shoulder at the new arrival, saying, "''Shockingly'', bronzerider, the rain does not part just for my ''being''." The mock pout she takes on briefly manages to stay exaggeratedly serious through her addition of, "It was a surprise to me, too." Goldriders being magic and all that. Then she grins, shaking out her towel and offering it his way.

"I'm... ah... working on it ma'am," answers Catling. "Hello, sir," she adds to the bronzerider. "Do... ah... either of you need more towels? I can get some..." She places her sweater out to dry, then huddles near the fire to get warmed up, but trying to stay out of the way. She sits down and starts to tug off her boots as well. "Bother. The slush just gets everywhere, doesn't it."

The ''sir'' is enough to startle him out of his smile, but it makes a comeback with his swift, "A'sran, please." He sidles up to the hearth, where everyone else seems to be congregating, and presents to it his damp backside, for the warming. "I cannot believe it. I thought goldriders only bathed in the glory of the sun, and here you stand, throwing all my prior dillusions to the wind." His smile is warm when he turns the fullness of it upon Dahlia. "Is this your friend? Now that I have introduced myself, I think it is only proper I find out her name," with his eyes coming to rest on Catling once more.

"No, thank you," Dahlia replies easily to the younger girl. "There are some just there," she makes gesture to where they hang on hooks ready for just such occasion, "and I like to do what I can for myself." Certainly, crossing the room for another towel falls within the realm of her abilities. The look she returns to A'sran has a very carefully neutral smile, "This is Catling. It's her first winter at the Weyr." The description is careful, but it opens the door certainly for the girl to provide more for herself.

"I found myself with an... ah... unexpected opportunity to travel and see a little more of the world," murmurs Catling, not quite looking up. She rubs the back of her neck nervously. "So here I am. I've been here about a month. Everyone's been very welcoming. And I am glad to meet you s-- A'sran. I hope you and your dragon-- are well? Then she looks at Dahlia. "How is Taeliyth, ma'am? If I might ask."

"Welcome to Fort Weyr, Catling. I hope everyone has been treating you well. I know firsthand how much of a shock it can be, if, like me, you are from a Hold and not from one of these fine establishments," the bronzerider says, lopsided smile and a wink at the end. "We are indeed, yes. Leczuth tells me the wind is fine for flying, but I told him unless you want to see the death of us both he will have to see this one out alone. Not that he goes far these days." A'sran's murmuring ends with another grin and a pointed glance towards Dahlia.

"She's well, thank you. Hungrier than usual today," Dahlia might add that last to her answer for Catling for A'sran's benefit. "It can be just as shocking if you come from somewhere with plentiful sand, jungle and structures with four walls and a ceiling rather than all this rock." She adds her own experience, wryly, before moving to pour herself a mug of klah, offering over her shoulder, "Klah?" to either of them. "Tell Leczuth," she adds for the bronzerider, that there's still at least a month before there will be eggs." There's warm amusement for the behavior of the bronze though.

"I'm used to the cold and the rock," murmurs Catling. "It was a small cothold, but comfortable. What's weird is.... having choices." She reaches up to un-pin her long braids that are coild up. "What's weird is..." She pauses a moment with her braid in her hand, then giggles softly. "Well, yes, him." Then she shakes herself. "My father's best childhood friend Impressed. He used to take him flying before my father left the Weyr. He never talked about it much, the Weyr, dragons, anything. But when he talked about flying, his eyes would light up."

"Southern weyrs are different I will give you that." A'sran gives his red-blonde head a shake, dispelling water droplets here and there, and leans a little further back, getting his backside real nice and close to the fire's warm. "Hm? Choices? I think we all have choices, but weyrs make people feel like they have a better chance at snatching them up somehow. You ''did'' have the choice to leave, and took it I gather," he responds to Catling, his mouth spreading wider and a bit toothier. It is Dahlia's comment ''to'' Leczuth that earns her another glance from deep blue eyes. "I do not think he cares for the difference," wry.

"No?" is too innocent from Dahlia for Leczuth's demeanor toward eggs, something mischievous in the look of her eyes. "Always choices. Even the Weyr can feel limiting that way, if you let it." The goldrider seems to agree with A'sran, glancing curiously to Catling, her eyes lingering. "Have you flown yet, Catling?" is her question when she speaks again.

"I... erm... didn't have a choice about leaving my old home. But... I ''did'' have a choice where to go. I think I took the right road," answers Catling, still shy. She sighs, then looks over at Dahlia, shaking her head. "No ma'am, I've never flown. Never touched a dragon. When I got here was the first time I ever saw one up close.." She shrugs.

"No," A'sran sighs, so put upon by these draconic obligations. "It could be seven turns from now and he is still not leaving the weyr for any extended period of time. He can be.." He lets that thought dangle in the air as his eyes flick between the woman and the girl, observing their conversation with little input except for a merry, "You picked well."

Dahlia's brow puckers a little in concern as she looks at Catling and her answers. But by the time she says, "Oh," to A'sran, her look has become an exaggeration of that feeling, "Well, then I suppose you oughtn't tell him that ''we've'' been escaping as frequently as we can. For lunch, for a stroll, for a flight. And definitely don't tell him that we're planning to attend the Vintner festival later this seven, or the Southern Hold gather next seven." Hazel eyes shift to Catling, "You might see about finding riders going to one or another of the events around Pern to hitch a ride with. Easy rides is one of the perks of living in a Weyr. I wouldn't recommend a gold be your first dragon experience. They ''are'' rather large. A nice green or blue might do well. One who's friendly, ideally."

"They all seem rather large to me," admits Catling. Then she blinks. "Oh. I'll get to ''go'' to the Gathers? Really?" She looks pleased, then embarrassed, then crestfallen. "I've only ever been to one Gather. That was a bit ago. But I don't have anything proper to wear...."

"I am not entirely sure that he does not already know, but he still prefers to keep ''himself''.. accessible." A'sran keeps that statement cryptic, and shortly there is a small crowd passing by the nighthearth that pulls his attention further. "Ladies," he says, sweeping them both a grand gesture, "I am afraid I will have to leave you. I have to see a man about.. some straps." He gives each a smile, the goldrider one with a hike of eyebrows, before he is striding ''off'' in the wake of that group of riders.

"They all are rather large," Dahlia admits to Catling, "But greens and blues smallest of all." She looks to the bronzerider taking his leave an she smiles, "I'll see you later?" It's only half a question, perhaps sure enough of the response to not let her attention linger on him as he goes. Looking back to the young woman and over what she's wearing, Dahlia's brows knit a little, "What's wrong with what you're wearing now for a gather?" Her riding leathers, if they tell anything about the goldrider's style of dress, indicate that though they're relatively new and well-fitted, they're not the least bit extravagant; they're the same sort of leathers a person would see on any rider of average means.

"It's not very... pretty," murmurs Catling. "And... I mean, I work in it. And..." She looks down. "And it's not..." She twists her hair around her fingers. "Is it... really acceptable? It's good enough?" Even if it's ugly and old and faded?" She bites her lip and looks up. "I thought people always dressed up for Gathers."

"Catling," Dahlia pauses after saying her name, lips pressed, expression saying that she's searching for some words that aren't readily there. "Gathers are for all kinds of people. The people who enjoy them ''most'' are the people who don't have to worry about if their hem dragged in the mud. There are more people with every day jobs and every day clothes at gathers than there are weyrwomen or fancy Lords and Ladies for whom keeping up appearances might be important for what it says about the area they represent. As it happens, I have only two gather dresses available to me. One was inherited from someone who passed away, and one is borrowed from a friend from my childhood."

"Oh." Catling looks up at last. "She looks down at her dress again. "Well... maybe I can work to get a pretty dress for next year, and just.... go and enjoy myself in this, this time. It..." She tilts her head. "I guess sometimes you don't really know where you come from until you're not there anymore." She turns her head towards the fire, then roughly rubs her cheeks.

"You could check with the stores assistants to see if there's something nicer that might fit you, though it might be difficult with your stature," is a friendly suggestion with logical caveat, nothing judgmental from the tall brunette. Dahlia looks thoughtfully toward her jacket on the hearth, "These past turns have been hard on Fort Weyr. Hard on the area. It's not been a time for luxury purchases in quite some time. But with the dearth of deaths in the plague, you never know what's made it into the stores." That makes the weyrwoman look uneasy, but it's the way of things in a Weyr. "When I was an apprentice, I wore dirty pants, shirt and dirt-encrusted nails to the Nerat gathers. No one there ever minded." That she noticed, but perhaps apprentices are below notice.

"My stepmother wouldn't let me go. Always an excuse for it. Too young, had to watch my half-brothers, had to watch the animals, and most of all, could not go because I had no suitable clothes and no sense of.... decorum, and I would disgrace my father..." Catling's voice trails off as she focuses on Dahlia's uneasy look, and she reaches out her hand to the goldrider. "It was hard. I'm sorry for your loss... losses. It's hard to just go back to doing normal things. I have...." She flushes. "I have a toy firelizard. It's made of wool. My father made it for me. And.... every night I tell it... her.... the story of my day. So that he'll know. Even if he's gone. And that maybe my mother, wherever she is, will know. So. Your lost ones.... their love doesn't ever die. Never ever as long as you live."

Dahlia shies away from the reached hand, only just enough to step neatly out of range, expression not betraying more than the uneasiness that was already there in that moment. Crouching, the weyrwoman runs a hand down her jacket to check it for relative dryness. It's a moment before she speaks, but when she does, not looking at the younger woman, she replies, "It's good that you've found a way to cope with your losses. We all must find a way, all must carry on with what's needed for the living." She sounds older than nineteen when she says it, but then she's seen a lot and more and earned that maturity. Gathering her things, tucking gloves into jacket pockets and putting the jacket over an arm, helmet and goggles dangling from the hand not occupied by her mug of klah, "If you'll excuse me, Catling, I have duties to attend to." There's a polite smile from the goldrider before she's turning to go.

Catling draws back, and she nods her head. "Of... of course," she says softly. She bites at her lip, then shakes herself. "I hope you enjoy the Vintner Gather if I don't see you before then," she adds. Then she holds her hands out to the fire, rubbing them together, trying to draw in the warmth from the dancing flames.
|Categories=Clutch 137 Logs
}}
[[Category:General_Logs]]

HRW:Dragons

2016-07-26T06:30:37Z

K'del:

There are currently '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] OR [[Dragon-clutch::HRW]]
|format=count
}}''' dragons in the database, including '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::blue]] OR [[Dragon-clutch::HRW]] [[Dragon-color::blue]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' blues, '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::bronze]] OR [[Dragon-clutch::HRW]] [[Dragon-color::bronze]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' bronzes, '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::brown]] OR [[Dragon-weyr::HRW]] [[Dragon-color::brown]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' browns, '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::gold]] OR [[Dragon-weyr::HRW]] [[Dragon-color::gold]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' golds, and '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::green]] OR [[Dragon-weyr::HRW]] [[Dragon-color::green]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' greens.

{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] OR [[Dragon-weyr::HRW]]
|?Dragon-name=
|?Dragon-color=
|?Dragon-rider=
|?Dragon-clutch=
|format=template
|limit=1000
|link=none
|template=DragonLists
|introtemplate=DragonListsHeader
}}

Template:DragonLists

2016-07-26T06:21:02Z

K'del:

<includeonly>
|[[Dragon:{{{2}}}|{{{2}}}]]||{{{3}}}||width="150"{{!}}[[{{{4}}}]]||width="150"{{!}}{{#ifeq:{{{5}}}| | | [[Clutch:{{{5}}}{{!}}{{{5}}}]]}}
|-
</includeonly>

Template:DragonLists

2016-07-26T06:20:23Z

K'del:

<includeonly>
|[[{{{2}}}|Dragon:{{{2}}}]]||{{{3}}}||width="150"{{!}}[[{{{4}}}]]||width="150"{{!}}{{#ifeq:{{{5}}}| | | [[Clutch:{{{5}}}]]}}
|-
</includeonly>

Template:DragonLists

2016-07-26T06:19:57Z

K'del:

<includeonly>
|[[{{{1}}}|Dragon:{{{1}}}]]||{{{3}}}||width="150"{{!}}[[{{{4}}}]]||width="150"{{!}}{{#ifeq:{{{5}}}| | | [[Clutch:{{{5}}}]]}}
|-
</includeonly>

Template:DragonLists

2016-07-26T06:17:55Z

K'del:

<includeonly>
|[[{{{1}}}|{{{2}}}]]||{{{3}}}||width="150"{{!}}[[{{{4}}}]]||width="150"{{!}}{{#ifeq:{{{5}}}| | | [[Clutch:{{{5}}}]]}}
|-
</includeonly>

HRW:Dragons

2016-07-26T06:17:31Z

K'del:

There are currently '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]]
|format=count
}}''' dragons in the database, including '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::blue]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]] [[Concept:Blue Dragons]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' blues, '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::bronze]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]] [[Concept:Bronze Dragons]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' bronzes, '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::brown]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]] [[Concept:Brown Dragons]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' browns, '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::gold]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]] [[Concept:Gold Dragons]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' golds, and '''{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] [[Dragon-color::green]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]] [[Concept:Green Dragons]]
|?#
|format=count
}}''' greens.

{{#ask:[[Dragon-home::High Reaches Weyr]] OR [[Clutched::HRW]] [[Dragon:+]]
|?Dragon-name=
|?Dragon-color=
|?Dragon-rider=
|?Dragon-clutch=
|format=template
|limit=1000
|link=none
|template=DragonLists
|introtemplate=DragonListsHeader
}}

Logs:Where The Books Are

2016-07-14T12:15:59Z

K'del:

{{Log
|who=Farideh, Regan2
|what=Farideh meets Regan.
|where=Records Room, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=2
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.06.28
|quote="It looks important."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh direct.png,
|log=Regan is at the table closest to the front desk with a huge book open in front of her. While the scribe on duty at the front desk is relaxed and seems to even be doodling on some scrap paper, Regan's own posture is rigid, her back held straight against the back of her chair. Her finger hovers over the book and slowly moves down the page before flicking back up to the top. Her lips keep silently mouthing the same words over and over, matching the rhythm of her finger as it goes up and down the same page.

Many books, in different sizes and shapes, fill the slim arms of High Reaches' youngest goldrider, who exits the council chambers and enters the records room, obviously with a purpose. Busy trying to keep all the books from falling to the floor, Farideh doesn't pay ''much'' attention to who or what is around, and without a glance at its occupants, drops her armload heavily onto the table nearest the front desk. "Faranth," she mutters under her breath, smoothing her hands down the front of her blouse; only then, does she look up, and immediately Regan catches her eye. "Oh," is a tad surprised, cheeks flushing, "I didn't-- sorry."

Regan is focused enough on her reading that she is blissfully unaware of Farideh's initial entrance. The drop of books, though, causes the girl to jump with surprise. The healer's arm jolts as she jumps, knocking her large book askew. The apprentice healer hastily straightens it and gently pats the tome, as if apologizing to the innocent text. She looks up at Farideh and seems to at least vaguely recognize her, prompting her to attempt a smile. "Oh! No, please. It's fine. Did you need me to move?" She glances at Farideh's pile of books and adds, "It looks important."

"Move?" Farideh's eyebrows lift in mild surprise and her cheeks retain their ruddy color. "No, of course not. You were here first and that would be terribly rude of me. It's just more studying material-- anatomy, history, ledgers, records--" She waves her hand dismissively and rolls her eyes towards the ceiling, and then gives the apprentice an inquisitive, if friendly, smile. "Are you sure I'm not going to be a bother? I don't want to-- I could go back to the council chambers," she says.

Lest Farideh's cheeks feel alone in their blushing, Regan's begin to flush as well. She shuffles her chair away from Farideh to make more room for the weyrling, but its wooden legs scrape on the stone floor and cause an unpleasant SCREECH to ring out across the quiet room. Regan's cheeks darken and her sharp posture collapses, her shoulders sinking in embarrassment. "Sorry about that." But when Farideh mentions her studies, Regan immediately perks up and her eyebrows raise with enthusiastic interest. "Anatomy? I'm reading about that myself." She gestures to her book, which is still open to the same page. It prominently features a human skeleton. "What parts are you focusing on?"

The weyrling hesitates a moment longer, and then lowers herself into the nearest chair, pulling her books closer so they aren't stacked wilynily over the table. "Oh." Farideh's smile is indulgent, her fingers flipping open the topmost book in her pile. "Dragon anatomy-- for-- well, I'm supposed to know," she replies, pressing the pads of her fingers into the pages to smooth them out over the spine. "Are you--" As her eyes settle on the apprentice's knot, her words cease, and then laughingly, "You're a healer apprentice?"

Regan's posture shifts from embarrassed to relieved as Farideh takes a seat. Now that she knows she hasn't scared the weyrling away, she returns to her rigid posture against the back of her chair--Regan's version of 'relaxed'. She follows the weyrling's gaze to her healer's knot and nods curtly. "Yes, I am. I'm posted here right now." The apprentice looks at her own studies, but she steals a glance towards Farideh's book, her hands twitching with barely restrained enthusiasm. In a deferential tone, she tentatively asks, "May I take a look at your copy?"

"Posted from the Hall? Where were you from before that?" Abruptly, Farideh giggles, and covers her mouth, sliding the records attendant staring at them disapprovingly a wide-eyed look. "Sorry. I didn't even ask your name and I'm asking you all these questions--" She sucks in a breath, and during her exhale, moves the book over to Regan. "Sure. I don't ''want'' to read it. I have to do for lessons and all that. It's ''useful'' when it comes to my dragon, but I don't particularly care to name all of the bones in the dragon skeleton or the muscles. That's what dragonhealers are for," she tacks on, leaning back against her chair and stretching her legs out.

And now those twitchy, enthusiastic hands can be released! Regan eagerly pulls over Farideh's top book, her grey eyes quickly flitting over the details on the open page. The apprentice manages to pull her attention away from the two open books, but only barely. "My family is from Crom Hold. I'm Regan. You're..." She hesitates before finishing with a hopeful, "Farideh, right? I watched you impress." The girl fidgets nervously and slips her hands back around her own book, as if it offers protection from social awkwardness. "I mean, I try to keep track of who's who." As for the comments on dragonhealing, Regan's lips twitch downward. "Yes, dragonhealers offer a very important service. I'm sure you offer a key perspective, though, in diagnostics. Since you have your connection to your dragon."

"Crom," Farideh repeats, with all of the inflection needed, "You're not far from your home, then." Her chin dips as she inclines her head in a sign of approval and affirmation. "Yes, Farideh, and did you? You chose not to stand for Niahvth's clutch?" she asks, hazels eyes curious on the other girl's face; if she notices the nervousness, the awkwardness, she doesn't comment on it, instead offering a polite smile. "I am sure you could see it that way. That ''they'' see it that way, and it's ''useful'' in that Roszadyth can tell me what or where or how it hurts, but when it comes to actually ''treating'' anything that she suffers from, I would rather an experienced dragonhealer diagnose her."

"No, not far. But my studies keep me where the books are." Regan meets Farideh's gaze, while her hand gently strokes the edges of her text. "I thought I was of more service in my craft." The apprentice smiles and gestures broadly to her own human anatomy book and Farideh's dragon anatomy. "We need those experienced healers, as you say. To help bridge this gap between human and dragon, for example." She certainly seems more at ease talking about these bones and bodies rather than home.

"Only because you're good at it? Or because you ''want'' to do it?" Farideh crosses her arms snugly over her chest, sending the healer apprentice an idle glance. "Believe me-- you don't want to get stuck doing something you're not suited to, or bored of, or-- anything that makes it miserable, really." She lends Regan one ear, and focus her gaze, meanwhile, on two weyrbrats arguing over a children's book by the shelves. "What type of healing are you specializing in, Regan?"

Regan hesitates for a moment as Farideh's question catches her off guard. "I...I want to do it. I want to do something I'm good at. And my mentors have invested a lot of effort into me by this point." Her gaze lingers on the weyrling's face while Farideh gives her career advice. She shakes her head firmly, replying, "Bored? I don't think that's a risk." She taps the skeleton page as proof. "Bodies will endlessly surprise you. Look at everything going on in this skeleton. All the different shapes, the joints. And that's just the bones." The weyrbrats earn themselves an icy glare from Regan, as if serious studies were the only valid activity in this not-so-sacred space. "I'm focusing on trauma, but also general practice. Ideally you go ages without having an emergency to deal with, so they're a good pair."

"That's ''good''. You'll make a lovely healer I'm sure. Posted to a Hold? Treating dehydrated field workers and leg wounds, maybe even a concussion or two," Farideh says, rambling on without any genuine interest in what she's saying. "Hm? Oh, yes, well--" She makes a pretense of sweeping the anatomy drawing with her eyes, but they're moving on shortly thereafter. "That's an honorable profession. I am ''sure'' you will succeed. Regan, if you will excuse me?" And then she's up, leaving her books on the table, walking towards the shelves housing the scrolls and hides.

"Thank you. I hope I can adequately treat people wherever I'm posted." Judging from Regan's second glower at those bickering weyrbrats, though, she hopes those people will be on the older side of the age spectrum. The healer simply nods when Farideh excuses herself, and she seamlessly returns to her book. Back she goes to skimming up and down the skeleton, silently mouthing the names of each bone as she goes over it.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

Regan2

2016-07-14T12:15:51Z

K'del: K'del moved page Regan to Regan2 without leaving a redirect: New Regan.

{{Profile
|body={{wysk}}

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}}

== RP Logs ==

{{NewLogs |name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{Icons}}}}

Logs:Sirehood

2016-07-12T20:28:53Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, K'del |what=Edyis wants advice on how to be a good clutchsire. |where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=6 |month=4 |turn..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, K'del
|what=Edyis wants advice on how to be a good clutchsire.
|where=Hatching Galleries, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=6
|month=4
|turn=41
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.07.12
|quote="Akluseth keeps imagining what they will be like, although so far every single image he's shared with me has been some shade of orange or another."
|mentions=Irianke, Jocelyn, Quinlys, Tiriana
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Icon k'del explaining.jpg,
|log=It is early in the morning yet, and though Edyis has her breakfast with her in the comfortable section of the gallery, there is no sign of her orange-brown lifemate up in the ledges. A stack of what appear to reports sits to one side while the brownrider picks apart a sweet roll with ferocious hunger, the plate next to her still piled high with them while a collection of records sits to the opposite. A stack of wooden tumblers and a bottle sits off to a side, and the brownrider looks very much as though she's set up residence in the cavern permanently.

Spring has brought with it that endless, heavy driving rain it so often does, and perhaps that's a good half of the reason K'del ducks his way into the galleries, sodden and shivery. With no queen in residence, the passage via the sands is-- in ''this'' weather-- perhaps a convenient way home. Even so, the blond pauses to glance around the galleries before heading that way, and as he does so, those blue eyes fix their gaze upon that one lone brownrider. "Edyis," he greets, voice raised against the distances involved.

Mouth half closed around a sweet roll guilt tints her expression as ink-dark eyes go wide spotting the Weyrleader. 'Sir' She tries, except that it comes out as "Smrr." Hastily swallowing and snapping a salute with somewhat sticky fingers. "Um, it isn't what it looks like." Except that it's exactly what it looks like, and as though to appease the bronzerider she holds up the plate of sweet rolls. "Breakfast?"

K'del's expression, truth be told, looks more amused than bothered, though he returns Edyis' salute with a rather waterlogged one of his own-- and then shifts his path in order to approach, weaving footsteps up into the galleries. "Reckon you've as much right as anyone to be up here," he comments. "More than most, even. Congratulations. Akluseth must be very smug."

Edyis grins a little bit. "He's been mostly tolerable, hardly wants to vacate her side, and I've noticed he tends to show off a little more during drills of late." Rubbing sticky fingers across a napkin. "To be honest, it still doesn't quite feel real to me. Intellectually I was aware of the fact that he ''might'' catch a gold, Arekoth's done it before. But the reality of it." Is another thing entirely. "Would be lying if I didn't admit that I feel a little lost and overwhelmed by it."

Listening thoughtfully, K'del slides himself onto the bench alongside Edyis, leaving a companionable amount of space between them-- in part, no doubt, because of the water still dripping off of him. "Mm," he agrees, as she finishes. "First time Cadejoth chased, it was a senior queen. Scared the sh-- stuffing out of me. But after he caught Iovniath... won't deny part of that was the fact she was a senior queen, of course. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

Edyis smirks at the curse that almost slips. "Fuck if it had been a senior flight, I think I'd be in the infirmary right now." Shivering at the thought, but she does nod looking over at the sodden man now. "There is the responsiblity of it for one thing, the what ifs that keep echoing around in my head. Then there is the human side of it too. Don't get me wrong I enjoy Jocelyn's company, but we barely know each other, and I have a feeling that this threw a wrench into her own personal relationships. Can't help feeling like that is our fault."

"First flights can be complicated," is what K'del says of Jocelyn, his voice studiously neutral - so much so that it's difficult to tell if he's aware of any of what's going on in Jocelyn's life or not. "But it's not your fault: ''you'' did nothing wrong. No one did." Presumably. Maybe. People are complicated. "But the key thing, I guess, is that you do your best to... well. Do whatever Jocelyn asks of you, basically. You're going to get to know each other, at least a little bit, just based on proximity. So be helpful, if she needs it. Just... don't impose, either."

Edyis nods with a soft sigh. "That has been the plan, but we both admitted to each other that neither one of us has been in the position we are in before. Akluseth has never sired a clutch so I'm not exactly sure what is expected of us on that front, and naturally with it being Aidavanth's first she isn't sure what to expect yet either." Dark eyes study the bronzerider thoughtfully. "Isn't this the part where you are supposed to spill the bronzerider secrets on how not to ah - anger clutchmothers?" The faintest suggestion of a smile playing on her lips.

K'del, promptly, ''snorts''. "Iovniath wouldn't even let Cadejoth on the sands, the first time ''he'' caught," he relates, though there's the glimmer of a smile about his mouth as he remembers; it's been more than twenty turns, after all, and no doubt that indignity has long since receded in memory. "You'll learn together. Jocelyn's forthright enough - imagine she'll let you know what she needs. Aidavanth, too."

Edyis laughs at the revelation, her smile edging wider. "It is hard for me to imagine what you would have been like then. To imagine you as anything other than the seasoned weyrleader you are now." The admission causing her to shake her head. "I promise I will try not to embarass the weyr too much then."

"Ha," says K'del, actually ''saying'' the word rather than laughing. "Guess it was a lifetime ago, in a sense. You'll be fine, though, Edyis - promise. There's... there's ''something'' special in seeing those eggs hatch, knowing your dragon contributed to them. That he's now part of High Reaches in a bigger way than... well, more than he used to be, you know?" Beat. "Used to be that most of the dragons hatched here where Cadejoth's line, now almost none are. Why're our queens rejecting my dragon's descendants, that's what I want to know." Don't answer that.

Edyis grins at mention of the eggs. "Think Quinlys might let us help with the weyrlings this time around?" Better not to answer that either perhaps. "Akluseth keeps imagining what they will be like, although so far every single image he's shared with me has been some shade of orange or another." She snickers softly, before the question has her brow lifting. "Niahvth will rise again soon enough it's been almost two turns, and isn't she supposed to be the regular one?" Nevermind that she rose a bit early last time.

"Orange. Faranth." But K'del's smiling, so that's something. Wisely(?) he makes no comment on Quinlys, instead stretching back in his seat and allowing, "Mm. Niahvth used to be every two and a half turns, from what I understand. Could happen soon." If he's confident about it, he doesn't show it; if he's not, he doesn't show that either.

"She's due any time now then." Thoughtful with that, "Of course it would happen once things have settled down into an even keel wouldn't it?" Edyis notes, with a frown. Glancing upward she sighs. "I best be getting to drills though, just because he caught a gold doesn't mean my wingleader or second will tolerate tardiness." She pauses, "I hope you don't mind if I pester you for advice from time to time. You are so much -" more talkative? "Easier to talk to than some about it. "

"That's the theory," is neutral, quite as if K'del himself is not convinced of Niahvth's need for impending flight. But he breaks off from that, turning his head to consider Edyis, then nods - just once. "Not at all," he says. "Let me know if you need anything. Don't drown in that rain, mm?" Perhaps he'll just stay here and steam dry.
}}

Logs:How to Disappear

2016-04-22T04:32:21Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Quinlys, T'gar |what=Quinlys is (not quite) hiding in a tree. T'gar comes by. |where=Sheltered Lakeside Ledge, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=12..."

{{Log
|who=Quinlys, T'gar
|what=Quinlys is (not quite) hiding in a tree. T'gar comes by.
|where=Sheltered Lakeside Ledge, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=12
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.21
|quote="Are you happy, Red?"
|mentions=C'ris, Lyrisa
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon quinlys lookingdown.jpg, Icon t'gar listen.jpg,
|log=Quinlys has not been a terribly visible figure in the months since her daughter was born, but since her impromptu vacation a few sevens ago, she's at least been ''trying'' to get out and about more. High Reaches' summer has mostly been and gone, but the eighth month can still bring nice days; this afternoon, sans baby, the weyrlingmaster has ventured as far as the grove, and sits upon a low-slung branch of one of the willow trees, with her knees drawn up towards her chin. She's alone, but the silent sentinel of her blue within the lake, his gaze cast in this direction, is a relatively sure indication of her presence; it's increasingly rare, these days, that the two are geographically distant.

In equally measure, T'gar hasn't been visible much at all unless one was following after a certain wing. This day, the the silent bronze is landing on the lake shore, right as the bronzerider makes the turn down the lake at a jog. He seems to be taking the weather in with just woven trousers and wherhide boots on, and he pauses a little past the willow tree that Quinlys sits in as he tries to catch his breath.

Lost in thought though she is, Quinlys is ''also'' very sensitive to noise and movement around her; she's likely aware of T'gar's approach long before he's actually come to a halt. For several moments she remains silent and still, as if debating whether to say anything. Finally, "If you were still under ''my'' supervision there'd be no pausing for breath at this point. Is Taiga soft on you, or is that riderhood in general?" If she doesn't sound ''exactly'' her usual self, at least her words are generally cheerful.

The panting huffs out into faint laughter, likely heard from Quinlys' vantage. Straightening as his back is turned to her, "Ah, but I'm ''not'', am I," T'gar seems happy to point out in that smug sort of tone, running a hand through his damp hair. Turning a glance in her direction, "Come run with me sometime and then tell me if I've gotten soft, Red." Yeah, there's a hint of suggestion that lends more towards what he's talking about couched under the playfulness there. Turning her way to see her more, "What are you doing up in a tree?"

"My implication was that ''Taiga'' was soft," points out the redhead, impish. "Not ''you''." Her bare toes wiggle idly as she stares downwards at the bronzerider, shoulders shrugging by way of answer. "I felt like disappearing. It's quite soothing, sometimes, climbing a tree."

"Taiga's never soft, now that I'm there," Rat responds back, grinning now. "At least they're not following my regiment. They'd hate me if I was the one leading drills." His head tilting at an angle to study her now for her curious answer, "Think I get that. Maybe. Never really climbed a tree myself. Though, if you really wanted to disappear, you could have looked me up."

Quinlys' smile is more rueful than bright. "I look forward to the day they make you wingsecond," she tells T'gar, apparently genuine. "And you put them all through their paces, K'del included. Have you really never climbed a tree? Or do you mean for purposes of disappearance?" She drops her legs, now, letting them hang down low, her toes pointed. "Sometimes it's easier to disappear alone. For whatever counts as disappearing, anyway."

"It's still too early to make enemies of my wingmates, Red," Rat teases with a small chuckle. As for climbing trees, "Maybe a few times as a kid," he admits with a slight shrug. "To see what I could of the girls. Most of them don't think to search for you up in a tree." Scoundrel that he is. The banter fades though in light of her last, his brow furrowing as he studies what he could of her in the silence that follows before, his arms fold and, "Hm. Don't know about that. Depends on what you're trying to disappear from. Anything I can do?" The last is given quietly. Sincerely.

"That's terrible," says Quinlys, presumably in regard to the girls, though she doesn't sound serious about it. Pale fingers wrap around the branch of the tree, securing her position. "Mm. I don't know. I've put myself in a pretty stupid situation... I'm not cut out to be a parent, not a full-time, primary carer kind of parent, anyway. If you can convince one of the queens to go up so that I have a full work schedule ahead of me, that'd be great."

"But you find yourself still cut out to be a weyrmate?" T'gar holds no questions, stepping closer to the tree. "Parenting's a lot of work. I thought in a Weyr, you didn't have to be?" He does grin on the suggestion though, and the bronzerider is slow to shake his head as he looks towards the lake shore. "Want to be stuck with weyrlings so soon? You should be taking this time to relax without them. Unless C'ris isn't doing his job by you." Blue eyes cut to her own.

Quinlys doesn't answer that first question. She doesn't make a show of it, moving on to talk to the rest, but there it is nonetheless. "C'ris is uncomfortable with the idea of a child being raised in the nurseries. He's... he's doing what he can. He took time off to take over for a few days." She doesn't explain the reasons. "But if I had weyrlings, there'd be no choice about it. She'd ''have'' to go to the nurseries, and that would be that. It's harder for me to justify when my job is basically on hold."

T'gar watches Quinlys and seems to note what she's not saying to him with a simple sniff. He's silent as she speaks on weyrlings and nurseries, and it's only at the end that he asks one of his own after a moment: "Are you happy, Red?"

"What's happy?" comes the bluerider's count, her eyes closing as she does so. "Is anyone happy, when they're not sleeping through the night, when their body is still all... wrong. When they spend hours stuck with a baby they can't communicate with. I love my child, T'gar. I ''want'' to be a good mother to her. But..."

"Happy is you not not looking like this, hiding up in a tree to disappear," Rat answers, frowning a bit at her. "That you have to question it...." Pause. "You ''are'' a good mother, Quinlys," he says to her then, his tone even. "Shit, at least you're trying. At least you ''want'' to try, even at the cost of your happiness." Pause. "But..." It's a prompt for her last, staring her down even if she's above him.

Slowly, silently, Quinlys opens her eyes again. She sighs. "But I'm not designed for full-time parenting. I'm not the happy little wifey woman waiting for her man to come home. The nannies are ''trained'' to look after babies like mine. They're good at it. They ''like'' doing it." She sighs, again, turning her gaze back towards the bronzerider. "My mom doesn't understand. She'd've done anything to be able to be a proper, full-time parent."

"Putting your kid with the nannies won't mean you're a bad parent," T'gar says firmly. "And being full-time...I don't even ''see'' that in you, so why are you doing it when it's not what ''you'' want? Isn't this your kid, too?" It seems plain and easy for the bronzerider, at least. On hearing what her mother says, he shakes his head a bit before he remarks, "Believe me, there's no congratulatory handshakes for being full time, either. My ma was full time with me - when I had her - and she used that time to teach me every theivery in the hide."

Quinlys doesn't answer that first bit-- in fact, she seems ''far'' more interested in the rest of what T'gar says, amusement gleaming in her expression. "Child pickpocket," she says, with a laugh. "Look, at least she was teaching you useful skills. I mean, given definition of useful, but ''still''. Do you ever miss it?"

"Do I miss pickpocketing?" T'gar questions, a 'tsk' sounding before the words. "Didn't care for it. Got boxed in the ears too much whenever I was caught. Gotta be fast for pickpocketing. I rather just-" Well. He cuts that part off and instead, "You're going to come down from that tree?"

"Just?" Quinlys prompts for a continuation of that, eyes wide and interested. Is she going to come down from the tree? Not just yet, it seems.

Well, it wasn't a good cover and it shows. There's a slight grimace from Rat and he steals a glance in Quinlys' direction before seeking out the view of the lake. There's a lingering pause before there's a slight twitch of a shoulder - as if some decision has been made - and he answers, "I'd rather just knock them down and take what they got." Giving her a look as if to say 'you asked', "It's more of my dad's style of making a living. Remember, I got by on my fists," and his strong-looking hands lift before him to make fists.

Quinlys ''did'' ask, and though she flinches, her expression clears after a moment or two and she nods. "Do you miss ''that'', then?" she wonders, instead. "I imagine there's a certain freedom in living outside of the normal rules of society. Though it's hard to imagine raising a child to it; I can't imagine trying to teach Lyrisa some of my worst habits. Or wanting to." She begins to draw herself up, now: to her feet, even, so that she can begin sidling her way down the branch to where it drops towards the ground.

T'gar studies her when she flinches, and his study is intense. Perhaps the question isn't unexpected since an answer arrives without any thought. "Sometimes. Some days all the 'order' and 'authority' gets to me. Some days I think I'm missing out on something 'out there', even though out there screwed me more ways than I can count. I don't think you ever get over being holdless, Red." Beat. "Lyrisa won't ever have to worry about that," he says to her then, hands falling to his sides. "She has you, and, she has this place."

Quinlys pauses where she is, still balancing upon her branch, as T'gar answers her question. Her nod is slow; afterwards, she jumps, comfortably, to the ground, both hands digging into the pockets of her trousers. "Freedom has its cost," she supposes. "But so too does security. It's easy to feel trapped by things. I'm not sure if ''anywhere'' really has the proper balance-- and even if it did, people are what make it complicated, aren't they? Because we all have different ideas about how we want to live."

"That it is," Rat agrees as he watches Quinlys jump from the branch. "That it does. I'll admit though. Didn't really consider on sticking around this place, until you threatened to kick me out of those stands that day." The memory draws a low grin from him, with a nod in her direction. "Figured, maybe it was worth me sticking around. Seeing a different way of living."

Quinlys' expression turns bemused... and then ''a''mused. "Really? So it can all be blamed on me, then." Evidently the idea tickles her fancy, because she looks positively gleeful (despite how tired she looks; some things are worth the energy). "Return the favour. Next time I have a night out... you should take me the kind of place you ''used'' to hang. Show me what it's like."

"I wouldn't go ''that'' far," T'gar says on blame, laughing. "Lucky you, Asaroth found me. I bet you'd be bored to tears without me. You don't have to admit it." And then, with Quinlys offering up that opportunity, the smile from the bronzerider couldn't be more pleased, really. He nods once to it before answering, "Consider it an adventure. I'd be honored to. I know just the place, too. Let me know when you want to get out of here for awhile sometime. I'll take it from there."

"It's a date," is blithe; it's hard to tell from Quinlys' tone or expression whether she's teasing with that particular terminology or not. "I will." But for now? "I should go. My mom will want to hand the baby back."

"A date, Red," T'gar agrees, and his is definitely ''not'' blithe. Any moment to play with the Weyrlingmaster, this former weyrling seems to take it. He nods though when she has to go, casting a glance around them before he says, "Of course. I would offer a hug, if you don't mind the man smell. Looks like you need one. Be gentle to yourself today, alright?" There's some concern leaking there.

Even T'gar's confirmation of her terminology doesn't draw a more readable expression to Quinlys' face, unusual though that is. Her nod confirms the words, and then, for the rest, she exhales. "I think I can put up with the smell," she says, her voice a little quiet. She steps forward, hands drawing themselves out of their pockets as she does so, head tilted upwards and back so that she can meet T'gar's gaze. "I'm doing my best, promise."

"Well," and T'gar closes the distance between them when he sees Quinlys pull her hands from her pockets - his gaze on hers in turn. Strong arms kept up with an active regiment wrap about her as he draws her close to his bare chest, his embrace firm but not tight enough that she could pull away when she wants. His mouth settles to her temple on her words as he breathes low enough for only her to hear, "Good. Or I'll may have to take you away from here myself until you're all right." Whatever all that entails.

Quinlys? She leans in to that embrace, resting her head against that bare chest quite comfortably, thank you very much. "Your threat," she murmurs, words muffled by her position but nonetheless audible, amusement and all, "is duly noted." She lingers, or seems inclined to do so, but finally draws herself away again-- "I really should go. Thank you, Rat."

Quinlys fits so good against T'gar - at least, by his standards and perhaps he can't help that brief possessive tighten of his hold against her. Lips lightly brush her temple right before she pulls away, his arms reluctant to drop but they do. With an incline of his head and gesture with one hand for her to proceed, "You know how to reach me," is what he says, his grin playful. "Anytime, Red." And of course, he'll watch her leave as if he has all the time in the world.

She does. And no, she doesn't seem to be bothered by the possessiveness of that hold, nor the brush of lips against her temple. Indeed, despite her words, she seems reluctant to leave at all-- it takes her a few moments more of simply watching the bronzerider before she finally draws herself together, nods, and begins to walk back down that path.
}}

Logs:V'faris, Tamaria and Teloquinth

2016-04-20T05:12:19Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=A'rist, Lilabet |what=Lilabet is on her way home to surprise Madilla. A'rist obliges with a ride. |where=Courtyard, Harper Hall |involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches..."

{{Log
|who=A'rist, Lilabet
|what=Lilabet is on her way home to surprise Madilla. A'rist obliges with a ride.
|where=Courtyard, Harper Hall
|involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr
|day=8
|month=8
|turn=30
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.19
|quote=“Give us names and stories."
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon a'rist.jpg, Icon lilabet teen.jpg, Icon a'rist lynner.jpg,
|log=The drums. Lythronath hears them. ''Feels'' them. He is balanced, all his fiery ferocity, on his hind legs, tail swinging out behind him, blazed wings wide, head tilted in such a way that the sun lights up those harsh hunter's angles. The drums beat out a message. Lythronath clicks a response. Waits. And again. A'rist's attitude toward them - the drums, Lythronath, maybe both - is harder to read, brows drawn together, but face otherwise impassable as he watches some point in the air between Lythronath and the noise. They were waiting. Had been? Now, maybe, it's turned to something else.

That something ''could'' be Lilabet: long, leggy Lilabet, wearing her senior apprentice's knot with pride as if she hasn't had it for months, now. She lopes, does Lilabet, lengthening her stride to cross the busy courtyard towards bronze and rider. "He got that code all wrong," she announces, with the easy confidence of someone who knows her share of drum codes (and maybe more than; there's that boyfriend, after all, who may or may not still be in the picture). "You must be my ride. I'm Lilabet."

“No he didn't." A'rist might have seen her coming, been aware of the approach at least, though he's given no clear signal outside of not sounding tremendously surprised when she speaks. He does turn to look at her, up and down and hiding nothing assessing from the gaze. “You're one of two." Lythronath, still focused, clicks another pattern. A'rist closes his jaw deliberately.

"No?" But Lilabet's smiling, smug, one hand going to her hip in a pose: here she is! Stare away. "I don't mind waiting. They don't know I'm coming, so they won't know if I'm late. Are you going to introduce yourself, or am I going to have to guess? I'm a harper; I could make up all kinds of stories about you." She tilts her head, taking on a pose of deep consideration as she lets ''her'' gaze take the bronze pair in, up and down, down and up.

“No," A'rist confirms. “He got it right. Just doesn't remember why." The bronzerider turns back to the apprentice. Looks at her. Again. "Lythronath." Indicated. "A'rist." And with the slightest lift of his eyebrows, “Go ahead. Let's hear one. Don't see your friend yet." The drums have stopped. Lythronath waits. Waits more. And then turns to look at Lilabet. And clicks.

Lilabet makes a face. "Well, it's more difficult once I know who you actually are," she tells him. "Because I ''know'' he sired a clutch a couple of turns back, and you've been in trouble before. I hear things. Some things, anyway. That's my job… maybe I'll write a song about you."

“The things they'll remember about us," says A'rist wryly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright. So I lied, that's not really who we are anyway." This last given as he peers about the courtyard, and finds no one forthcoming. “Give us names and stories."

With a wiggle of her fingers-- perhaps that's intended as a flourish!-- Lilabet considers, and then decides: "You're V'faris and Teloquinth. You transferred to High Reaches immediately after your weyrling graduation for reasons that no one understands… people have wondered if you're the secret flight child of someone important, only you don't ''really'' look like anyone, do you? It makes you ''mysterious'', though, and that's fun. I'm trying to figure out where you Impressed, though. ''Not'' Fort. Maybe Ierne, or Honshu. Somewhere very, ''very'' far away." Beat. Then, with a bright grin: "How'd I do?"

That flourish is invitation to A'rist to rest his weight on one leg, leans back at the torso, and just ''watch''. Lythronath, too, watches, that great head swinging lower as his front claws find three ground again. His tail begins to twitch. When Lilabet is done, he tilts his head. “Mysterious." Trying it out. “In a way they like, or?" A glance over his shoulder, to the fidgeting bronze.

Blue eyes turn their attention towards Lythronath, studying ''him'' for a few long moments as the harper considers this question. "Well, mostly," she decides. "I mean, some people don't like mysterious. Some people don't like the implication that a person may have received special treatment for something they don't know about; some people like things straightforward. But for others…" Abruptly, she turns her smile back on A'rist."Let's just say there is a gaggle of harper apprentices who would be ''terribly'' envious of me right now."

Lythronath doesn't settle. V'faris, meanwhile, offers that girl a tilted smile. “So you're still a Harper apprentice? We'd've let you get away with Teloquinth," Lythronath growls,then sets clicking, “but I'm ''pretty'' sure V'faris isn't waiting for a Lilabet." He was, at least, posing some attention earlier. “At least," and there's a thoughtful change to his gaze, somewhere around the smile turning into a smirk, “that's gotta not be her real name."

"Oh, I'm still a harper apprentice," declares Lilabet, gamely. "Only you're here to pick me up to take me back to the Weyr to Stand. I'm going to be the next-- no. Not weyrwoman. A greenrider, maybe. Maybe you ''hope'' I'll Impress gold so that you might have influence, but I'm sneaky; because you're right, I'm not Lilabet at all, nor Lily. I'm… Tamaria. Yes. ''Tamaria''."

"Tamaria," the bronzerider repeats. “Who never wanted to be the weyrwoman at all, or who learned that greens have more fun anyway? 'Cause I'm pretty sure that's something you'd figure out." Lythronath hasn't stopped his complaint. His rider, looking awfully cocky at this point, looks up and mouths 'Teloquinth', which produces a full-on roar.

Lilabet is not, it's worth noting, terribly bothered by Lythronath and his roars, though she ''does'' give him a glance-- she seems amused. "Teloquinth may need some convincing," she concludes, with a low, musical laugh. "I'm pretty sure I figured it out for myself. Oh, ''of course'' girls dream about it, but is it really something a smart girl would pick? No. Definitely not. Besides, whoever heard of a weyrwoman who became weyrsinger? Not likely."

"Tamaria's an ambitious girl," says A'rist to Lythronath. He holds the dragon's eye. “V'faris knew it all along. Respected it. Maybe when at last he and his dragon," a minor allowance that at least prevents another roar, "return to their impression Weyr, she'll sing truths about them that surprise most. Maybe it takes away the mystery. Or maybe makes it bigger. Greater.

"I suppose it depends what they want. If they ''like'' the mystery, or not. And," Lilabet's expression turns impish, delighted. "How they treat Tamaria. Because, well. If they seem to like the mystery, but they're ''mean'' or ''nasty'' or she's feeling spiteful… well, she could spread anything she wanted, couldn't she? That," she raps fingers upon the sleeve of her leather riding jacket, "is the risk you take with harpers, don't you think?"

A'rist has to think about that for a moment, arms uncrossing so that, instead, his thumbs can hook in his pockets. "I think the mystery sort of came around to them. I think they liked it more than the people who thought they had them just explained, anyway." Something about the tap to her sleeve is a reminder, that has him on the balls of his feet. "How they'd treat her would depend on how she'd deal with them. But V'faris, he's fair. So if the harper's worth the risk, I guess." An eyebrow raises. Lythronath's tail flicks back, forth.

Lilabet's head juts forward: a sharp, determined nod. "She's fair, too," she promises. "Not generally spiteful unless someone really deserves it… she tries not to be like a lot of the girls, you know? She's smart." And pretty. And funny. And ambitious. "What do V'faris and Teloquith-- er, Teloquinth-- want from life?"

"She'd have to be," A'rist agrees, "if she's going to be weyrsinger. If she's going to be a ''good'' one, then not just smart, too. Unless she wants to be like other weyrsingers. But I bet she doesn't." A'rist's feet shift. Lythronath begins to crouch, but his tail is restless as ever. "All V'faris'd ever wanted was just to be good. He always could be." The rider unhooks one thumb, and lets his arm lead a bit toward his dragon. "Teloquinth..." Click. Headbob. A'rist swallows. "He just only ever wanted what he was." And then, half a pivot, and that leading hand reaches for the passenger straps.

"No, she wants to be the best of the best. It's all she's ''ever'' wanted." Lilabet's sigh is more thoughtful than dramatic, more serious than silly. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, watching A'rist's progress with the passenger straps. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be what you are. It's a good thing, I'd think. Teloquinth, he's smart. V'faris, too, though, because there's nothing wrong with wanting to be good. Better. All that, you know? And I bet he wouldn't abandon his girlfriend and write to her about other women… not that anyone would ever ''dare'' to do that to Tamaria." Or Lilabet.

"Definitely wouldn't," A'rist agrees. His mouth sets, but it's only 'cause he's focusing on freeing up a passenger belt, and holding it out behind him, for the senior apprentice. "V'faris is loyal to his own." By the time he's turned back to Lilabet, he's nodding. "And Teloquinth is. What he wants to be. Always." A shrug. "Lythronath. So, which seat does Lilabet want? 'Cause I think I see the other guy coming. You get first claim on your spot, I think. Seems fair."

"''I'' was here on time," agrees Lilabet, "so of course I get to claim first. Lilabet and Tamaria both like the front one. Fewer people to try and see through, and since we're headed home… well. Sort-of-home. The home that probably always will be." She steps forward, comfortable and composed in accepting the belt, and all that entails.

That bronze is placated enough to have mostly stilled now. A'rist shoots another of those off-balanced smiles to Lilabet. "Front one. That's a good one. Especially for home." Lythronath blows some air at the dirt of the courtyard as he crouches. "So what's Lilabet doing when she's sort-of-home, anyway? And when's she gonna need a ride back?" It's asked with attentively, even if he's busy holding out a belt for this other guy, the one approaching now with the giant rucksack, nearly within earshot, but not quite.

"''Lilabet'' is surprising her mother for her turnday, and because her journeyman mentor is a kind woman who believes people should get to go home on occasion." Lilabet's pleased and more than a little smug as she relates this, gaze briefly wandering towards the other guy, and then back-- back to A'rist. "Three days," is almost an afterthought. "And at least part of that will be catching up with people other than family, I hope. Are you offering me a ride back, too?"

"Promise that A'rist won't tell anyone about the surprise," vows the same. "Three days. So long as you can work around our sweeps, then yeah, guess so." And any other conversation will be overheard by their flustered third, who is now awarded Lythronath's intense attentions while A'rist sees to suiting him up. And then they can get home.

"''Good''," says Lilabet, but aside from that? She's bright, cheerful smiles for both men, and comfortably cheerful all the way home.
}}

Logs:Breakdowns

2016-04-19T03:23:40Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=C'ris, Lyrisa, Quinlys |what=Quinlys has a meltdown. |where=Quinlys' weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=3 |month=8 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=..."

{{Log
|who=C'ris, Lyrisa, Quinlys
|what=Quinlys has a meltdown.
|where=Quinlys' weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=3
|month=8
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.18
|quote="And I don't want to be your little woman, waiting here with the baby."
|mentions=Risca
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon c'ris.jpg, Icon quinlys tired.jpg,
|log=Times flies when you're having fun. Not so much when you're not, and Quinlys is, these past four months, not ''really'' having fun. Oh, she loves the baby; that's inarguable. It's just... it's ''just''. It's a beautiful summer's afternoon and probably half the Weyr is outside and enjoying it, but Quinlys? She's at home with the baby, looking tired and haggard, and just ''staring'' at the sleeping child from across a cluttered and messy space. Clearly, it's been a ''good'' day (not).

Unlike Frostbite, C'ris hasn't had the time or inclination to make new, lasting connections to his current wingmates. Not with the disolution followed so soon by Lyrisa's birth, and all of his free time spent with his daughter and Quinlys. He doesn't linger at drills today, either, for all that the day is nice, but he ''has'' been out there, enjoying the day in the air with his dragon. It shows in the wind-chaffed cheeks and mussed hair when he drags himself into Quinlys' weyr with a quick smile and a greeted, "Hey, sorry. Drills ran long today." But his first path traces carefully towards his daughter, to lean over her crib and just soak her in for a moment before turning back to the Weyrlingmaster to finally look at her and the room around them. His first offer is a helpful, "Should I send for some food?"

It shows-- and it turns Quinlys' expression darker as she glances up to see the other bluerider, though she manages not, at least, to immediately take it out on him. "It's fine," is dull, though at least she manages to stand up, stretching out limbs that seem not to have moved in sometime. Having said that: "I'm not hungry. Eat if you want to."

"I can wait. We can go get something later together, when you're hungry," is C'ris' easy reply, shaking his head. His lips curve into that smile of his, a simple thing, but as Quinlys rises, he only moves to pick up a discarded piece of clothing off the floor. "If we bring Lyri, my mom can watch her for a while. At least until after dinner."

It's the right answer, but it still makes Quinlys toss her head and look unhappy. She turns away from C'ris, ignoring his efforts to tidy and instead moves towards the exit to the ledge, staring out over the stone expanse, and the Weyr below. "Or," she says, "we can drop her off at the nursery for the night and then I can get some actual ''sleep''." Her arms wrap around her shoulders, hugging herself close.

C'ris picks up another piece of discarded clothing as he follows her exit to the ledge, holding both in his hands as he paces along behind her. "Quin," he says gently to that suggestion, his smile disappearing into the faint frown that appears concentrated into the corners of his lips. He shakes his head. And his only offer is, rather than agreeing, "Why don't you go get some sleep now? I'll take her with me for a while."

"You think I'm a bad mother," is accusatory, declared without Quinlys actually turning to face C'ris. "A ''proper'' mother wouldn't... you should just go. Take her and go."

"No, Quin. No. I just think you're tired and that-- it happens," C'ris answers, and that clothing is discarded again onto the floor of the weyr as he steps closer to wrap his arms around her, fingers resting on her hips for a moment. He'll even agree with soft sympathy, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "Everyone needs a break once in a while."

Quinlys' body is stiff against C'ris', but she doesn't pull away. "But I am a bad mother," she tells him, shoulders drawn in upon themselves. "Sometimes when she cries..." She doesn't finish that thought. "And then you come in and you're all... perfect. And it's not fair. I don't even know why she cries most of the time."

C'ris breathes a sigh into red hair, only that as his arms tighten around her for her words, practically radiating sympathy even before he speaks. "No one's perfect," he says quietly. "But she is happy and healthy and-- You did that. We did that." Of course, he always seems to know which cry means what, whether she's hungry or needs to be changed or just wants to be held, so.

Sympathy doesn't, in this instance, help. Quinlys is crying, now-- silently, but ''still''. "But she ''likes'' you, and I can't seem to do anything right," is hopelessly woebegone. "And I'm ''tired'' and getting her out of here is ''awful'' so I never ''leave'' and summer is going to end and I won't have done ''anything'' and then there'll be weyrlings again and I don't know what to ''do'' anymore. Why do you have to be so perfect? It's not ''fair''."

"You aren't doing anything wrong," is C'ris' soft counter, concern wrapped in the soft edges of his words. His focus turns quickly to ''fixing'', offering, "I'll talk to my mom. She can come up during drills and duties for a few days so you can get out, and then I'll come get her after--. We'll figure it out; we'll get you a break, I promise."

"Because that makes a ''great'' impression; I can't even look after my own ''child'' when I'm not really working." More than the occasional drills or trips to the barracks to make plans for future clutches. Quinlys pulls away, now, turning around so that she can face C'ris, hands on her hips. "I'd rather send her to the nursery."

C'ris' frown only deepens, and he speaks before thinking as he answers her with a quick, "How is that better? It's the same impression, and then she's stuck in a cavern without family, with people she doesn't know raising her--." He catches himself with a shake of his head, reaching to rub his fingers softly against her arms now instead. "She's my child too. I will talk to my wingleader, and take some days off. We'll make it work."

"It's a ''completely different'' impression," declares Quinlys, loud enough that it sets Lyrisa to wailing-- not that the redhaired bluerider goes to comfort her; right now, she's too annoyed, taking a step back away from C'ris' arms and glowering. "It's ''perfectly normal'' to be in the nurseries. There's ''nothing wrong with it''."

Where Quinlys doesn't, C'ris will; that it gives him a reason to step away from the conversation is only a coincidence, surely, as he turns to cross back into the weyr and scoop his daughter from her cradle. "I want to come home to you and her. I want to wake up in the night to see my daughter sleeping soundly. I want to be there when she takes her first step and says her first word," he answers softly, almost a lullaby sung to Lyrisa as he rocks her gently until the cries become softer noises. "I don't want to miss any of it."

"And I don't want to be your little woman, waiting here with the baby," says Quinlys, though it's more a bitter accusation. "I want a life, too. During the day... she needs to be in care during the day. ''I'' need someone else to care for her during the day."

"I'm going to take some time off. I'll take her for the next few days and then we can--." C'ris' words are tight, tighter for that accusation as brown eyes are lifted to stare for a moment at Quinlys. Finally, he adds, "We will figure something out. I never wanted you to be anything you weren't, Quin."

Quinlys' face is blotchy and red, her expression utterly miserable. "You should go," she says. "Or I will. I can't talk to you right now." She's deliberately not looking at the baby, either, quite as if the very presence of their daughter is more than she can handle right now. "I'm going to go away. For a few days."

It isn't feelings for himself that flicker across C'ris' expression openly, only sympathy and concern for the bluerider. He doesn't try to change her mind or appeal to her, simply stating, "Alright." A pause, and more to himself or perhaps Lyrisa he repeats, "Alright. We'll be alright."

Would Quinlys prefer it if C'ris argued with her on this? Maybe. It's difficult to tell-- perhaps she doesn't even know what she wants, though her expression remains a challenge to the other bluerider. "''Go''," she says. "Now. Please."

"I love you, Quin. Just-- I'm here if you need me, ok?" is what C'ris answers, even as he wraps Lyrisa up tighter against his chest. For a moment, it seems like he will move closer to her, but the challenge in Quinlys' expression seems to be what stops him. Instead, he turns to go as she asks, taking his daughter with him.

Maybe Quinlys regrets what she's said, in those moments after, as C'ris leaves. But she's stubborn; and she's worn down. True to her word, she'll be gone for a few days-- and it's liable to be a miserable few days given she ''had'' been breastfeeding their daughter-- but when she's back? Things are easier, at least a little.

----

''It's been obvious for some time that motherhood has been difficult for High Reaches' weyrlingmaster-- she looks ''awful'' these days, and moody and miserable to boot (especially by contrast to C'ris). Evidently, however, something boiled over at long last, because early in month eight the redhaired bluerider disappeared for a few days, leaving her infant daughter behind in C'ris' care. When she returns, it's clear the time away has done her some good, because her spirits are, if not back to normal, certainly in better shape than they were... though Lyrisa, now four months old, ''is'' in the care of other people (including her grandmothers) significantly more often.
}}

Logs:Awkward in the Storerooms

2016-04-04T01:52:02Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Farideh, Jaine, Jocelyn |what=An awkward meeting in the storerooms. |where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=14 |month=6 |turn=40 |IP=I..."

{{Log
|who=Farideh, Jaine, Jocelyn
|what=An awkward meeting in the storerooms.
|where=Storerooms, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=6
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.04.03
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh bitchface.jpg, Icon Jocelyn.png,
|log=It's a beautiful day, all warm and pleasantly breezy - the sort where those who are working indoors can hardly be blamed for seeking ways to accomplish their tasks outside. Mid-afternoon nonetheless finds the stores not unoccupied; Jocelyn, hair clipped neatly out of her face, finishes her three-hour tour of the storage caverns by assessing the progress of one of Jounine's assistants who is supervising the reorganization of the section assigned to home furnishings. With a pencil tucked behind her ear and her much-marked clipboard clasped beneath an arm, she observes the workers silently from the nearest entrance, hands stuffed into her pants' pockets.

The day ''may'' be pleasant, but there are a surprising number of goldriders still inside on such a day. It's the jangle of Farideh's keys that might give her away-- she's twirling the ones on her ring-- as she walks with purpose down the hall from the kitchen, one of the other assistant headwomen in tow. They don't talk, that junior and that assistant, but they move in sync with each other towards their pre-set destination. And it ''might'' seem as though the young goldrider doesn't notice Jocelyn standing there in the entryway, except she abruptly stops, still staring forward, still rattling those keys. "Jocelyn, good afternoon," she says, before her head swivels towards the other woman.

The headwoman Jocelyn's watching glances briefly toward the entry as she navigates around the half-handful of assistants currently under her purview, eyebrows lifting in silent, polite acknowledgment of the weyrwomen before resuming going down her checklist. The rattle of Farideh's tell-tale heart - sorry, ''keys'' - causes the redhead's chin to lift before she turns to face the younger goldrider, features arranging into an even expression. "Farideh, " she returns politely enough, pale eyes flicking to regard her companion before likewise greeting her former colleague. "You're in this section today, too?" The little purse of her lips all but broadcasts her suspicions; did Irianke intend for them to collide in the course of their duties this particular day? Still, she takes a step aside to give the two enough room for passage, should their destination also involve upholstered furniture and rugs.

The assistant behind Farideh is staring ''very'' intently at her own pile of hides and disheveled papers, instead of between the two weyrwomen; she's not even pretending to acknowledge the tension in the hallway. After hazel eyes flick to and fro, taking in the other woman's companions, they lift to meet pale ones. "No. We're passing through. It seems as though you've got ''this'' handled," except the tone of her voice is a bit ambiguous about what ''handled'' means. "It's hardly a job for the two of us."

Jaine has been in and out of the storerooms a few times this afternoon, the course of her duties setting her up to interrupt Jocelyn on occasion-- but only as is absolutely required. That she arrives now, clutching a clipboard of her own, probably won't help with the tension, and it is a tension that she is ''absolutely and immediately'' aware of. Her steps falter, gaze sliding from Farideh to Jocelyn and then back again.

"You're right; it isn't, " says Jocelyn without sharpness, partially turning back toward the cavern to note that the crew inside is about halfway done with their section. When her attention returns to those just outside of this particular department, the now-weary look on her face turns expectant once she catches sight of Jaine, one hand pulling out of a pocket to beckon the girl over. To the others, "If you're going to dry goods or cold storage, mind the floor. There was a spill there earlier as we were passing through. It ''shouldn't'' pose an issue, " but in case it does, let the record state that she made an attempt to warn her coworker.

Poor, poor Jaine, upon whom Farideh's gaze falls next. "Janise, isn't it?" she asks, blatantly remaining where she is, despite prior statements to be 'walking through'. "How are you liking High Reaches?" It's surprisingly polite given the relative mood.

Jaine, deer in the headlights, pauses. She's caught, now, between Jocelyn's beckoning and Farideh's questioning, and though the latter certainly ''is'' polite, there's evident dismay in the young woman's expression. "Jaine," she corrects, apologetically, that Keroonian lilt audible in her pronounciation of the name. "Very much, ma'am. I'm very happy here." Something in her stiffened posture suggests she's just itching to move again, but she stands still all the same.

The set of Jocelyn's shoulders stiffens a little as Farideh keeps talking. And as Jaine goes still, the redhead, for whom indecision is rarely acceptable, clears her throat and ''looks'' - not at Jaine, no, but Farideh as she crosses to stand next to her assistant. "You were right to tell me early on that there's value in having a good assistant." Courteous though her remark is, it ends on a pointed note: Leave the girl alone and let her do her job, says her stance, before she spares an expectant glance in the direction of Jaine's clipboard.

Innocent, curious questions turn to something else, something equally as indiscernible as she regards the other goldrider's defense of her assistant. Farideh doesn't hit the smile that lifts the corners of her lips. "That's ''very'' interesting," is all she says, and, with a backwards glance at the headwoman still not-looking at any of them, she sets back off on her way to whatever destination she's headed to. "Goodbye, Jocelyn. Jaine," she tosses behind. Let's be honest-- she's probably terrorizing children or the aunties.

Jocelyn's lips press thin and ''don't'' lift into a smile as she dips her chin briefly while Farideh sails off to wherever she's headed. "Goodbye, Farideh, " is more a mutter along the lines of 'good riddance' once the brunette's no longer in sight. There's a slow, careful exhale some moments afterward before the older goldrider finally turns to give Jaine her full attention. "Hopefully that's the last unnecessary interruption of the afternoon, " she says briskly, but blue-gray eyes study dark ones briefly before their owner continues. "You have something for me?"

It's not that Jaine ''holds'' her breath, but the whoosh of breath that she exhales matches Jocelyn's inadvertantly following the younger goldrider's departure. Dark eyes track back to Jocelyn, showing just a hint of apology that she does not echo with her words. Instead, she crosses towards the weyrwoman, largely ignoring the headwoman and those others at work-- she offers, with outstretched hand, the clipboard. "I just need your signature," she explains. "I don't mean to interrupt."

"Hmm." It's a thoughtful noise that Jocelyn makes as she takes the proffered clipboard, scanning the sheet on top quickly with a little frown before using the attached pen to affix her sharp signature into the appropriate blank. Mildly, as she passes the clipboard back, "Jaine. For what I hope is the last time, you can stop apologizing for doing your job. You'll know if you're truly interrupting." There's a wry curve to her mouth, unbidden; an astute assistant would, by now, notice the relative frequency of Lys's visits - and the equally frequent dismissals for the evening that come with most of those.

Holdbred though she is, Jaine does not blush-- though surely she's well aware of what those visits must entail. "I'll try," she promises, for what is probably the umpteenth time, as she accepts the return of the clipboard. "Weyrwoman Faride-- that is, I didn't mean to interrupt ''that'', beyond anything else."

The shake of Jocelyn's head is at once acknowledging and dismissive. "You didn't, " she repeats again, "interrupt. In fact, " and she pulls her pencil from behind her ear to make one last check on her own clipboard before gesturing for Jaine to follow her out of the storerooms, "your timing wasn't half-bad." It's a five-star review from the queenrider, who favors her assistant with a little nod before resuming her purposeful stride down the corridor. "Now. What's next?" Perhaps the inquiry is there to help underscore how much she values Jaine's assistance; it's a rare day when she doesn't know what is, indeed, next.

There's a little upwards twitch of Jaine's mouth, as if she's amused, and even pleased, by this summation of events. What's next? She knows as well as Jocelyn does, and is happy to make quiet comment as she leads the way from the storerooms.
}}

Logs:Dynastic

2016-03-19T07:42:35Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=K'del, N'klas |what=Father-son bonding. |where=K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=22 |month=4 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=..."

{{Log
|who=K'del, N'klas
|what=Father-son bonding.
|where=K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=22
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.18
|quote="And I always wanted to be a grandfather by forty. Start a dynasty, you know?"
|mentions=Ali, Chrissi, Iska, Kasey, Miravea, Pia, Quinlys, Silva, T'gar
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon k'del dimpledsmile.jpg, Icon n'klas smirk.png,
|log=He's been a rider for a few months on top of a Turn; sixteen for nearly eight months; a wingrider, a ''real wingrider'' for not quite a couple months but N'klas isn't counting the days as he bounds up the stairs to his father's quarters. No gitar today, but there's that wing badge, and a grin; his hair's growing out, too, though it can't quite flop over the top as yet. "Hey, you home?" as though Khajith hadn't ''checked''.

Cadejoth's up and abroad; this late-season spring flurry is dizzying entertaining to fly in, and who wants to waste ''that'' with warmer weather presumably incoming? K'del's in, though, as confirmed by his lifemate, and even waiting for the young bluerider... not at the top of the stairs, perhaps, but safely inside, where there's a fire at the hearth and the remains of a slumber party designed to entertain children aged seven, five and three. "Nik," greets K'del, taking a step forward. He looks a little tired, and his hair is still at that over-long point: he's still not made time for Ali to cut it.

Nik has the mad skills of an older-if-not-oldest brother, the sort that let him navigate the rug without actually stepping upon any of the flotsam ''or'' appearing to notice the mess to begin with. "''There'' you are," and he goes to clap his father on the shoulder. Khajith's been flying, but only long enough to grab clawfuls of snow and bring it back down to bury loot beneath; the temporary snowlessness had been hard on the blue, but this is better, for the flurries are bound to make his caches seem... natural. At least, to the near-blind green a few ledges away. "Survived?" So-- unless it's a general-purpose greeting-- he had noticed after all.

K'del reaches to press his own hand atop of Nik's, just for a few moments, and then laughs. "More or less," as an admission that redolent with exhaustion and a certain amount of relief. "They're great company, mind, but... guess I'm not as young as I used to be." Thirty-seven is, after all, ''so very old''. "Kasey dropped in, though, and that gave me a little bit of a break. How's things, Nik? How's the wing?"

That age thing, N'klas doesn't seem to take that seriously at ''all'', spending a roll of his eyes on his father as he slopes off to rummage for food. There's got to be some somewhere, right? That's not little-kid-goo? "''Kase'', huh," is dubious, like dropping in isn't a surprise but any motives to actually help ''are''. "Yeah, they're good. Wing's good, it's all good," only his smile's smirky like he's got a ''surprise''. "What about yours? I mean, ''Silva''." It's not disparaging so much as amazed ''even now''.

K'del makes no move to assist in this hunter-gatherer expedition; he watches, instead, his expression offering no assistance. Still, it won't take too much hunting to dig up the leftover breakfast pastries (not even stale, yet!). Also, an admission: "May've been more 'showed up to say hi and got roped into things' but ''still''. It was helpful, in the end. Silva's doing fine," is, perhaps, tacked on, a few seconds after the rest of it and probably a little exaggerated. "Quinlys wouldn't've let her graduate, if she weren't up to it."

''Pastries.'' Worthy of a pumped fist, a circle that isn't ''quite'' a dance. Nik's that much more smirky for the clarification, though the view of his mouth's shortly thereafter obscured by what he's putting in it; "That or she just couldn't chase her around anymore." Even at his considerable and still-growing height, he's not so tall that he can't fold himself into a squat and waddle around amongst the furniture. "'Sides, she's not as bad as she'd make out. Pretty funny, really. Would've been ''fun''," no -y, "to have T'gar in the same wing, but at least he's in ''your'' wing, and it's not like he and Alpine..." ''That'' pastry has fruit on top. It calls. He eats it, fruit first.

"T'gar's happy, at least," reflects K'del, showing his own pleasure in this; it must be nice, for someone to actively ''want'' the wing one happens to be so closely associated with. "And Alpine seems like a good place for you, too. For now, anyway; that can change. Now you've been graduated a little while... any big plans for what you'll do now? Next?" He crosses away from the hearth, now, but only so that he can fold himself into the couch, lazing comfortably with one socked foot resting upon the edge of the seat.

N'klas' chew-laden nod is agreeable enough for all these things; at the question, though, he stands a little too straight before slouching again, with a truly awful job of toning down a grin. "Yeah, a thing or two. You know Chrissi, right?" That other bluerider a class up from his, the one-- all right, ''one'' of the ones-- he's cast sheep's eyes at, whom some might have seen wandering around with him and his gitar. ''Chrissi''.

K'del positively ''chokes''. "Not ''that'' definition of 'do'," he begins... and then trails off. Er.

His son isn't getting any less smirky ''whatsoever''. "We're getting weyrmated!" N'klas announces with a grin that gets even wider, and an encouraging gesture: go on, be happy for him!

Silence. One beat. Two beats. Three. But the smirk... Blandly; "I'm sure you'll be very happy together. Will you name your first child Lassi?"

N'klas is snickering ''so much''. "The Weyrwoman ''said'' to repopulate the Weyr," he says-- through the snickers-- all piously.

The corner of K'del's mouth twitches, now. "Then you'd better start early. Twins, even. Big families are normal, in ''this'' family. And I always wanted to be a grandfather by forty. Start a dynasty, you know?"

"Right," snicker, snicker, "a ''dynasty''. What were we supposed to do in the dynasty again?" Because if it's start a line of bronzeriders, N'klas just hasn't done his share.

K'del wiggles his big toe. Luckily, there are no holes in his socks (this time) to make it obvious. He considers, now, barely restraining the mirth he so-clearly feels from expressing itself to the exclusion of all else. "Repopulate High Reaches all of our own accord, probably. Guess I should be promoting Miravea about now, preparing you. Recruiting more of your cousins. That sort of thing."

"Riiight," just ''barely'' doesn't have a break in it, merriment rife in Nik's blue eyes. He slouches more against the couch he's touched down on, not sitting. "Already have an egg in mind for Iska, is she going to Stand here or at Southern? I can work on the cousin thing."

"''Obviously'' Iska is going to Impress a queen, like her mother, and--" But K'del can't keep it going, not when it comes to ''that''; it leaves him to shake his head, to close his eyes, and then to say, far more seriously, "You know, right, that all I want for any of you is to be happy? ''Whatever'' that ends up being. I was proud of your Impression, but I'd've been just as proud to watch you walk the tables, or ''anything else'', just as long as it was what you wanted."

"Shoveling coal?" Nik has to toss out there. "Or maybe a cardsharp, I could've been... no, I could still be that," he says, in their full shared knowledge of just how ''bad'' he was and, mostly, still is at anything that requires bluffing. Witness, earlier. "What if I wanted to be a... nanny. T'mic used to be one."

This is hypothetical land. It's ''easy'' to be supportive in hypothetical-never-going-to-happen land! "Sure," says K'del, easily. "Nothing wrong with being a nanny, if it really is what you want. If... if ''Iska'' wants to do that her whole life, fine by me." Liar (probably).

"So if Kase--" Nik stops. "Hey, so, you gave me the Supportive Father speech, and ''good for you''," he seems to really be sincere about this as much as he finds it funny. "What's next on the a-gen-da? Want to go flying, let the girls come clean this place up? I bet Cadejoth's in."

K'del can probably ''already'' think of things he wouldn't support Kasey at (top of the list: whoring himself out at the Lucky Seven at Ista, for example), but that's not a topic for right now, is it? "We have to have an agenda, now?" But-- now that the idea has been put out there, the bronzerider looks considering, then nods. "Cadejoth's always in. Let me get my boots."

Does the Lucky Seven like zits? Or just someone claiming to be a Weyrleader's offspring-- but not right now; "It's part of my pre-par-a-tion," Nik tells him, another snicker stealing one of those syllables. "There's this place I know... that girl, Pia? who does the maps? ...anyway, it's got these cool little rivers, only in summertime it's supposed to be all dry and you can walk across it so it's got these plants that the Farmcrafters, I don't even know. So we better check it out now before it is," dry, in the meantime, he'll pocket another pastry for the road.

This might be more of an excursion than perhaps K'del had anticipated... but Irianke is ''back'' and that's taken some of the pressure off, and, well, why not? "Don't think I know this place," K'del tells his son as he gets himself ready to go. "But I'm in. Lead the way, dynasty generation two."

N'klas, laughing, ''salutes''.
}}

Logs:Irianke's Return

2016-03-16T05:38:53Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Irianke, K'del |what=Irianke returns home. |where=K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=14 |month=4 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gameda..."

{{Log
|who=Irianke, K'del
|what=Irianke returns home.
|where=K'del's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=14
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.15
|quote="Shall we make Farideh your Weyrwoman?"
|mentions=Eriskel, Farideh, Ienavi, Jaine, Jo, Jocelyn, Jounine, Rone, Tevrane
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon irianke frank.jpg, Icon k'del.jpg,
|log=In the middle of the night, Niahvth arrives at the Weyr, with bags tucked along her sides and alights onto her ledge. With periodic visits, but nothing too long, this time, it might seem she's back for good. The silhouette of a slender woman dropping and unloading the bags with alacrity can be seen, until she (and the bags) disappear into the weyr. Shortly there after, footsteps sound just outside the Weyrleader's weyr and there, in the entreeway, stands Irianke, the strains of ''too much family time'' self-evident about her eyes. She pauses there, assessing. Is he awake? Is he sleeping? How far does she venture in either way?

Maybe K'del ''was'' sleeping, but he's not, now. That's probably due to Cadejoth, who must have felt the shift in his Weyr's web of dragons at the return of his queen, never mind how deeply he so often sleeps. That wakefulness allows the bronze to alert his rider, and so it is that his bare feet pad across the cold stone floor, his hair rumpled and mussed (though at least he's clothed) to find the returning weyrwoman. "You're back," holds a note of muzziness from recent sleep, but K'del's expression is alert, at least, visible even through the gloom. "Are you well, Irianke?"

Relief spreads across the woman's far too (now) carved face when she hears K'del and then sees him through her grayed blue eyes. "Better now that I'm home." This is followed by the slightest beat, a hesitation that allows the word to sink in to herself and make itself comfortable again. Irianke pushes out a lopsided smile on her thinned lips and points at the rumpled mess of his hair, "I woke you up. I thought you'd like to know that I don't plan to leave for a while. And," the smile slips sardonic, "That the Weyr is still standing."

Home. K'del's mouth curves into a smile, acknowledging what Irianke says without commenting on the most of it-- at least not immediately. One of ''his'' hands lifts to run through his hair, as if in an attempt to smooth down those wayward curls, grown too long. "I do," he says, and then clarifies: "Glad you're back, I mean. Glad to know it. It's been..." But he pauses, shaking his head. "Things're fine. No disasters to lay out in front of you in the immediate sense, minus the potential uprest in Nabol which doesn't ''seem'' to be turning into anything. But that can all wait."

"I may...," Irianke starts and then shakes her head, as if changing her mind mid-sentence, rather than any true calculated fishing expedition. She speaks while walking, "Nabol? With the lady or with the population?" Once closer to the Weyrleader, the Weeyrwoman reaches up to tuck those curls backwards a raised brow for the length of them conveying her amused askance. "Mid-life crisis or just too busy to groom yourself?"

May? K'del's brows ''do'' raise, but he's distracted from that line of thought by the rest, most especially by the goldrider's fingers in his hair. "Ali usually cuts it," is offered by way of explanation, the rest open to extrapolation: he's not been in a position to go south as much, these months, and perhaps when he's there his time is better spent otherwise. "Nabol-- the population. Some of the holders seem pretty unhappy with the Lady."

"She's the one who catapulted to leadership on the back of her nephew's failed coup?" Irianke asks, the refresher of Nabolese history, non-native to her, possibly necessary. Or just filling in dead air space as the various insinuations of what K'del says go their varied directions.

"Mm," agrees K'del. "And the one that locked herself and her immediate family away during the plague, leaving her people to manage under the direction of her steward-- who died. Farideh and I were at her grandson's turnday party recently. ''He'', at least, seems to be popular with people... though that's easier when you're twelve. We're keeping an eye on things, anyway."

Indelicate questions can be asked in the privacy of personal chambers, and Irianke, long out of touch with the daily grind of Weyr politics has no reservations asking it: "Which of the Nabolese contenders or their protectors would support the Weyr most?"

K'del, plainly surprised by the indelicate nature of that question-- or perhaps it's just that not five minutes ago he was deep in sleep-- is taken aback, left without an answer for long seconds. "Hard to say," he admits. "Until these most recent months, there's been no reason to consider any of them. Frankly, none of them ''stand out'', with Rone dead and Ienavi married to Crom. Even the ''people'' don't seem to know who they want, except that they're unhappy with Tevrane."

"Which wings have been servicing Nabol in the last months?" Irianke asks, stepping back from K'del and his unruly hair. There's a certain coolness in her gaze, the distant look of someone visibly thinking and calculating and thinking some more, with none of her usual veneers masking those thoughts. "Snowdrift?"

K'del's hands move to clasp each other behind his back, his gaze more focused now as he considers Irianke in return. "Snowdrift's one of them," he confirms. "Been some rotations, and everyone's been asked to keep an eye out for unrest-- there's been a few reports. I'll show you them in the morning. There was an incident with some tithes towards the end of last turn... Tevrane wanted ''us'' to spy for ''her'' as a result; Farideh handled that one well." An aside, really, that mention of the until-recently Acting Weyrwoman.

A tease in sotto voce, "Shall we make Farideh your Weyrwoman?" Some semblance of Irianke before her father's death surface in the light of her eyes, curving smile, and weighted swing of her hip into one hand.

The snort K'del offers by way of response is, to be fair, far less vociferous than it might once have been-- better yet, it gets followed by a laugh. "We kept things together," he tells Irianke, shaking his head. "But we've neither changed our personalities ''that'' much. Think we'll all be glad to have you back... seems like Jocelyn and Farideh have been having their own issues."

Reaching into her back pocket and retrieving and well-worn flask, Irianke twists open the top, takes a swig, and then offers it to K'del. "I am unsurprised. I do not think Jocelyn will be the very model of a modern Reachian weyrwoman. Or, rather," the Weyrwoman corrects, "She believes too strongly in her birth right of being of and from Reaches, a distinction neither Farideh nor I can lay claims to. Nor Jounine for that matter. You," she allows with a shake of that flask, "Can at least claim Tillekian blood in your veins."

K'del is silent and inexpressive as he considers Irianke's words, taking the flash from her only after she's finished shaking. Not that he drinks, immediately: he holds it, and says, thoughtfully, "Won't say you're wrong. She hired an outsider for an assistant, though; thought that was something. She also doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve the way Farideh does. But-- she's been working hard. The test will be how things settle now that you've returned." ''Now'' he drinks, a long swallow that, afterwards, has him wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.

"She could wear her heart a bit more visibly," remarks the Weyrwoman, though not exactly in criticism. "I imagine we'll see, whether my return is a rude awakening or a welcome change for both of them." There's a pause, and an abrupt 180 back to Snowdrift with another, less than politically phrased, question, "How does Snowdrift's wingsecond take to Nabolese oversight?"

Electing not to comment further on the two younger goldriders, K'del offers Irianke's flask back, and answers, "I've not spoken to her myself, nor interfered in Mielline's activities. You think you'll be useful? Of interest?" Mention of Jo has put a faint pinch to his features, albeit one he quickly attempts to smooth away.

"I just wonder," is Irianke's vocal musing that goes absolutely nowhere. The flask is back in her hand an back in her back pocket. "It's good to be home." This time, there's no hesitation, and her voice is firm, graced by her more typical smile. "I need to go unwind my hair, unpack my bags, and see if the drudges have kept the cobwebs at bay and sit in my bath, alone. Blissful aloneness. Good night, K'del."

"Enjoy it," is genuine, and replaces anything more serious K'del might have considered adding to the conversation. "Glad to have you back, Irianke. Good night." He'll begin to trace his steps back towards the darkness of his weyr almost immediately, though he won't disappear from sight altogether until she does.
}}

Logs:Jocelyn's Assistant

2016-03-14T04:54:05Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Jaine, Jocelyn |what=Jocelyn interviews herself an assistant. |where=Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=7 |month=4 |turn=40 |IP=..."

{{Log
|who=Jaine, Jocelyn
|what=Jocelyn interviews herself an assistant.
|where=Headwoman's Office, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=7
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.13
|quote="I'd like this job very much, weyrwoman."
|mentions=Jounine
|type=Log
|st=K'del
|log=The headwoman's office is rather empty this afternoon, and quiet save for the barely-there sounds that filter in from the hallway outside. At the large table generally used by Jounine's assistants, the water pitcher appears recently refreshed, condensation beading up to roll slowly down the glass as the minutes tick by, moving past the time when Jocelyn is supposed to arrive to meet with Jaine of Keroon. There's a red-haired woman who's been present for the past fifteen minutes, however, discreetly replenishing glowbaskets before settling at the table to scribble at something on a clipboard. Eventually, her blue-gray eyes lift to the cavern's other occupant, expression unreadable. "You look like you're waiting for someone. Can I help?"

Although Jaine entered the office with the confidence of one who has spent time in here before, she seems less sure of herself in the wake of that, offering only a nod of acknowledgement to the red-head as she sits, hands folded in her lap, staring resolutely at the ground. As she's addressed, Jaine lifts dark eyes hesitantly, studying her interlocutor with cautious interest. "I'm to be interviewed by the Junior Weyrwoman," she explains, after moistening her lips with her tounge. "I'm to meet with her here. I'm," she smiles, self-effacing, "a little nervous about it. But I'm sure she'll be along directly."

"Nervous, " the knotless woman at the table repeats, setting down her pen after a moment to better study Jaine. "Interviews do tend to have that effect on people, don't they? I suppose you're going to speak with her about the assistant position. She's been in talks with a few of the other lower caverns girls this seven, but no one can determine if she's partial to any of them just yet. The expectation seems to be that she'll choose from within the weyr, given that she used to be one of our headwoman's assistants - and as she's hardly reputed for her patience, she'll no doubt select one from the bunch soon enough. Which department did you say you were from, again?"

At mention of these other girls, Jaine leans forward slightly, her interest piqued. Still, she doesn't ask about them ''outright'', instead re-folding her hands and saying, "I'm not from the Weyr. I'm visiting from Keroon, which... may mean I have no chance at all, but I shouldn't think you'd interview someone you have no intention of hiring... would you? Hypothetical you, I mean. Though," she allows, then, settling back in her chair, "She could have agreed to interview me as a favour, and ''still'' have no intention... but my Aunt does say she's honorable."

There's an acknowledging sort of sound from the redhead's general direction, even as she returns her attention to her clipboard briefly, making a mark somewhere in a margin. "It's hardly an uncommon thing, interviewing extra people, although I imagine she'd find ''that'' to be a waste of her time. Weyrwomen have full schedules - particularly here, now, with our senior weyrwoman on leave. Take a look, " and the neatly dressed woman pushes to her feet, crossing to show Jaine a lengthy agenda painstakingly marked out on the top sheet of what she's been working on. "The girls who have been rotating through lately to help tidy her weyr when she isn't present have to know when they won't be disturbing her. This is a typical day's outline, start to finish, although there's never a guarantee that things won't change halfway through as priorities shift. And I thought that ''my'' schedule as an assistant was full, " says the supposed assistant.

Either Jaine is a very quick reader, or she gives the page she's shown only a cursory glance (though the quick movements of her eyes suggests she ''is'' looking), because it takes only a few seconds for her to nod and to say, "I can see that. Of course, in cotholds like the one ''I'm'' from we may not have schedules, but the work doesn't stop." She's regained some of her confidence, falling short of boastfulness in her tone and instead suggesting matter-of-fact consideration. "And while ''that'' work is on a smaller scale, it's still the difference between eating and not; it's still important, don't you think? I'll have a cothold of my own, one day. I'm not afraid to work."

"Any actions, any decision-making that affect lives are important, " comes the resolute reply, "and that deserves respect, regardless of one's circumstances. Not everyone sees it that way, I've gathered, but I've never been one for going along with popular opinions." Gray eyes appraise Jaine for a moment before their owner retreats again to the table, reaching to pour a glass of water. "One thing I'd imagine the work at that cothold of yours doesn't include is the ability to maintain confidentiality and exercise discretion with good judgment. This isn't like working with your friends or your family. These women are political figures, whether they wanted their positions or not, and their assistants no doubt become privy to potentially sensitive information that shouldn't be shared with anyone. Nor should their personal lives be exposed to all and sundry - not that ''I'' care to know about who's sleeping with whom, but that's the sort of thing that some people find too easy to talk about."

Jaine lifts her own gaze, those dark eyes tracking this so-called assistant back to the table. "I half begin to think you're pre-interviewing me," is said with a low chuckle; it's not accusatory. "At least I'm not nervous anymore. I think..." She pauses, hesitating over her words as if she's giving serious consideration to which ones she uses. "That's true, those are not things I've needed to deal with at home. Gossip, I've found, is a way of life to many. But... I believe I can be trusted. I've no interest in ''my'' life being discussed by others; why would I let it be so for someone I worked for? They would, by definition, have my loyalty, and be my very first priority."

The redhead permits herself a little smile before walking to offer Jaine the water glass, pulling out a chair nearby so that she can sit within a more conversational distance. "Good, " she says approvingly for the nerves that have been displaced by their exchange, listening to the rest silently. Her look afterward is assessing, but it concludes with a quick nod. "Your aunt speaks well of you, Jaine, " she says at last, despite the lack of initial introduction, "and I see after meeting you that she has very good reason to do so." A hand extends politely for the shaking, pale gaze open, if frank. "I'm Jocelyn. Now. What questions do you have for me?"

Jaine accepts the glass. She accepts it, and has it halfway to her mouth before-- ''before''. She may be well-spoken, a thoughtful, considered girl in many respects, but Jaine is still a teenage girl, and there's no small amount of very teenage pique expressed across her features as this new information seeks in. What may, perhaps, matter more is the way in which she squares her shoulders, and resumes her sip. It's only once she has taken that, and swallowed it, that she offers her hand in reply, shaking unhesitatingly. "It would be unbecoming, I think, for me to ask why you tricked me, weyrwoman. And in any case, I think I can guess the answer. I'd like to know what your priorities are, in an assistant."

"It is fascinating, " Jocelyn says almost nonchalantly, "how people are more willing to speak freely when they perceive that they aren't being weighed as much - or at least, not by the person they were told to expect." Knowingly, "If you were able to guess ''that'', then I think you already know what my priorities are in an assistant. I'd like someone who's sharp-minded, discreet, able to keep up with the minutiae I might be forced to ''de''-prioritize in favor of doing my job to the best of my ability - a little bit of tidying, some errand running, keeping up with my schedule if it changes while I'm in a meeting. It isn't important to me if you can style hair and hang dresses; if the formalities weren't required, I can assure you I'd dispense with them faster than going ''between''. This job comes with some exposure to high-level, political figures and unfortunately, " a wry curve of a smile, "the events that tend to accompany them. I like what I've seen thus far of your values, your presentation, the way you handle yourself. I'm getting the impression that you wouldn't lose your head completely amidst all of that, but do correct me if I'm wrong. About anything." That, too, is apparently important.

There's a glint in Jaine's dark eyes; amusement, yes, but also something more akin to approval and quick-witted consideration. "I can do all of that," is determinedly sure; she nods, first once, and then a second time, more quickly. "I've helped with my little sister's hair for turns, but that's probably not the same as a formal ''hairdresser''... but if it helps, as little as you like it, I can ''do'' it." She straightens again, looking just a little more like her aunt as she does so: she may smile more, but she has some of that determined poise, too. "You know that I'm going to be married in a few turns. That I can only be here until then."

"I usually have an easier time of it if the person working on my hair has a general sense of how little fuss I'd prefer to have made with it, " Jocelyn admits, the set of her shoulders relaxing a fraction. "I know that it's a temporary gig for most people, but especially so in your case, yes. I also know that you've expressed a preference for using that time between now and then to, how did your aunt put it, 'see more of the world.' If you worked for me, you'd certainly see as much of Pern as I can expose you to, both on paper and otherwise." Almost as an afterthought, "You ''can'' read, write, work basic arithmetic?"

Jaine seems satisfied, her stance shifting ever so much. She presses her hands flat in her lap, then lifts one to smooth away an invisible piece of lint upon her impeccably clean and tidy (but far from stylish) holder-style skirt. "I successfully completed all of my harper lessons," has-- no, not ''chiding'' in it, nor ''offense'', but ''something''. Still, she's still pleased. "I'd like this job very much, weyrwoman."

"Not everyone has done so with your success, " Jocelyn says by way of both explanation and not-quite apology, chin dipping in acknowledgment of that last. "You might start by using my name, " she suggests with a pinch to the bridge of her nose, "and I should show you where we'll do much of our work. Aidavanth will take an interest in meeting you, too, as you would be spending considerable time in her home, as well." She rises, then, palms wiping carefully down the sides of her fitted slacks. "After we take our little tour, I want you to take some time to think carefully about accepting the role and allow your family the same. Your aunt is here, which will undoubtedly make an adjustment easier, but you've my word that you would have my protection, too. A weyr is very different from what you're used to."

"Jocelyn," says Jaine, without hesitation-- not quite a ''blurt'', but still quick. Her pleasure is obvious, but her desire to be professional and adult about it even moreso; she rises, acknowledging the rest of what the goldrider has to say with a firm nod of her own. "I will give it serious thought," she promises. "I won't rush into anything." But for now? She's ready-- eager, even!-- to see more of the Weyr, of where she might work, and the queen she might, indirectly, serve.

"Excellent, " and Jocelyn wastes no time in leading Jaine from the headwoman's office, glossing over major parts of the inner caverns the girl's in all likelihood seen, but points out major hallmarks on their way to the bowl. It's a cloudy, overcast sort of day where the breeze promises rain but doesn't quite deliver. There's the entrance to the galleries and the hatching grounds, and then it's up to the weyrleader complex, pointing out the location of the council chambers, the weyrleaders' weyrs, and finally, hers. While the bubbles in the caldera wall that make up her weyr are large enough to hold several of the larger dragons at once, the furnishings are spartan, neat and minimal in the outer area. And Aidavanth, who lands on her ledge moments after their arrival, comes inside to better dip her nose down toward this new visitor with a low vocalization that sounds warm, eyes awash in blue-green-blue. "There's a study back there, which I usually work in, and my actual quarters, but ''this'' space is primarily for guests. And it would be yours to use, as well, if you wanted somewhere more private to write your letters home than a table in the living cavern that isn't Jounine's office."

As they walk, Jaine does have the occasional question, but otherwise seems content to watch and listen with keen and undistracted interest. She's obviously delighted by Aidavanth, dropping to a gracious bob of a curtsey in greeting-- along with a verbal, "It's lovely to meet you, Aidavanth!" The weyr, too, holds considerable interest, for, "I've not been inside one of these before. It's a little different to the rest of the Weyr, but I suppose that makes sense. It's a good space, Jocelyn." Clearly, she'd be delighted to work in here.

Jocelyn and Aidavanth both seem pleased by Jaine's delight, and the former favors the girl from Keroon with a genuine, if small smile. "I'm glad it meets with your approval, and I hope you'll find it a comfortable place in which to work. For now, I've a meeting to prepare for - and I imagine you'll want to tell your aunt before anyone else does that the job is yours if you decide to take it. If you accept, it might be a topic of interest in the hallways for a time, but I expect your competence will be of an appropriate level to dispel ''that'' quickly."

So straight, so tall: Jaine is the very picture of contented, determined competence in the wake of that offer. "I will have to talk it over with my family," she tells Jocelyn. "But I will have an answer for you quickly, I promise. Thank you, Jocelyn. I appreciate your trust in me very much. I ''will'' live up to your expectations." She'll have her answer-- an unconditional affirmative-- within a few days, and be back at the Weyr with her belongings a few days after that; if she has reservations about the Weyr, ''those'' she's unlikely to express, and nor do they seem to impede her efforts.
}}

Timeline:NAB I10.40.4.7

2016-03-13T21:30:17Z

K'del:

Logs:Eriskel's Turnday Party

2016-03-13T02:54:52Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Farideh, K'del |what=Lady Tevrane holds a turnday party for her grandson. |where=Orchards, Nabol Hold |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Nabol Hold |day=4 |month=4 |turn=..."

{{Log
|who=Farideh, K'del
|what=Lady Tevrane holds a turnday party for her grandson.
|where=Orchards, Nabol Hold
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Nabol Hold
|day=4
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.12
|quote="Easier to be popular as a good-natured child. Easy to present as the people's man."
|mentions=Aishani, Eriskel, Ienavi, Irianke, Jocelyn, Tevrane
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon farideh can't even.png, Icon k'del.jpg,
|log=It's not, perhaps, ''warm'' outside, this Nabolese spring afternoon, but the sun is shining and it isn't raining; it's good enough. The celebrations Tevrane has arranged for her grandson's twelfth turnday aren't lavish in the way a gather would be-- rather, it's more of a garden party, activities aimed at the Hold's children, with the adults socialising in clusters and small groups amid the trees, or enjoying the harpers playing in the nearby gazebo. While not an 'international' event, it's polite for the Weyr to make an appearance, and so K'del and Farideh are here, the former smiling politely to passersby as he escorts the latter. "''These'' holders seem happy enough," he murmurs, idly, to the goldrider.

Sunshine and trees -- apples, cherries, and pears, too -- might be the balm that soothes the shrew's irritable nature; or, wide-brimmed sun hat perched on her head, she appears to be enjoying this outing despite her near-rival that escorts her. "''These holders''," Farideh repeats, her lips in a perpetual state of being ready to smile at any moment without acting showing teeth. "Do you think it's all for show or that, perhaps, ''these'' ones actually reap the benefit, being closer to the Hold proper? There could be an angry mob on the other side of these orchards, for all that ''we'' know." She slants him a ''look'' from beneath her frivolous hat, that's part challenge, in the arch of brow, and part actual curiosity, given his greater experience with upset holders.

''Iska'' would be enjoying today's proceedings. Likely, her younger brothers would, too. K'del, however, seems not so much ill-at-ease but resigned to the experience, more focused on being seen as a dutiful escort as on actually enjoying himself. He glances, side-long, at Farideh, considering her words with more interest than he's shown to much, this afternoon. Keeping his voice low and his tone pleasant, he says, "Most likely it's the latter: these holders live close, and that's of benefit. Though there's likely some of the first, too, given they're unlikely to publicly show discontent to her face. But if there's a mob, I'll protect you." Ha.

Looking good in front of dignitaries or not, it's a pleasant day, and Farideh can't help the way her eyes stray to the orchard trees. "That's a bold statement considering what happened the last time we were both out together and there was a," here, her voice lowers and she enunciates each letter separately, "m-o-b." She pats his forearm with one of her gloved hands in a reassuring sort of way, but her eyes are still taking in the sights of the fruit-laden trees. "Isn't it a bit ''excessive'', given everything that's happened? I more modest showing might have done more to-- no, I suppose if you want to throw the rumor mill off your scent, then you should ''pretend'' to be well-off." There, she makes a face, and gives K'del a displeased look. "It's a terrible shame."

M-O-Bs, and past happenings related to them, go uncommented upon by K'del; in part, this is likely because their path takes them past a cluster of women, one of whom fixes a hard stare upon the High Reachians, but no doubt there are other reasons, too. The Weyrleader smiles blandly at the women, holding off on answering Farideh at all until they've stepped past. Then, "Exactly so. And that's why we're here, too: we're letting Tevrane demonstrate it to an outside party, in the hopes that we'll pass that on to others. She's playing the expectations game." Beat. "But why do you say it is a shame?"

The lady, with her hard stare, gets a beguiling smile and a short wave from Farideh as they pass, and nothing more. "What game are ''we'' playing?" is what the young goldrider wants to know, when the weyrleader has finished his spiel about the Lady Nabol. "It's a terrible shame that in the midst of a-- what, an on-the-verge uprising-- when her people are missing so many things, she chooses to spend lavishly instead of conserve. I doubt you agree, but it's a bit--" Her lips purse and she flicks an invisible piece of lint off of her sky-blue dress. "Tasteless."

"Actually," says K'del in answer, and without pause, "I agree entirely. Don't think it would be the tactic ''I'd'' use, and a handful of turns ago, it's the last thing I'd've expected of Tevrane, too. She used to be more... down-to-earth. Woman of the people." He pauses, blue-eyed gaze sweeping through the assembled crowds, past the adults and towards the children; Eriskel, his eyes bright with enthusiasm, takes the lead with one of the smaller children hoisted up onto his shoulder. "''He'', at least, is making friends."

Farideh's lips twitch in answer, but there's no laughter forthcoming despite the signs. "I wouldn't have thought that was something we would agree on," sounds less sobering than it actually is. "What happens next, do you think? Does she play this game until her passing and her heir takes the reigns? Do you think there will actually be some type of-- overtaking?" She's obviously leaning on K'del -- but not literally -- for his turns of practice in handling Tevrane and Nabol's strife. His comment drags her eyes away from ''him'' and back to the boy who they've all come to celebrate. "Isn't making friends ''normal'' for children? I ''hope'' Lady Tevrane isn't that bold as to include her young heir in her political plans," dry.

Honestly, quietly: "I have absolutely no idea." K'del scrunches up his face as he says it, giving a passing couple an eyeful of less-than-attractive expression, one he hastily attempts to remedy afterwards. "Tevrane came out of nowhere to take over when her father died, but she never seemed a ''political'' figure the way some of the other lords and ladies are-- Aughan, for example. Makes her difficult to predict in a different way. ''Do'' expect she'll start using her grandson, though. If he's popular and she's not, it's practically a given, especially now he's a little older."

"I'm am thoroughly reassured by your confidence," Farideh replies wryly, seemingly not bothered by his expression and more focused on their situation-of-sorts. "Did you back her back then? Back when she ''came out of nowhere''?" Hazel eyes are still soaking up the scene of Nabol's heir, on his turnday, frolicking with the other children. "Popular? He's hardly out of short britches. An heir, but still a boy," she says, expression briefly distant. "You're an old man, or I'd tell you to get ''acquainted''." Now, back to K'del, she's staring, looking all sorts of wide-eyed innocence.

K'del runs the fingers of one hand through his hair-- hair that probably needs a trim, given the length of those curls, though that's likely far from his thoughts at this moment. "We didn't back anyone," he relates. "To the best of our abilities. We attempted to protect the people from Rone, and there's certainly suggestion that Aishani had some involvement with Lady Ienavi, but the Weyr did not take a side. ''That'' is Hold business, and best left to holders." Of Eriskel, he says only, "Easier to be popular as a good-natured child. Easy to present as the people's man." Beat. "I'm going to choose to ignore that you called me old. Have you know Irianke's a good handful of turns older, and ''she'' isn't old, I'm sure. Forty, though, this turnday." Maybe. Or not? Perhaps he's confused by the weyrwoman's age.

"You're right. It's Hold business." Solid is Farideh's phrasing, and the inflection in her voice. Holdbred is as holdbred does, but that doesn't stop her from adding, after a pause, "Until they drag the Weyr into it, then it's our business." Her expression darkens long enough for her eyes to flick between the young heir and the weyrleader. "As the people's ''man''? A boy?" She makes a clucking sound, which turns into a strangled laugh. "You ''are'' old. Old enough to have sons who can stand for eggs, and one that Impressed." It's the second half that's not much of a laughing matter. "Irianke isn't that ''old''," except suddenly, she doesn't look too sure either. "I don't think she's but a turn or two older than you are."

"Most things become our business eventually, directly or indirectly." K'del lets that hang, the seriousness of his expression abruptly put aside as he steps aside for another passing couple. Few people seem inclined to speak to the High Reachian pair; perhaps that's for the best. "Anyway. Old enough to be ''your'' father, even, yes; I'm aware. Irianke..." He hesitates, rather as if he's caught between various trains of thought and unable to commit to one. "She's older than you'd think, not that she looks it. Seems it. She hopes to come home, soon. Niahvth's kept in touch."

The response elicits a sudden chill. "You didn't have to take it ''that'' far," Farideh informs him, far less amused. "I've known Irianke since I was ''twelve'', K'del. I know she's not ''that'' old. Not ''older than I think'', and that's a terrible thing to say about her, while she's not here to defend herself." She's totally giving him an unhappy look, which may or may not be interpreted by their ooglers whichever way they please. "Is she well? Is Niahvth? I ''think'' Roszadyth misses her, and I'll be ''much'' relieved when she returns and takes over the meetings, the headaches, the pleasantries."

K'del abandons his warning (if, indeed, that's what it was intended as) and says, quickly, "No, of course. Perhaps it's just that she ''seemed'' old, before she left. And for a time before it. Hope, when she returns, she'll be... rejuvenated. Not like the last time she went away." When she came back looking ''worse'', so soon before Niahvth's flight. "I think she is. I think... think it must be lonely, for a queen, not being in a Weyr. Sure we'll all be glad to have her back. How are you and Jocelyn settling in?"

The next sound Farideh makes is even more concerned, and she tilts her head back so far her hat touches her shoulder. "Have you ''lost'' your senses? That's simply rude. Irianke has been ''tired'', I'll warrant-- she's been running the Weyr, when she didn't expect to originally. That would make anyone exhausted, but ''seemed old''?" Aghast, really. "Do you think? Maybe Niahvth has missed Igen as much as I miss Igen," is idle, but then she stiffens at mention of the other junior and her reply is purposefully short. "You know Jocelyn. She thinks she knows everything, that she could run the Weyr all by herself." Someone might be a little bit salty. Just a little.

It's for the best, really, that K'del has directed their ambling walk towards a far edge of the orchards, now, and that there are fewer people to observe expressions-- or overhear sharp words. "Pretty sure Jocelyn ''doesn't'' think she could run the Weyr; she's pretty aware of her shortcomings, in my experience," is probably not going to help this conversation return to gentler waters. The bronzerider stops, then, and sighs. "Maybe ''I'm'' feeling old. Which is ridiculous, by the way, given I'm not even ''forty'' and likely have half my life still ahead of me. Seems like there's nothing but doom and gloom anywhere."

It would seem that the buck stops there, and the whole this-is-sort-of-comfortable-thing. "How ''nice'', that you two know each other ''so'' well," gets tossed with a stilted smile. "I'll be infinitely ''happy'' when it will be Irianke's job, again, to manage her." Farideh doesn't look the least bit chagrinned for those words either, and keeps her piqued expression trained on the orchard trees farther out; if only her eyes were captured fire, they'd be ashes.

K'del's sigh is a lengthy, audible, and ''obvious'' one. "You've done a good job," he tells the Acting Weyrwoman, genuinely and without need to grit his teeth to make the admission. "Irianke'll be proud of you. Shall we make our apologies and depart?"

Sunshine and trees make shadows, and it ''could'' be an illusion, that smirk on her face when he sighs. Hazel eyes slant back to K'del at his question, her chin dipping in the barest of nods. "We shall," she affirms, one hand lifting to fix the brim of her hat.
}}

Quinlys/History

2016-03-12T08:29:33Z

K'del:

<includeonly>Quinlys is High Reaches born and bred, the second of four children born to A'quin and Lysanne. After completing her harper studies, she joined the cleaning crews - a job she only ever intended to be temporary. She Stood for the first time at age sixteen, for Iovniath and Cadejoth's second clutch, but failed to Impress. Having stood out Iskiveth's first, she Stood for the second time in Turn 26, for Iovniath and Cadejoth's third, and this time Impressed blue Olveraeth - though she had widely been considered a likely candidate for Iolene's Ysavaeth.

During Weyrlinghood, Quinlys developed an ambition for the Weyrlingmaster's role. She talked her way into the Assistant Weyrlingmaster ranks in time for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's first clutch, and though it was not without problems, she ''did'' seem to have aptitude for the job. Even so, she was not Meara's first choice for Co-Weyrlingmaster, a position she stepped into after the dual flights of Hraedhyth and Iesaryth.

When Meara did step down, after the dual clutches graduated, her knot fell to Quinlys; the bluerider could say 'at last,' but she was, after all, still only twenty-six, and there are plenty who could say that, maturity-wise, she has a long way to go.

<center>[ [[Quinlys/History|Read More]] ]</center></includeonly><noinclude>

== Timeline ==

{|
|-
|style="width:80px"|'''Turn 49
|Lysanne and A'quin Impress
|-
|'''Turn 1
|Lysanne and A'quin graduate and weyrmate.
|-
|'''Turn 3
|Lyarel is born
|-
|'''Turn 5
|Quinlys is born
|-
|'''Turn 10
|Arysane is born.
|-
|'''Turn 11
|Comet Pass begins; Arysane is 1, Quinlys is 5, Lyarel is 7.
|-
|'''Turn 13
|Anquin is born.
|-
|'''Turn 15
|Lyarel leaves for the Star Smiths.
|-
|'''Turn 16
|Comet Pass ends; Anquin is 3, Aryssane is 6, Quinlys is nearly 11, Lyarel is 14.
|-
|'''Turn 22
|Quinlys Stands for the first time.
|-
|'''Turn 24
|Quinlys does not stand for Iskiveth's first clutch.
|-
|'''Turn 26
|Quinlys Impresses blue Olveraeth.
|-
|'''Turn 27
|Quinlys and Olveraeth graduate.
|-
|'''Turn 28
|Quinlys is promoted to Assistant Weyrlingmaster.
|-
|
|Arysane (Rysa) Impresses green Elsarath at Monaco.
|-
|'''Turn 30
|Anquin (N'qui) Impresses blue Trevisath.
|-
|
|Iolene is murdered.
|-
|'''Turn 31
|Quinlys is promoted to Co-Weyrlingmaster.
|-
|'''Turn 32
|Meara steps down; Quinlys becomes Weyrlingmaster in her own right.
|-
|'''Turn 40
|Quinlys gives birth to a daughter, Lyrisa.
|}

== Background ==

Quinlys is High Reachian born and bred: there are riders on both sides of her family going back as far as anyone cares to look, with only the occasional crafter or resident thrown in for good measure. Quin's parents Impressed in the last Turn of the Pass, safe in the knowledge that they would never have to fight thread; as a result, they were quick to begin their family, intending to raise their children with closer attention than their own parents had been able to provide. Lyarel was their first child, a son born in the second turn of the Interval; Quinlys followed less than three turns later, and Aryssane four turns after that. For those first turns, they were a close knit and happy family, with full-time parents who enjoyed their children very much.

In Turn 11, however, only a few months after Quinlys turned five, the Comet Pass began out of nowhere. For Quin's parents, Lysanne and A'quin, it was a bolt out of the blue - a terrible thing. Quin and her brother were old enough to have some understanding of what was going on, but little Rysa was barely a turn old; it was a difficult time for everyone. Lysanne resented the intrusion on her life: she wanted nothing more than to be left alone with her family, the children she loved so much, and this… she had never expected this.

To complicate matters, A'quin and his green Kianneth were scored badly in that first Turn, destined to spend months and months out of harm's way while they healed. Lysanne was jealous of her weyrmate, who was suddenly able to spend so much more time with their children than she was; at the same time, she hated her own jealousy, so aware of how unhappy her weyrmate was, unable to fight alongside his wingmates.

For Lysanne, it was a relief - an unexpected one, but so desperately longed for - when she discovered she was pregnant in the middle of Turn 12. Certainly, it bothered her that she was now unable to assist her wing, but ''oh'' it was a relief to be able to enjoy her children again. Her fourth child, Anquin, was born in Turn 13, just short of two turns after the Comet Pass began.

For Quinlys and her siblings, these few turns marked a time of change. No longer did they have the full and undivided attention of their parents; no longer did the Weyr seem a place of relative contentment and ease. It was impossible to miss the impacts of thread-- for all of them, it made a deep and lasting impression. For Lyarel, it promoted an interest in the stars and planets, and all those things that moved and changed far beyond the planet's surface; he dreamed of such things the way most Weyr children dreamed of dragons, and perhaps, then, it was no surprise when he departed for the Starcraft when he was twelve and Quinlys nine.

It made sense… and yet. Having part of her family live ''away'' from the Weyr like that was a new experience, and it made Quinlys nervous: ''out there'' was where you visited, not where you ''lived''. It was foreign. No doubt that is part of the reason that she never considered any of the crafts; besides, once the Comet Pass ended, when she was nearly eleven, it only made sense that she would become a rider. It was ''safe'', now! In the meantime, however, she fell into a position with the cleaning staff after she graduated from harper lessons, a job she liked well enough for what it was.

It was, nonetheless, not a job she intended to keep forever, whatever happened. She was pragmatic enough to know that Impression was no certainty… even if she dreamed enough to hope, desperately, that it would happen. She was still settling into her position when Iovniath laid her first clutch: at fourteen, her mother worried that she was still too young, and in a way, she certainly was. She did, however, Stand for Iovniath's second clutch three turns later, but left the sands without Impressing. She might have stood for Iskiveth's first, but her mother - a rather more cautious soul - convinced her otherwise. Thus, her second chance came around only after she turned twenty, for Iovniath's third.

She joined the ranks of the candidates late, choosing to stay in her cozy dorm rather than join the madness of the exiles-infested candidate barracks. Still, she quickly became a visible member of the group: confident, bubbly, a font of knowledge, and considered by many to be a likely candidate for the gold egg. WHen the eggs hatched, however, it was not gold she walked away with, but blue: Olveraeth. Was it a surprise? Perhaps. Was it a disappointment? ''No''.

Unlike many of her classmates, Quinlys found weyrlinghood an adjustment, but not an onerous one. Olveraeth was the other part of her; they bonded together instantly and completely, a balanced pair. It surprised no one when they were chosen as one of the silver thread pairs, a position Quin used - with Meara's encouragement - to share her knowledge with Iolene as much as possible. It was thrilling, in a way, to be so trusted; the two became friends, in a loose sense, in a way that Quinlys could never have imagined beforehand.

Early on in weyrlinghood, Quinlys and Olveraeth developed an ambition to work with Meara as Assistant Weyrlingmasters. They were too recently graduated to do so for Rielsath and Vysravth's clutch, but after Ysavaeth rose for the first time, that ambition was realised. It was more difficult than Quinlys could have imagined-- she was still young enough to be a weyrling herself, after all, and not everyone respected her authority. But there was ''something'' about it that appealed to her, and despite early missteps, she and Olveraeth proved that they could ''do'' this; that they could be ''good'' at this.

(Granted, their extra-curricular activities were not necessarily deemed appropriate by all, but Quin was relatively discreet: certainly, she enjoyed the company of both men and women, and rarely the same ones for extended periods, but what did ''that'' matter as long as she did her job?)

It bothered Quinlys a great deal when Meara began to look for a replacement further afield, shortly before the hatching of Rielsath and Svissath's clutch. By now, she had developed an ambition of her own: to be the next Weyrlingmaster in her own right, answering to no one but the Weyrleaders. In a way, she was pleased when Iolene's murder ruined Meara's plans in that area… even as she was horrified, disgusted and appalled by the goldrider - her ''friend's'' - death.

It wasn't ideal, but the whole situation ''did'' work to her advantage: after the dual flights of Hraedhyth and Iesaryth, Meara seemed to have no choice but to promote mercurial Quinlys to be her Co-Weyrlingmaster. Though formidable in her position, Meara is getting old… and sooner or later, she will have to step down. Then, ''finally'', Quinlys will be in a position to take over the weyrlings altogether, and ''that'' is something she is looking forward to a great deal.</noinclude>

Quinlys

2016-03-12T08:28:40Z

K'del:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=quinlys.jpg
|mother=Lysanne (bluerider)
|father=A'quin (greenrider)
|siblings=<ul><li>Lyarel (+3)<li>Arysane (-4, green Elsarath)<li>N'qui (-7, blue Trevisath)</ul>
|body=== Description ==
{{:Quinlys/Description}}

=Olveraeth=

{{DragonTab}}

= History =
{{:Quinlys/History}}

=Relationships =

{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Daughter
{{!}}Lyrisa
{{!}}Baby
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1457760856}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}A'quin
{{!}}Greenrider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=868640400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Lysanne
{{!}}Bluerider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=875206800}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Lyarel
{{!}}Starsmith
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1080291600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Arysane
{{!}}Greenrider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1143306000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}N'qui (Anquin)
{{!}}Bluerider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1177203600}}
{{!}}}

'''''Family'''''

* A'quin (Arelquin) - Green Kianneth, Taiga Wing, weyrbred. Staunch K'del supporter. Father. Kianneth was badly scored early on in the Comet Pass; they were grounded for some time, to his great frustration.
* Lysanne - Bluerider, weyrbred. Mother. Resented the Comet Pass for interrupting her time with her family.
* Lyarel - Journeyman Starsmith. Older brother.
* Rysa (Arysane) - Failed to Impress from Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch, but was sent to Monaco to try for Iesaryth. Ended up Impressing green Elsarath instead. Younger sister.
* N'qui (Anquin) - Stood for the first time for Rielsath and Svissath's clutch, and Impressed blue (Trevisath). Younger brother.

= Other Stuff =

=== Personality Profile: ENJF ===

[http://www.16personalities.com/enfj-personality People with the ENFJ personality type are passionate altruists, sometimes even to a fault, and they are unlikely to be afraid to take the slings and arrows while standing up for the people and ideas they believe in.]

=== Nohari/Johari ===

* [http://kevan.org/nohari?name=quinlys Nohari Window]
* [http://kevan.org/jh/quinlys Johari Window]

= RP Logs =

{{NewLogs |name=Quinlys}}

= Mentions=

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

=Icons=

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Blueriders]]

Quinlys

2016-03-12T08:27:21Z

K'del:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=quinlys.jpg
|mother=Lysanne (bluerider)
|father=A'quin (greenrider)
|siblings=<ul><li>Lyarel (+3)<li>Arysane (-4, green Elsarath)<li>N'qui (-7, blue Trevisath)</ul>
|body=== Description ==
{{:Quinlys/Description}}

=Olveraeth=

{{DragonTab}}

= History =
{{:Quinlys/History}}

=Relationships =

{{Family}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Daughter
{{!}}Lyrisa
{{!}}Baby
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1457760856}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Father
{{!}}A'quin
{{!}}Greenrider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=868640400}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Mother
{{!}}Lysanne
{{!}}Bluerider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=875206800}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}Lyarel
{{!}}Starsmith
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1080291600}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Sister
{{!}}Arysane
{{!}}Starsmith
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1143306000}}
{{!}}-
{{!}}Brother
{{!}}N'qui (Anquin)
{{!}}Bluerider
{{!}}{{Age |birthsecs=1177203600}}
{{!}}}

'''''Family'''''

* A'quin (Arelquin) - Green Kianneth, Taiga Wing, weyrbred. Staunch K'del supporter. Father. Kianneth was badly scored early on in the Comet Pass; they were grounded for some time, to his great frustration.
* Lysanne - Bluerider, weyrbred. Mother. Resented the Comet Pass for interrupting her time with her family.
* Lyarel - Journeyman Starsmith. Older brother.
* Rysa (Arysane) - Failed to Impress from Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch, but was sent to Monaco to try for Iesaryth. Ended up Impressing green Elsarath instead. Younger sister.
* N'qui (Anquin) - Stood for the first time for Rielsath and Svissath's clutch, and Impressed blue (Trevisath). Younger brother.

= Other Stuff =

=== Personality Profile: ENJF ===

[http://www.16personalities.com/enfj-personality People with the ENFJ personality type are passionate altruists, sometimes even to a fault, and they are unlikely to be afraid to take the slings and arrows while standing up for the people and ideas they believe in.]

=== Nohari/Johari ===

* [http://kevan.org/nohari?name=quinlys Nohari Window]
* [http://kevan.org/jh/quinlys Johari Window]

= RP Logs =

{{NewLogs |name=Quinlys}}

= Mentions=

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

=Icons=

{{Icons}}
}}
{{Character-Categories}}
[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Blueriders]]

Logs:Lyrisa

2016-03-12T07:20:14Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=C'ris, Lyrisa, Quinlys |what=Lyrisa is born. |where=Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=1 |month=4 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate..."

{{Log
|who=C'ris, Lyrisa, Quinlys
|what=Lyrisa is born.
|where=Infirmary, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=1
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.11
|quote="She's your daughter when she's naughty."
|mentions=Risca
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon c'ris cuddle.gif, Icon quinlys tired.jpg,
|log=The final weeks-- months-- of Quinlys' pregnancy have had their ups and downs, mostly downs; she's not the most patient of people, and the bigger she gets, the more frustrated she feels... and the more likely she is to yell at C'ris, or demand his departure from her sight. As mounting Olveraeth gets harder and harder, eventually she ends up spending her nights in the weyrling barracks, eschewing the comforts of home for the bonus of not having to feel quite so incompetent at riding her own dragon. It's the middle of the morning on the final day of the third month, as she lazes upon the battered couch in the training cavern, that she first feels the pains that will eventually lead to full labor; she ignores them. She's not due for another seven or two; it's fine.

In fact, she goes through the entire day without commenting on them, her mood surprisingly even-tempered and calm.

In further fact... although she does eventually head to the infirmary sometime after dinner, it's not until several hours later that she permits Olveraeth to inform Mivength of their location... or their reason for being there.

It probably goes without saying that her calm is quite, quite gone by then, and that there's likely no one in the Weyr's infirmary who isn't aware of exactly how much she hates everything and everyone.

But at the end of it, before dawn on the first day of the fourth month? There's a ''baby'', a girl, and she's snuggled in Quinlys' arms as she reclines, pale and exhausted, in her infirmary bed.

C'ris is as he ever is, through Quinlys' progressing pregnancy; that is to say, that he is patient and understanding and kind, even where her temper frays. He has ''tried'' to be there for whatever she has needed, but with his own wing dissolving around him and Quinlys herself sending him away--.

But he's definitely here for ''this''. Or, well, he's been as close as hovering around the infirmary all night, sometimes being shooed away to pace in the Bowl instead before inevitably drawing back into the cavern.

And even as the bare hint of light in the sky falls over the bluerider continuing to wear his track in the packed dirt of the Bowl, an infirmary aid is the one to fetch him, dishevelled with finger-raked hair and wrinkled clothes, back to finally join Quinlys. His features are a mess of joy and relief and a ''hint'' of being overwhelmed as soon as he pushes back the curtain, and he doesn't even remember to close it before he's at Quinlys' side and smoothing a hand over red locks of hair. "Quin, she's-- You're-- You're both ok? What have the healers said?" is his first rush of words.

For all her mixed feelings about... well, so ''many'' things, one thing is certainly true now: Quinlys can't seem to tear her eyes away from the sleeping, red-faced bundle in her arms, barely even seeming to register C'ris' presence until his hand upon her hair. She does look up, then, and her eyes are shining. "C'ris. I'm fine. ''We're'' fine. She's--" All eyes back on the baby; their baby. She's perfect. "We made a ''person'', C'ris."

"We made a little baby girl," C'ris breathes out in agreement, dragging back a stray piece of Quinlys' hair from her forehead with his thumb. His smile is a slow, soft thing when it comes, one that will linger a long time in the corners of his lips. "You are amazing, Quin. I love you. I love ''her'' so much already--." It's inevitable at that, really, that his hand falls away from the mother to reach to brush a knuckle very gently against his child's cheek, as if she might break if he applies any pressure.

Quinlys, so easily replaced in C'ris' affections~ (okay, not really). The redhead turns a wan but exultant smile upon the other bluerider, promising, "You won't break her. Take her-- you should get to hold her, too." Not that she really seems to ''want'' to give up that burden, but oh, she ''does'' look tired. "She's perfect, but I'm telling you right now, C'ris, I'm never having another one," she adds, sounding a little more herself as she does so.

That offer to take his daughter is accepted without hesitation, even if he is very careful about the placement of his arms and hands as he gathers the swaddled baby from Quinlys and cuddles her to his own chest. While Quinlys sounds more herself, so does C'ris as he questions softly as he stares down at their baby, "How could you ''not'' want another one, looking at her?" (He also sounds a lot like he didn't have to give birth, either.)

At least with the baby in C'ris' arms instead of her own, Quinlys can look up and focus her attention on both of them; two out of three of the most important people in her life. "Try saying that to my ''other'' set of lips," she says, all tart amusement and exhaustion. "They may have a few choice things to say." Only she's smiling, too, looking rather as though she might cry-- tears of happiness, even. "We need to name her."

"I guess we do; we can't just keep calling her perfect the rest of her life," agrees C'ris with a touch of warm humor, tearing his gaze away from his daughter for only a moment to flash his light smile at Quinlys. "We had-- I mean, we had a couple options we had, right? Not Isys. She's-- not an Isys." He says that like he ''knows'' already, having only just met her.

"She's not." Quinlys, too, is definite about this, straightening a little so that she can lean forward and look more closely-- more ''objectively'', ha-- at their new daughter. "And as perfect as she is, I can only imagine what the other children in the nurseries would say to ''that''." Children can be so cruel. "She's not a Quisa, either. Is she a Lyrisa, do you think?"

It's to the baby that C'ris coos the next question, picking up Quinlys' suggestion to repeat, "Are you? Are you a Lyrisa?" And she blinks, and that seems to delight the bluerider as he turns back to her mother. "She blinked. I think that's a yes. She's-- Well, a cute, little Lyri right now, I think, and a Lyrisa when she's all grownup and important."

Augh, the hormones: they're the only reason there are tears in Quinlys' eyes now, promise. She sniffs, but her smile is beatific. "Lyri," she agrees. "And Lyrisa, when she's grown up... or when she's naughty." She's Quinlys' daughter: this is inevitable, despite the C'ris in her. "You'll have to bring your mom in to meet her, in the morning. The ''actual'' morning."

"She's your daughter when she's naughty; you'll need to be the one calling her Lyrisa then and giving her extra chores," is C'ris' answer to that, though he draws back to Quinlys' infirmary bed to carve out a spot to sit next to her on the edge, with their daughter close to them both. "Later, yes. Now-- I'm sure you're tired and could use rest and... I just want it to be the three of us, for a while."

"Oh, of course. ''Your'' daughter would never do anything wrong, I'm sure," teases Quinlys, leaning back upon her pillows again as if she can no longer quite keep herself upright, despite the exhilaration and nervous energy so-obviously still coursing through her. Her fingers can't help themselves, though, reaching to nestle their tips upon Lyrisa's tiny cheek. "I'm sure she won't cry, either." Her lack of comment on his mother is probably tacit approval; her smile certainly is. "Five of us. Well. Four, at least. Olly'd be in here himself, if he could be."

"We'll have to bring her out to meet him, first, then," replies C'ris softly at that, snuggling only closer to Quinlys as he leans to press a kiss against her temple briefly. "Once you're ready and the healers let us. Mivength, too, if he-- Well, he says he doesn't care." So, not Mivength, but it does nothing to dampen ''his'' happiness. Instead, he'll continue, "And no, ''my'' daughter is perfect and happy and all smiles." He's smiling even as he says it.

Quinlys leans in to C'ris' touch, into his snuggle, too, albeit gingerly. "Miventh's and asshole," she tells his rider, but there's affection in it all the same. "Olly'd like that. When the healers let me. It should be fine. I only needed a couple of stitches." The words aren't quite as easy as the tone-- the tone, which suggests she's a little scared to think of the state of that part of the body which, previously, had been used for rather more ''fun'' activities. She's silent a few moments, and then: "I'm sorry I was awful to you. I know things have been hard for you... the wing and everything."

A laugh touches C'ris' exhale at the statement, the simplest agreement for his absent dragon, but he is quick to move on and assure Quinlys, as if he might ''know'' what that tone meants, "Of course, Quin. There's no rush. No rush for anything. And you'll be healed up sooner than you think; women have been doing this for centuries. You-- You're made to do it." It's the latter bit, the apology and the mention of his wing that is harder for the bluerider to address, his gaze dropping to study Lyrisa instead for a long moment of his own silence. "Things were hard for you, too. My things-- I'll adjust; it's just that I had my ''place'' in Frostbite, and my wingmates, and time to study with the dragonhealers, and now. Now, well."

Quinlys makes a noise that could be an indication of snippiness or bad temper, probably in relation to those bits of her most cruelly abused, but she stops herself; now is not the time. Today is a ''happy'' day. Instead, she holds her silence, waiting for C'ris to complete his comments before she'll say anything further. "I know," she says, simply. "You should talk to K'del. There's got to be some good options. Ways to get the balance back. That's important, especially now."

"I will. I'll-- It'll be fine," answers C'ris, a simple mixture of dismissal and reassurance for the thoughts of wings and duties. And he's quick enough to try to turn thoughts back to the ''happy'' day as well, adding to Quinlys with soft concern, careful given the edge he'd already walked earlier, "And ''you'' should get some rest. Should I go, so you can? Or can I--?" He glances down the length of the bed, weighing its size with a judging look.

Too tired to argue, too elated to ''want'' to, Quinlys lets herself do little more than give C'ris a ''look'' that suggests her badgering may continue at a later date. She is, after all, a ''mom'' now: it's her job. But that soft concern, and her exhaustion, are both currently louder voices. Reluctantly, "I should sleep. But you should stay. There's room." She has to sidle over a little, true, which involves a wince or two, but if they're willing to be cozy, there's room: one little happy family.

And C'ris does stay, because leaving would mean that one of them would be out of Lyrisa's presence, and that seems like an unbearable choice for him at the moment. Instead, he adjusts carefully next to Quinlys so that their daughter can be between them. And while Quinlys rests, he might end up catching a z or two himself, given his own sleepless, if less strenuous, night.
}}

File:Icon quinlys tired.jpg

2016-03-12T06:24:02Z

K'del:

Logs:Whole and Significant

2016-03-12T03:40:30Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=Catling, Mirinda |what=Mirinda checks in with one of the weyrlings. |where=Weyrling Sunroom, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=1 |month=4 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP..."

{{Log
|who=Catling, Mirinda
|what=Mirinda checks in with one of the weyrlings.
|where=Weyrling Sunroom, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=1
|month=4
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.11
|quote=<< I am not insignificant. Queens have other dragons talk to insignificant ones. >>
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon mirinda.jpg, Icon mirinda zaisavyth.jpg,
|log=Riyoth has decided he likes the sunroom. He likes the nook he's found to curl in, still warmed by the afternoon sun. Catling is sprawled on a rug beside him, though his head rests happily on her back. "Well, no, Riyoth, I can *count*, and I can subtract. Erm... call it *un-counting*. One dragon and one dragon make two dragons. Two dragons make-- what? Oh...." She buries her head in her arm for a moment, laughing. "Well. That will be explained soon enough. But it isn't the counting that's the problem. It's.... Right. Everything else. Well, not everything. You're never a problem." The dragon nudges the girl until she turns and puts her arms around him. "No, I had a big lunch. Dinner can wait. I just want to see if I can stuff some more thinking into my brain..."

Given the hour, most of the weyrlings ''have'' headed off for dinner, and perhaps it's for that reason that Mirinda's head appears in the doorway of the sunroom, tracking the sound of Catling's voice amidst an otherwise quiet set of caverns (save the shuffle and rumble of small dragons). The weyrwoman's an infrequent-but-unsurprising visitor, checking in on her Weyr's future riders from time-to-time with considered interest. Now, dark eyes studying little Riyoth and his rider, she makes her presence known with a quiet, "You do need to make sure to eat, weyrling."

"Ma'am? Oh! Yes ma'am. I... ermm... I will, ma'am. I'm not really very hungry though..." Catling sits up, clunking her head on her dragon's chin, and she checks on him before giving a proper, though sheepish salute. "I... ermm.... I'm trying to review for my testing." She looks down, rubbing her hands together. "Every time I think about it.... well. I lose my appetite."

Mirinda's return salute has an air of awkwardness to it; it's a gesture she doesn't seem wholly comfortable with, preferring, it seems, to rest both hands at her sides and reserve politeness to her smile. That her gaze checks for Rioyth's well-being following that clunk is obvious; that it returns, promptly, to the human part of the pairing soon after is equally so. "Exams can be stressful," she allows, ruefully. "I think, with these, the important thing to remember is all your weyrlingmasters are trying to do is gauge what you know... a base-line, if you will. There's no shame in ''not'' knowing; it just means there are things you need to learn, going forward."

"It's just that I ... no, Riyoth, my head is just fine; he gives his duty, Weyrwoman.... It's just that I waven't had harper teaching since I was.... eight or nine. I'm so very far behind.... I'm not sure how I'll ever keep up. I've been studying since I got here, but still..." She sighs softly. "I don't want to fail Riyoth just because I'm stupid." She runs her fingers over where she clipped the dragon, then nudges open his mouth. "No, your tongue's fine, I just bit mine a little," she adds. Then she shakes herself and bobs her head sheepishly. "Sorry ma'am."

Zaisavyth extends a tendril of thought-- burning water, heated and intense-- towards Riyoth, acknowledging that duty more directly. "And we, to him. You look well, Riyoth." Mirinda's smile is a genuine one, if not effusively warm, though it fades to something more thoughtful as she considers Catling once more. "You're not stupid, weyrling; of that I am sure. There's no need to apologise, either." She straightens, attempting another smile. "Lack of education does not make you stupid. Having to have additional harper classes now doesn't, either; and if you do, you won't be the only one. These exams aren't judgement."

"But I didn't...." Catling begins, then turns her head sharply to look at Riyoth. A shy smile brushes her lips, and she laughs again. He nudges her again, his eyes whirling, then sends a wisp of thought like flickering light at Zaisavyth, a good-natured, respectful, yet cheery hello. "He says I am who I am, not who I was. He also said my math makes no sense." She snorts. "Which is why dragons don't have to study maths...."

Mirinda's attention tracks back and forth between dragon and rider; she smiles. "He's right on at least the first count-- I can't promise the latter, though you're probably correct. I've never heard of a mathematician dragon, not that that means there ''couldn't'' be such a thing. Still, it seems unlikely." She hesitates, now, and then offers: "Is there something I can help with?" Zaisavyth is pleased with Riyoth's respect, even if she seems less than sure about his cheerfulness; she sends, now, an image of the Weyr from above, lovingly painted from her thoughts with such pride and possessiveness. Hers.

"I was counting dragons for him. He says one dragon and one dragon make him and his clutchmates. But he doesn't understand how." Catling rubs her hand over her cheeks, flushing slightly. "Anyway. Fortian history. And Weyr history. Especially that. Oh, pretty much everything. At least the anatomy's not so bad..." She rolls her shoulders. Riyoth trills at the image sent to him, and he half-extends his wings before the girl turns her attention towards him. Still, he manages to knock her over before he folds them back again. He sends forth a dazzling flicker of wonder and delight, followed by a question of when he will fly.

The amused smile that Mirinda embarks upon in answer to the topic of counting dragons is interrupted by Riyoth's wing-extension, one hand outstretched towards the pair in obvious concern as she reassures herself: "Careful, Riyoth! I do apologise; my Zaisavyth is, I think, feeding him terrible things. ''Fortian'' history is not, perhaps, my best subject, but it is one I've been working on this past turn; if you've questions..." Zaisavyth is unchastened despite her rider's attempts, a wicked, roiling wave of solar flares chasing after Riyoth in sheer delight. << Not yet, >> she tells him. << You're too little. But perhaps, one day. Perhaps. >>

Wistful longing is clear in Riyoth's mental tone. << I am big. I will be bigger. We will fly then? >> He dips his muzzle down to nuzzle Catling, then starts to nudge her up as she rises, and she nearly topples from the force of that. "Riyoth," she breathes, then leans against him, draping an arm over his neck. "My apologies, Weyrwoman." She shakes her head. "Most of history is a jumble to me, to be honest. Fortian or otherwise. And my father didn't like to hear the harper teaching weyr history. So those lessons we snuck in while he was off with the herd. But... just a good way to know what is important to know." She looks at Riyoth. "When I exercise, so does he. He likes to warm up in the morning."

<< Yes, >> agrees Zaisavyth. << But you must be a ''lot'' bigger. You're tiny. Insignificantly tiny. >> She's almost affectionate in that; it amuses her, albeit in an imperious kind of way. Mirinda opens her mouth to say something as Catling nearly topples, but stops herself; she smiles, instead, though it's not a smile that lingers when faced with the rest of what Catling has to say. "The trouble with history," she says, "is that it's often not easy to know what is important until you see what happens next, and it can be very difficult to break down. To start with, focus on major events: not hatchings, not flights, but natural disasters, major disagreements, shifts in policy. Start piecing the little bits in to that context, and then they'll start making more sense. It's good that he exercises." An abrupt change in direction. "He'll need those muscles, in time. You will, too. You're adjusting well, I hope?"

"His clutchmates think he's .... odd, and I seem to have an unfairly easy time with his itches and his hunger." Catling's voice is fondly affectionate. "And he is remarkably full of advice. Sayings of Riyoth. Should be a harper's ballad." The girl snorts, though her expression is tender, softly amused. "Wake up, wake up. Catch the morning first before it catches you." She sighs softly. "And thank you for the advice, ma'am. I'll try to remember that." Riyoth tilts his head, crooning softly, half-puzzled. << I am not insignificant. Queens have other dragons talk to insignificant ones. >> There is a quiet, sturdy confidence there.

Catling's tenderness towards her brown pleases Mirinda, who smiles. "They're all odd, in their own ways," she tells the girl. "Or so I have found, anyway. I'm glad for you-- that it's not too difficult. I hope it stays that way. I know I struggled to find my balance with Zaisavyth; that you don't have that issue is a good thing, I'm sure." << Insignificantly ''small'' >> Zaisavyth emphasises. << Whether you are insignificant I couldn't say; to me, perhaps. To others, perhaps not. I speak to whomever I choose, whenever I choose. That does not speak to significance or not... if I spoke to a wherry, it would still not be a significant wherry. >>

<< But.... It would suddenly ''be'' significant, because ''you'' spoke to it, >> answers Riyoth. << Because you make things special. By being you. >> He then presses against Catling as if startled by his own answer, and the girl reassures him with touch and with a wave of warmth from her. "He's there for me. And I'm there for him. Just to have that support... and to give it.... every day. It's wonderful. He's wonderful. It's not easy but.... usually the worthwhile things aren't. I can't say I understand why he chose ''me'', but I'm so incredibly grateful that he did."

This conversation has taken a difficult turn for Zaisavyth, who must surely be pleased at the acknowledgement of her own significance (she wears ''that'' not like a mantle, but as something innately part of her; it simply ''is''), and yet... << By that logic, >> she says, << Every beast I eat, every one that dies for leather for me, must also be significant. And every dragon in this Weyr must be significant, because I am their queen. >> "Of course you are," says Mirinda, pleased. "He chose you because you're ''you''. Because you were meant to be, the pair of you. It's a wonderful feeling, isn't it? Being ''chosen''."

<< Even so. Because ''you'' are our queen. >> Riyoth's mind-voice flashes like light-beams through water, rainbow colors of delight that the queen agrees with him. He almost flutters, but instead preens himself happily. Catling eyes the young brown, clapping him on the shoulder. "I admit... I feel.... ''whole'' now. It's a good feeling."

Zaisavyth ''is'' that, and very pleased with herself for it. << And so I am, >> she agrees, with a roiling solar shockwave, one that lights up her thoughts-- and burns, electric and sharp, towards Riyoth, for all that it is not intended to harm. "Whole," repeats Mirinda, and then she smiles, straightening from the door jam at which she has begun to lean. "Yes-- yes that describes it well, I think. You could have lived without him, had you never met, but now... now you are only whole as long as he's at your side, and he will be." She gestures, now, towards the door. "Will you come and eat?"

<< Thank you for making me significant, >> comes the answer, a rainbow flicker of light flashing and then receding. Then Riyoth dips his head towards Catling as she looks at him. "He says he'll stay here and watch the stars...." Her voice trails off, and she just looks at the young brown, her brows raised. She shakes her head. "And yes, ma'am, I'll come and eat."

Zaisavyth does not reply-- at least, not in ''words''. Instead, she shares another image of the Weyr-- ''her'' Weyr-- before retreating, with another wave of light. "The stars? Well, and why shouldn't he. I won't keep her from you for too long, Riyoth, I promise." To Catling, she gestures towards the door again, leading the way out of the sunroom, and from there, out across the bowl to the living caverns. Food, too, is significant.
}}

Timeline:BEN I10.39.13.8

2016-03-03T05:00:04Z

K'del:

Logs:Taiga's Newest

2016-03-02T04:34:52Z

K'del: Created page with "{{Log |who=K'del, T'gar |what=T'gar is tapped into Taiga. |where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr |day=27 |month=2 |turn=40 |IP=Interval |IP2=10..."

{{Log
|who=K'del, T'gar
|what=T'gar is tapped into Taiga.
|where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr
|day=27
|month=2
|turn=40
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2016.03.01
|quote="For now, go enjoy what's left of your freedom, mm?"
|mentions=F'manis, N'klas, Silva
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon k'del pleased.jpg, Icon t'gar.jpg,
|log=A handful of days post graduation, and no wingleader has (yet) called for T'gar and Asaroth. Mid-morning, however, finds a rattle of bone and chain aimed at the larger bronze: a summons. << He wants to see yours, >> Cadejoth reports, sharing an image of the council chambers. ''He'' is high up at the rim, wings fanned out to catch the wintry chill. Below, K'del's relatively relaxed in his chair, one foot resting upon the next chair over, one arm wrapped about his knee to support himself as blue eyes watch for the door.

T'gar and Asaroth are out and about the Weyr this day, which has been usual for them - so when the summons came, it doesn't take long at all for the newly minted bronzerider to appear on the threshold. Asaroth's return affirmation to the summons is a mere burning sensation that can be both felt and smelt in a blink of time. "Weyrleader, sir," he greets with an easy salute of one who's done it enough times for it to be automatic as he enters. He takes a look about the chambers before resting his gaze on K'del. "Windy day out. Asah tells me you wanted to see me?"

"Weyrling," greets the elder of the two bronzeriders, correcting himself after a few moments more: "''Bronzerider''." The inclination of his head acknowledges the offered salute; one hand gestures towards the chairs across the table, inviting T'gar to take a seat. "Blowing away the snow clouds, one hopes. We drilled this morning, though, and it was a mess, then. How are you enjoying your freedom?"

Sitting down with a nod towards K'del, "It's weird, hearing you call me that. Guess I've gotten so used to being a weyrling and everything that comes with that. Duties happen, rain or shine, right?" The Weyrleader's question draws a grin from him as he folds himself into the chair, his head moving briefly side-to-side in a gesture that accompanies, "To be honest, freedom as a weyrling wasn't all that bad, either. You just roll with it. It's nice to be able to sleep more, though. I've been visiting the sites I've always wanted to see. Finally visited my aunt so that she knows I'm alive. You know." He makes it sound like this is the usual for him.

K'del, with no reason to doubt, accepts T'gar's explanation without pause; he even smiles. "Mm," he says. "Remember what it was like. Felt strange, though, too, sometimes-- but then, I was only sixteen, and abruptly outranked most people my own age." The recollection seems a genuine one, his expression thoughtful and considering before he abruptly shakes it away to focus blue eyes back upon the other rider. "Can't promise you'll get those sleep-ins as much, though, going forward."

"I still can't imagine having to go through all of this at sixteen," T'gar muses, shaking his head as he watches the Weyrleader. "Not ''me''. I was a pretty bad sixteen turn old. You wouldn't want me on a dragon back then. At the same time, you've gotten a lot more practice than the lot of us, Impressing early." K'del's last though, that gets his brows to shift with interest as his focus intensifies. "Oh yeah? What's it going to be like, going forward?"

"Impressing early, ending up Weyrleader early." K'del acknowledges both of these things with an easy nod, mouth curved into a rueful smile. "But whenever you Impress, it evens out in the end. In five turns you'll have the same experience as someone who Impressed far younger, but you'll also have the life experience you gained ''before'' you Impressed." He rests one hand upon the table, the other still curved about his knee. "As of tomorrow, you fly for Taiga. It'd be F'manis inducting you, but his daughter just gave birth."

"Must've been tough, though, leading so early," T'gar notes with an acknowledging nod. "Me at that age, I would've found it hard not to run off and do what I want. What you've said, though, makes me wonder about the ones in my class like Silva and your son." When K'del speaks of the wing he gets, he does sit up a little straighter. He doesn't manage to hide on his face the fact that he's pleased with this assignment, the light entering his eyes when his chin lifts and his mouth pulls a titch. His voice remaining level and calm, "Thank you, sir," he gets out with an incline of his head. "For giving me a chance. It's not one I'll fuck up." It's perhaps clear that Taiga was his aim in his expression and words.

Something in K'del's expression twists, just a little, at mention of Silva-- or is it N'klas?-- though he doesn't make immediate comment on the topic. Instead, he straightens, dropping his foot back to the floor at last as he reaches into his pocket to draw out the Taiga wing patch, which gets slid across the table towards the other rider. "I believe it," he says. "You'll do fine. F'manis is a good leader to learn from, and it may not be ''my'' wing, but my presence... well." A beat; a pause. "Going to ask something of you, though."

Leaning forward to pick up and run his thumb over the colors of Taiga's patch - and not missing that twist of expression from K'del - "I've heard he's good," T'gar says of F'manis, nodding. "It's going to be strange not being with my clutchmates anymore, I'll admit." The pause follows on the last before there's a slight furrow of brows at it. "What's going on?" he asks now.

"Always is, graduating," acknowledges K'del. "You spend all that time with them, and then... but the people you're actually friends with, you'll keep in touch with them." He hesitates, after that, his lips drawn together tightly before, exhaling, he says: "You mentioned Silva. Haven't spoken to her yet, but she's also going to be joining us in Taiga." If there's a specific reason for that, there's no sign of it in his expression-- just thoughtfulness. "I'd like you to look out for her. Help her out, if she needs it."

"Didn't make many friends," T'gar is amused at that for some reason. "I can see maybe one or two of them even wanting to keep in touch." And really, he doesn't bother hiding the surprised look in his blue eyes upon hearing that Silva will be his wingmate. Silence meets it as he listens with a touch of concern to his features, and when K'del is done, he spreads his hands wide before answering back, "Silva. She'll take my help as my wanting to get into her pants. Which I don't. I must have that face. I don't think she would want me around, so that might be difficult." Beat. "Unless you mean, I keep an eye on her without her knowing. That sort of thing. Rush in if some guy gets too handsy on her."

That surprise? K'del acknowledges it with a jut of his chin-- it, and the comments that follow, too. Calmly, "If the latter is what works best, that's good enough. ''Don't'' want you put in a position that's uncomfortable. But frankly, whatever wing she goes in, she's going to have... an adjustment to make. Rather be able to keep an eye on her, help her through it. And you're a familiar face, more than most in the wing."

T'gar is frowning a bit, but at least he didn't decline. He nods some through the points K'del makes for why he should, and as his silence grows, it's perhaps clear that he doesn't really have a reason to send back in counter. Straightening up with the knot in hand, "I'll try my best," he decides to say then, meeting K'del gaze straight on. "Wouldn't be the first time I've had to guard someone from themselves, in a sense."

Quietly, "I appreciate it. Won't all be on you, but... doesn't hurt. In any case, we've drills in the morning-- you can meet the rest of the wing properly, then. We'll get you into the sweep schedule and take it from there, starting with a shadow so you can get a better feel for how we'll do it all. Poker night on the fifth day of the seven, if you're so inclined."

T'gar nods; he seems to be content with it. As to the wing, "Sleep ins over for now," he says with a grin to drills. "Lucky for you all, I like being busy. Look forward to meeting everyone. Do you come to the drills?" He's openly amused at there being a poker night, and he wryly states, "Not much of a gambler and drinker, but I'll be there. I really appreciate this, sir." His free hand is out, aiming to shake on it.

K'del extends his hand, rising to his feet so that he's in a better position to reach across the table; his grip is firm and sure, and comes with a nod and what does seem to be a genuine smile. "I'm there when I can be," he explains. "''Used'' to try and do more, when I was still officially F'manis' Wingsecond, but Cadejoth likes the exercise, so we're there as much as we can be. There are those who'll argue I ought to have taken the wing for my own, but... it works this way, for us. You're going to do fine, T'gar. We're glad to have you."

Standing and gripping K'del's hand firmly with a grin, "Do you play any?" he asks on poker, once they shake. "Perhaps I can tempt you in a game once I learn my way around the wing." On the drills and their dragons, there's low laughter and, "Yeah, I hear you on that one. Asah's like that, too. He was thrilled when I got to be leading drills for awhile. Well, as long as it works out, right? Looking forward to seeing everyone tomorrow." Releasing the grip, "Guess I'll be seeing you, sir," he says, something in his wording bringing forth that eager gleam.

"Some," is K'del's answer to that question, but he grins as he says it, his nod seeming to confirm that he'll be happy to play with the younger bronzerider. "Guess you will. Have a good one, T'gar. Congratulations. If you need anything..." It's an expansive gesture: K'del is happy to be of assistance. "For now, go enjoy what's left of your freedom, mm?"

"Good," T'gar agrees on a future game, stepping away from the table. "Enjoy the rest of your day, sir. The same to you, if you need anything." Straightening with a salute, "Guess I better go get as much sleep as I want while I can," is his joke to that when it comes to freedom before the new Taiga rider turns and makes his way out of the chamber.
|Categories=Taiga Wing Logs
}}

Template:Character

2016-03-02T02:49:37Z

K'del:

{|class="table table-striped" style="background-color: #FFFFFF !important; float:right; width:280px; margin:0 0 1em 1em; text-align:left;" cellpadding=5px
|-
|colspan=2 style="text-align:center;" | {{#ifeq: {{{picture|}}} | | | {{{image|[[Image:{{{picture}}}|{{{frame}}}|250px]]}}} {{#set:Picture=File:{{{picture}}}}} }} {{#set:PB Display=[[{{BASEPAGENAME}}]]<br>'' {{{playedby|}}} ''}} {{#set:Name2=[[{{BASEPAGENAME}}]]}} {{#set:Name={{BASEPAGENAME}}}} {{#set:Areacode= {{ {{{where}}} }}}} {{#set:Status=NPC}}
|-
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{where}}}|{{ {{ {{{where}}} }} }}|<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}; border: {{#ifexist: Template:{{{where}}}|{{ {{ {{{where}}} }}2 }}|<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"| '''{{BASEPAGENAME}}'''
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{Has rank | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Rank''' {{!}}{{!}} [[Rank::{{{Has rank}}}]] }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{where | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Location''' {{!}}{{!}} [[Where::{{{where}}}]]}}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{Pair}} | | {{#ifeq: {{{dragon|}}} | | | {{!}}'''Dragon''' {{!}}{{!}}{{{color}}} {{{dragon}}} {{#set:Dragon={{{color}}} {{{dragon}}} }} }} | {{!}}'''Dragon''' {{!}}{{!}} {{Pair}} {{#set:Dragon={{Pair}}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{craft | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Craft''' {{!}}{{!}} [[Craft::{{{craft}}}]] }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{mother | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Mother''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{mother}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{father | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Father''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{father}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{siblings | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Siblings''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{siblings}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{children | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Children''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{children}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{friends | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Other Ties''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{friends}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{playedby | }}} | | | {{!}}'''Played By''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{playedby}}} {{#set:Pb={{{playedby}}}}} }}
|-valign="top"
{{#ifeq: {{{owner| }}} | | | {{!}}'''Owner''' {{!}}{{!}} {{{owner}}} }}
|-valign="top"
!colspan=2 style="text-align:center; padding-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 5px; font-size: larger; background-color:{{#ifexist: Template:{{{where}}}|{{ {{ {{{where}}} }} }}|<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}}; border: {{#ifexist: Template:{{{where}}}|{{ {{ {{{where}}} }}2 }}|<nowiki>#000000</nowiki>}} 2px solid; color:#FFFFFF; text-shadow: 2px 2px #000000;"|
|} {{#set:Character={{BASEPAGENAME}}}} {{#set:Page has default form=Character}}

{{{history|}}}

== Logs ==

{{NewLogs | name={{BASEPAGENAME}} }}

{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions}} | }}

{{#ask:[[Name2::{{BASEPAGENAME}}]]
|?Where
|?Areacode
|?Rank
|format=template
|template=AreaPopulation2
}}

[[Category:Characters]]

HRW:Tundra Wing

2016-02-29T21:53:12Z

K'del:

{{Wingleaders
|weyr=HRW
|Flight=Crafts
|NPCs=
}}

== History ==

Tundra came into life as a wing at the beginning of Turn 39. Unlike most of High Reaches' wings, it was specifically designed not to perform standard duties; instead, its riders all have background in a Craft, and an interest in continuing their work in some form. Tundra also performs some sweeps and drills, but to a lesser extent than other wings-- their purpose is otherwise.

== Logs ==

{{ Category_Logs | category = Tundra Wing Logs }}

[[Category:HRW_Wings]]

Clutch:Hrw20

2016-02-19T09:19:24Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|dam=Xemyth
|sire=Zerth
|sire-color=bronze
|id=hrw20
|name=Gold Xemyth x Bronze Zerth
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=12 October 2003
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=
|composition=
|eggs=
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw20 Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Callyndra, Catriona (who Impressed brown Zevalyth at Ista), Chandrak, Dysan, Jorea, Lamorna, Lesra

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw19

2016-02-19T09:18:53Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|dam=Lhiannonth
|sire=Taralyth
|sire-color=bronze
|id=hrw19
|name=Gold Lhiannonth x Bronze Taralyth
|flight=8th January, 2003
|clutching=7th February, 2003
|hatching=16th March, 2003
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=26
|composition=
|eggs=Clutch:hrw19/Eggs
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw19 Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Alex, Celebren, Davina, Desmeronda, Haben, Kalina, Kelreis, Kirana, Kiitarel, Nyckave, Rennick, Rosel, Rylla, Sallis, Shelivan

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw18

2016-02-19T09:18:23Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|dam=Jenryth
|sire=Dzurath
|sire-color=bronze
|id=hrw18
|name=Senior Gold Jenryth x Bronze Dzurath
|hatching=21 July 2002
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=35
|composition=
|eggs=Clutch:hrw18/Eggs
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw18 Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Carianna, Cierra, Geridon, Jel, Jhenni, Kalina (who later impressed Green Pheneth at HRW), Kaneda, Kirana, Lesra, Maelyan, Makai, Merwen, Redus, Ryse, Samron, Ysabel

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw17

2016-02-19T09:17:55Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|dam=Jenryth
|sire=Dzurath
|sire-color=bronze
|id=hrw17
|name=Senior Gold Jenryth x Bronze Dzurath
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=2 December 2001
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=
|composition=
|eggs=
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw17 Logs}}

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw16

2016-02-19T09:17:20Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|id=hrw16
|dam=Temornath
|sire=Yanaleth
|sire-color=brown
|name=Gold Temornath x brown Yanaleth
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=29 April 2001
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=
|composition=
|eggs=
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw16 Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Abbe, Amilin, Anoen, Carianna, Casmira, Elie, Emilly (who later impressed Green Sionath at HRW), Firmin, Gannon, Kallrina, Kieal, Langley (who later impressed Green Ardenth at ISW), Mallea, Mylarran, Sheron, Tebaran, Viridis, Vorin

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw15

2016-02-19T09:16:50Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|id=hrw15
|dam=Jenryth
|sire=Dzurath
|sire-color=bronze
|name=Senior Gold Jenryth x Bronze Dzurath
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=26 August 2000
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=
|composition=
|eggs=
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw15 Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Abbe (who later impressed Green Eveyth at HRW), Akiko, Banran, Byrlyn, Channah, Cloretta (who later impressed Green Ghianath at Fort), Dasil (who later impressed Bronze Xannarth at Fort), Evendar, Girad, Graham, Jaxelle, Kara, Kaelyn, Kiani, Kymi, Mhaul, Mohria, Ryden, Shahryar, Tikhen (who later impressed Bronze Meredoth at HRW), Yenne, Zuliah

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw14

2016-02-19T09:16:20Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|id=hrw14
|dam=Yventh
|sire=Silventh
|sire-color=bronze
|name=Gold Yventh x Bronze Silventh
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=28 January 2000
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=35
|composition=
|eggs=Clutch:hrw14/Eggs
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch hrw14 Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Adela, Alyeria, Arana, Celis (who later impressed Blue Sidrith at ISW), Denali, Divya, Eolan, Jehan, Jehran, Josan, Halam, Korintha, Miralin (who later impressed Green Hosozoth at IGW), Rhaine, Ro, Saruh, Spiriel

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw13

2016-02-19T09:15:18Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|id=hrw13
|dam=Elisanth
|sire=Chezroth
|sire-color=bronze
|name=Senior Gold Elisanth x Bronze Chezroth
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=1 June 1999
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=
|composition=
|eggs=Clutch:hrw13/Eggs
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch {{BASEPAGENAME}} Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Alane, Alaric, Arana (who later impressed Green Iyveth at HRW), Dendra (who later became co-Masterbaker), Eira, Kallen, Keryn, Korintha, Milque (who later impressed Gold Elynth at Fort), Molleny, Randall, Shahryar (who later impressed Brown Gyreventh at HRW), Tiren, Tovar, Ysanaan

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[Category:PernMUSH]]

Clutch:Hrw12

2016-02-19T09:14:30Z

K'del:

__NOTOC__

{{HRWClutch
|id=hrw12
|dam=Jenryth
|sire=Chezroth
|sire-color=bronze
|name=Gold Jenryth x Bronze Chezroth
|flight=
|clutching=
|hatching=13 October 1998
|egg=
|dragon=
|count=
|composition=
|eggs=Clutch:hrw12/Eggs
|npcs=}}

==Dragons ==

{{ DragonTable}}

== Logs ==

{{Category_Logs | category=Clutch {{BASEPAGENAME}} Logs}}

== With Thanks To ==

'''Candidates:''' Alyeniara, Arryn, Caristan, Halam (who later impressed Brown Llanarth at HRW), Jennan, Josira, Kandri, Lystra, Molleny (who later impressed Green Vmireth at HRW), Oraianda, Sharen (who later impressed Blue Derebith at Ista), Sherazade, Sturne, Taiga, Tania (who later impressed Brown Tiaeth at Igen), Thaniel, Tisharen (who later impressed Bronze Toniath at Fort), Tobi, Xydren

{{Clutches |2=HRW}}

[[category:PernMUSH]]