NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

File:Icon evanthe zvaraseth challenge.jpg

2014-07-21T05:16:13Z

Muchly:

File:Icon evanthe zvaraseth scar.jpg

2014-07-21T05:15:15Z

Muchly:

File:Icon evanthe zvaraseth.jpg

2014-07-21T05:14:34Z

Muchly:

Logs:You Can Barely Tell

2014-07-21T04:50:36Z

Muchly:

{{Log
|who=Evanthe
|what=The night of the hatching, Evanthe tries to process.
|where=Weyrling barracks
|when=day 18, month 4, turn 35 of Interval 10.
|gamedate=2014.07.19
|quote=Well, isn’t that a relief.
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon evanthe pensive.jpg, Icon zvaraseth.jpg,
|icons=
|log=You can barely tell.

With the caverns dark and the dragon’s curled form blanketed with shadow, you can barely tell.

But Evanthe knows, and the knowing keeps her awake, listening to the soft susurrations of others sleeping, snoring, whispering. The overwhelmed sobs of a weyrling occasionally break the silence, but Ev doesn’t join the shushing that follows… she understands.

She did it. She impressed. Weeks of waiting, anticipation, anxiety… and now she finds it doesn’t end. Now it’s carried on, refreshed with every tense look someone gives her dragon; every tight-lipped smile from someone who doesn’t know if they ought to congratulate her; every furtive glance as someone tries not to stare but can’t help but look.

Twisted wing-shoulders, twisted spine, the stunted legs… and he is so small.

''Will he be able to keep up with the others?
Will he be able to fly?
Will he survive?''

These thoughts, and so many others, form a maelstrom in her mind – what will tomorrow bring? But for right now… for right now you can barely tell.

''He’ll be fine.'' She says it aggressively, only to herself. ''We’ll be fine.''

<< Well, isn’t that a relief. >> His voice, the deep rich baritone and slightly clipped words fill her mind with familiar strangeness. << I had begun to worry. >>

So focused on her own thoughts, Evanthe hadn’t realized that Zvaraseth had woken. Now, flushed with shame at what he may have overheard, she shifts instinctively to his side – already, her hand falls automatically between his wings, to the spot that aches. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

<< Don’t. We will not apologize for honesty. >>

They don’t discuss it further. It isn’t necessary. There are things to do. Tending to him soothes her as her own mind could not, and when all is done… sleep, at last, takes them both.

}}
{{Categories
|Categories=Vignette Logs
}}

File:Icon evanthe pensive.jpg

2014-07-21T04:47:36Z

Muchly:

Logs:You Can Barely Tell

2014-07-21T04:41:03Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{Log |who=Evanthe |what=The night of the hatching, Evanthe tries to process. |where=Weyrling barracks |when=day 18, month 4, turn 35 of Interval 10. |gamedate=2014.07.19 |quo..."

{{Log
|who=Evanthe
|what=The night of the hatching, Evanthe tries to process.
|where=Weyrling barracks
|when=day 18, month 4, turn 35 of Interval 10.
|gamedate=2014.07.19
|quote=Well, isn’t that a relief.
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon evanthe.jpg, Icon zvaraseth.jpg,
|icons=
|log=You can barely tell.

With the caverns dark and the dragon’s curled form blanketed with shadow, you can barely tell.

But Evanthe knows, and the knowing keeps her awake, listening to the soft susurrations of others sleeping, snoring, whispering. The overwhelmed sobs of a weyrling occasionally break the silence, but Ev doesn’t join the shushing that follows… she understands.

She did it. She impressed. Weeks of waiting, anticipation, anxiety… and now she finds it doesn’t end. Now it’s carried on, refreshed with every tense look someone gives her dragon; every tight-lipped smile from someone who doesn’t know if they ought to congratulate her; every furtive glance as someone tries not to stare but can’t help but look.

Twisted wing-shoulders, twisted spine, the stunted legs… and he is so small.

''Will he be able to keep up with the others?
Will he be able to fly?
Will he survive?''

These thoughts, and so many others, form a maelstrom in her mind – what will tomorrow bring? But for right now… for right now you can barely tell.

''He’ll be fine.'' She says it aggressively, only to herself. ''We’ll be fine.''

<< Well, isn’t that a relief. >> His voice, the deep rich baritone and slightly clipped words fill her mind with familiar strangeness. << I had begun to worry. >>

So focused on her own thoughts, Evanthe hadn’t realized that Zvaraseth had woken. Now, flushed with shame at what he may have overheard, she shifts instinctively to his side – already, her hand falls automatically between his wings, to the spot that aches. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

<< Don’t. We will not apologize for honesty. >>

They don’t discuss it further. It isn’t necessary. There are things to do. Tending to him soothes her as her own mind could not, and when all is done… sleep, at last, takes them both.

}}
{{Categories
|Categories=Vignette Logs
}}

Evanthe

2014-07-21T03:52:49Z

Muchly:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=evanthe.jpg
|position=Weyrling @ HRW
|craft=
|birthplace=Crom Hold
|mother=Vana, journeyman weaver
|father=Athen, deceased
|siblings=Vanathen (M +10, jman smith), Thenan (M +7, jman weaver), Avetha (F +5, jman harper)
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Elle Fanning
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==
Light blond hair falls straight and slightly unkempt from Evanthe’s head, brushing just past her shoulders. The elfin face it frames still has the roundness of youth, with fair skin still showing the signs of blemishes here and there at the temples and hairline. Her face is expressive with gray eyes under dark eyebrows, a rounded nose, and a mouth whose natural sweetness is to often prone to sullenness. Poor girl looks even younger than the seventeen-turn-old she is, an impression that isn’t helped much by her short stature and slight build.

She wears, on a body that is all slim straight lines, a knit gray sweater that doesn’t fit, too large for her slightness – a hand-me-down, made to serve with sleeves rolled up to her forearms. The sweater hits her mid-thigh, over fitted brown pants tucked into cracked, worn ankle boots. As just a small nod to femininity, she has a thin chain around her neck, with a small gray stone in the hollow of her throat.

== WYSK ==
Came to the weyr with few skills and is probably best known to the lower caverns workers... likely memorable as a foul-mouthed, belligerent nuisance.
== History ==
Born at Crom Hold to a miner and a weaver, along with several siblings who are notable overachievers, only making her own lot in life a whole lot harder. She didn't particularly excel at any one thing, and anything she did take an interest in, one of her siblings could probably do better - the most notable of these sibling rivalries was with her sister, Avetha, who was the golden child.

Evanthe was close to her father and had his support, and his belief. Her mother, Vana, on the other hand, gave up on her pretty early on, with such declarations as "I don't know what we'll do with you," and "Why can't you be more like 'so-and-so'." It was therefore quite a blow when Evanthe's father died in a mining accident.

Without much reason to stay at Crom, and her other children well-established and excelling in each of their individual crafts, Evanthe and her mother popped from place to place for awhile as Vana took weaving commissions. However, shortly before Evanthe turned seventeen, her big sister achieved her journeyman's knot at Harper Hall and requested a posting at High Reaches Weyr. Privately, Evanthe suspects it has something to do with bronze riders and the success her sister has with batting her eyelashes. Whatever the reason, Vana couldn't be more proud of Avetha, and soon had dragged Evvy along with her to High Reaches, where Evanthe settled in as a talentless grouch...

Until, in an evening of slight desperation, Evanthe asked Aishani to let her stand for Hraedyth's clutch. To her surprise, it was as simple as that - she was a candidate. The result was not quite what her fantasy was. A small, misshapen brown hatched and claimed her on the sands - bonding her forever with Zvaraseth.

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Riders]]
[[Category:Brownriders]]
[[Category:Flurry_Wing]]

Logs:Uniquely Talented

2014-07-11T04:58:04Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{Log |who=Evanthe, Jayzin, |what=Two candidates and go rule-breaking. |where=Candidate Quarters |when=day 13, month 3, turn 35 of Interval 10 |gamedate=2014.07.08 |quote=But..."

{{Log
|who=Evanthe, Jayzin,
|what=Two candidates and go rule-breaking.
|where=Candidate Quarters
|when=day 13, month 3, turn 35 of Interval 10
|gamedate=2014.07.08
|quote=But pretty sure that's a euphemism...
|weather=
|mentions=
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon evanthe amused.jpg,
|icons=
|log=Chores, chores, chores - they fill the day, and Evanthe rarely comes through it entirely unscathed, so a bath was called for before returning home. Her clothes are clinging damply to her skin, and she's distractedly towelling dry her hair as she enters the quarters, paying only a modicum of attention as she weaves her way through the bunks and occupants thereof towards her own humble, decidedly rumpled, bed.

Jayzin is a recent addition to the Candidates for Hraedryth's clutch, and though he hasn't quite kept to himself, he certainly has been just as busy as the rest of the Candidates between chores and work in the kitchen. At the moment, he sits with legs stretched out on his own well-made cot, knife in hand as he whittles idly at a piece of wood that seem to look like... a slightly smaller piece of wood, at the moment. "Trunk," he warns, in case Evanthe is not paying attention to notice the shifted, half-opened piece of furniture some younger Candidate has left in her path.

Evanthe is not paying attention - her luck would simply have it that way - and it's only a moment after Jayzin helpfully utters that warning that she swings a shin into the corner of the trunk full force. It's almost graceful, the resultant sprawl, ricochet, and eventual falling and catching herself, inevitably, on the edge of Jayzin's own cot. Graceful save for the colorful, creative expletives that explode from her mouth, seemingly effortlessly, and completely at odds with her youthful and generally innocent appearance. Jayzin, meet Evanthe.

"I tried to warn you," Jayzin offers, though not without the hint of a smile tugging at his lips which soon turns to concern as he sits up. The block of wood is abandoned in his lap (not the knife). "Are you alright?" He doesn't seem to mind expletives, nor do they take him by surprise even when they come out of the mouth of someone so young or female. That, at least, he is used to.

Evanthe just grunts in response to the man's ill-timed ''I-told-you-so'', shooting him a vaguely dirty look as she picks herself up off the floor - completely undeserved though it may be. She does, however, help herself to the edge of his bed to perch on to assess the damage, plunking herself down damply and hauling up a leg to peer at her shin. Pants ripped, skin too, some blood but the sort of injury that smarts and is annoying. She just rubs a sleeve over it then clamps a hand down to keep it from oozing. "Fuck." She shoots Jayzin a sidelong, narrow-eyed look. "You're new." Or, she just hasn't noticed him, but either way.

Jayzin doesn't seem to mind blame or dirty looks anymore than a dirty mouth, that crooked smirk reappearing subtly at the corners of his lips as Evanthe seems to be ok. He replies easily, "I don't normally object to a 'fuck' followed by an observation of my newness, but I think we should find some place more private, in that case." He adds, though, "Jayzin. Just got in a few days ago."
Evanthe gives the introduction due consideration, giving her fellow candidate a thorough looking at. A very thorough looking at. Whether out of suspicion or the fact that she is only just now really /noticing/ his looks, who's to say? It can be said though that she shifts, just a little uncomfortably, and there's some new pinkishness in her face. Followed by another muttered, "/Fuck/." Her left hand, the one not holding her shin together, is wiped hastily on her pants and then she holds it out awkwardly to shake. "Evanthe. I'm a candidate." Pause. "Obviously. Uh... welcome, I guess? Who searched you?"

The knife in his hand is tucked away before Jayzin reaches out to take Evanthe's, even his fingertips warm in a way that suggests that the young man probably runs hot. His grip is slightly rough and lingers as he answers dismissively, "I wasn't searched, really. I agreed to Stand." Isn't that what search is? Oh well. He moves to stand, his fingers still capturing hers to leverage her up. "Here, I know where to find some ice and a drink, if you need it."

Oh, and just like that, Evanthe's wide-eyed gaze is fixed on his hand and if anything the red in her fair skin is burning a little hotter - and her expression, if anything, is growing darker in reaction to it. Belligerence. Though... uh... it isn't as though she's pulling her hand away. She swallows, then squints back at his face. "What?" Right, she asked a question. "Oh! Yeah, I wasn't searched either," she says, allowing herself to be hauled to her feet, which she performs with just about as much grace as before, and a wrinkle of her nose as she steps on the battered leg. "A drink? Shit, yes. Bloody bartender won't serve me."

"Don't worry. We won't bother with bartenders," Jayzin promises with wry humor, those fingers in hers twining to clasp around hers before he moves back in the direction Evanthe came. It seems he expects her to follow, leading with that connection of their fingers. And once they are out of the barracks, he makes his way through tunnels confidently towards the kitchens. Though they aren't empty, he doesn't stop there, moving still in the direction of the storerooms without saying another word, yet.

"We..." Evanthe repeats, uncertainly. "Won't." She allows herself to be led, far more pliantly than she normally is, though there is still a certain suspicious narrowing at the back of the man's head. It doesn't stop her following though, or her hand from tightening on his as she dodges around some other obstacle left in the path on the way out of the candidate quarters - just so she doesn't go sprawling again, mind. Through the tunnels, towards the storerooms, and finally she asks. "Where...?"

Jayzin glances back even as he releases her hand when they come to the storerooms, a quick, reassuring smile on his lips. "We're going right to the source," he explains. Apparently, he needs that hand that he recovered, since he pulls picks from his pocket to start on the lock of a certain door. It is late enough, at least, that there is no one in the tunnels here to come upon them. "Unless you're afraid of getting in trouble?"

Evanthe stares at the picks expressionlessly. There's a little rock on her feet, a few moments of uncertainty... and then she moves to where she can watch, curiosity written plainly across her features. "Not afraid of much." Bold words. "So... you're a /scoundrel/." This is added with an appraising look - already she's learning so much about this new, improbable friend.

"''Scoundrel''?" Jayzin repeats, mock-offense on his tone as he lifts his rich, brown eyes to slide upwards over Evanthe as she moves closer. "I prefer to say uniquely talented." It takes a few moments longer when he drops his attention back, but eventually there is a satisfying click and he pushes the door open. He gallantly waves her in first. "What are you afraid of, then?"

Evanthe nods, eyebrows raised with implied sincerity in response to his mock-offense, standing by the word she chose. "A uniquely talented scoundrel." Let's be accurate, here. She leans in to watch, lips pursed thoughtfully as the picks do whatever they do to make that click happen, and she moves into the room at his gesture - so trusting. At his question, she just gives a perfectly ladylike snort. "We haven't even /had/ a drink yet and you're already breaking out the big questions. What are /you/ afraid of?"

It is almost easy, unsecretive and light in the way Jayzin offers in answer, "Impressing. Returning home. Not returning home." He steps inside after her, pulling the door firmly shut behind him to cut the room into almost complete darkness. And yet, he moves with confidence towards the dim glowbasket left inside to uncover its light. He fetches a full flagon of wine and offers it to Evanthe before he questions again, "You?"

More information to be filed away, and it's with particular interest that Evanthe observes how /easily/ Jayzin finds his way around. She doesn't comment, not right away, but there's that lingering contemplation in her face as she reaches out automatically to accept the wine. "Fine," she says, shortly. It's only fair. "Nothing changing. Never belonging." She pauses to wiggle on the cork, freeing that precious liquid within, which she'll take a swig of - and immediately make a face afterwards, doing little to make her seem more worldly and wise. Then she finishes with the big one, "Failure."

"Failure is easy. You just fail. Dealing with the rest..." Jayzin shrugs his shoulder upwards casually, that smile lingering on his lips. And at her expression, a laugh catches in his throat before he reaches for the wine. "At least if you Impress, you do not have to worry about change."

"Yeah, it's when it happens over and over... and over..." Evanthe mutters darkly as she extends the wine out for her companion. "That's when it starts to weigh." She, perhaps fortunately misses that little laugh at her expression, just shrugging at his last comment. "I guess that was sort of the idea. I asked to Stand."

The wine is accepted back and lifted to his lips for an easy chug than Evanthe's before Jayzin's gaze slides over Evanthe again. "The rest is, at least, out of your control," he offers as if it is reassuring, even as he offers the wine back again.

"Thank fucking Faranth," Evanthe says readily. Those are words that she can drink to, and does, and though she still makes a face it's not nearly as scrunched as the first time. She shakes her head, and gives him that contemplative look as she offers the wine back. "So, what's your story? Are you from here?"

"I'm Vijay," Jayzin answers simply to the question, dismissive almost in the way he approaches that single explanation. He takes the wine back, but this time he merely corks it rather than drinking from it. "Does you leg still hurt? I did promise ice, too."

Evanthe waits expectantly, as though sure there is going to be more to follow. Apparently... not. She runs her fingers back through her hair, now drying in clumps and tangles, a gesture of discontent. "Okay, but... I mean, you seem like you know your way around." She gestures around herself, ending with a point at the wine. "Guess you learn quick?" She squints down at her leg, only dimly illuminated in the romantic glow of glowlights, and shrugs. Only minor gore. "Hurts, but I'll live. I'd take the ice, though. Third time I've ripped these damn pants."

The curve of his lips only quirks more crooked as Jayzin replies, "I've always had to learn my way around fast. And, it helps being assigned to the kitchens." The wine is stashed back where he found it, even if it is minus some of its contents and has been contaminated with lips. He then moves back to the door, listening quietly for a moment before he opens it. "They keep ice on hand, there. We can grab some on our way back."

"You seem like a useful scoundrel to know," Evanthe comments wryly, falling in line behind the man as he makes for the door. She'll wait for his signal that the way is clear, and then out into the hall with that faint, unconscious smile of someone who has gotten away with being /bad/ - an experience she has had all too rarely, at least intentionally. "Right. Excellent. Lead the way, sir."

Jayzin locks the door behind him, not one to overlook details that could give him away in the long run. Or at least, those that he can help. "''Talented''," he replies, stressing the word, before his hand falls to the small of Evanthe's back to lead her back the way they came to the kitchens.

Evanthe stiffens a little at the touch, but goodness knows she doesn't object. She again allows herself to be guided, with a breath of a laugh for the correction. "Right. A useful /talent/ to know," she rephrases, shooting him a look. "But pretty sure that's a euphemism for what I said."

"I am never a scoundrel." But this is murmured in Evanthe's ear as Jayzin leans in to quietly tell her, easily eating up that personal space despite the way she has already stiffened at just his hand. At least the kitchen is still staffed when they intrude on it's warmth, and he moves away to get some ice from one of the staff for her.

Breath on her ear and Evanthe's face instantly colors. "Fucking liar," is offered in a mutter, amused even as she attempts to... you know... be cool. It isn't in her nature, though, and she nearly manages to dump over a pot of tubers that were freshly peeled, earning a dirty look from one of the late night workers. Leaning against things, apparently not a good plan, and she ends up just waiting, hands clasped in front of her, face still pink. So cool. "Thanks, by the way."

"Sorry, love," Jayzin apologizes easily to the kitchen worker, who is likely a known quality, and at least eases some of that displeasure with those two simple words as he returns with ice. He dismisses Evanthe's thanks just as easily as he says, "I should have tried harder to warn you." The ice is offered to the young woman, wrapped as it is in cloth.

"True," Evanthe agrees promptly, brow arched at him... but humor in the words. She accepts the ice with a nod, cupping the bundle between her hands. "In your defense, this is probably the most pleasant outcome I've had from getting banged up, so. Guess you're off the hook." The perfect soul of generosity, she. On more sure grounds now, she'll lead the way out with a murmur of thanks for the helpful kitchen workers, providing ice and tolerating her presence, and - with a glance back to see if he's with her - lead the way back to ''home.''

A laugh escapes warmly at Evanthe's agreement, but Jayzin only accepts it and the words that follow with an easy smile, still. And despite leading her there, he seems to accept allowing her to lead the way back, following just as easily as he led.

Back in the candidate quarters, Evanthe starts back through the bunks - taking /great/ pains to avoid that trunk that still sticks out into the aisle - and then... stops. By Jayzin's bed. She's uncertain now, evident in her posture, as to what to do next as the hour grows late and many of their compatriots are already tucked in for the night. Her own rumpled cot is a few rows away, and she eyes it for a moment before turning about face. Icing can wait a moment. She's going to linger, if only briefly. "It was good to meet you. I'm glad you were... Not Searched."

"Thank you?" Jayzin questions with wry humor, brows lifting slightly at the other candidate's response. And, perhaps, at her stopping at his bed. He reaches over to grab the abandoned block of wood from the neatly made bed before dropping himself neatly onto it. As she hesitates, he adds, "You're welcome to crawl in with me. If that's what you're thinking about."

Evanthe's rendered speechless. Literally, entirely speechless, lips parted as she stares at him. If she's /considering/ it, she makes no motion to actually do it, and with heat in her cheeks once more just quietly mutters the epithet "Scoundrel," with dry amusement. "Good night." She goes, then, to crawl into her very own bed and hold that ice to her shin, and surely not doodle his name in her diary surrounded by hearts or anything perfectly ridiculous like that.

}}
{{Categories}}

Logs:Not a Candidate

2014-07-05T04:47:51Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{Log |quote= |gamedate=2014.07.01 |who=Evanthe, Telavi |what=Telavi visits the candidate quarters, meets candidate Evanthe. |where=Candidate Quarters |when=day 20, month 2, t..."

{{Log
|quote=
|gamedate=2014.07.01
|who=Evanthe, Telavi
|what=Telavi visits the candidate quarters, meets candidate Evanthe.
|where=Candidate Quarters
|when=day 20, month 2, turn 35
|weather=
|mentions=Aishani
|ooc=
|icons-new=Icon telavi.jpg, Icon evanthe.jpg,
|icons=
|log=As the candidates trickle steadily in from every corner of Pern, the barracks get steadily more crowded, more chaotic, more noisy, especially at night. Then morning comes, pressing chores are tackled, and the room empties out - good times for anyone to savor the relative peace and quiet, and that is just what Evanthe is doing. Well, actually, she's changing the sheets on her cot, tugging on the edges to try and smooth out those stubborn middle wrinkles, shoving her hands under the sides of the mattress with her lips pressed as it does little to accomplish her goals. Finally she just grunted and dumps the blanket on top to hide the lack of neatness.

Which is when a greenrider wanders in, not a terribly unusual occurrence-- even if the candidates are mostly residents of the Weyr, there are some brought in by dragonback, primarily from Nabol but a few from the aforementioned corners-- except for the part where she doesn't actually have anyone in tow. She's not loud; it would be easy to miss her until she's right ''there'', and not doing very well at hiding a smile. "The sheet won, did it?" By her accent, ''she's'' not from around here either.

Evanthe isn't the most observant under the best of circumstances, and distracted with her fussing at blankets, tucking it in so unevenly that the mattress is kind of lumped up on one side. She's just stepped back to scowl at the more-or-less finished picture when Telavi speaks, causing the young candidate to twitch in surprise. It only takes a moment for the scowl to return though - directed not at the newcomer, mind, but at the bed still. "Damn thing. Think it wasn't made right. They made the sheets the wrong ffff..." The expletiv trails off with a wrinkle of her nose as she remembers herself, and the unfamiliarity of her new companion. "Flipping. The wrong flipping shape." She rolls her eyes and then sits on the said bed, as though her relatively small-sized behind could do anything to cover up the fact that, if anything, it looks worse /now/ than before she ''made'' it. "Who're you?"

"Maybe if you ''flipped'' it over, it would behave better," the longer-haired blonde teases the shorter-. "Oh, I'm Telavi. Who're you?" She steps to the side for a better view of the cot as well as the girl.

Evanthe narrows her eyes at the mattress below her as though half considering the suggestion, then her expression turns faintly suspicious as she looks back at the strange blonde. Is she being laughed at? It's always a possibility. "I'm Evanthe," she offers grudgingly, tucking her legs up on the bed, giving up on the project entirely for the moment. "You... you're not a candidate." It's a statement, proof that she's at least observant enough to take note of knots.

"'Evanthe.'" Telavi says the name consideringly, like maybe it should mean something heretofore unknown. In the end, though, she pulls her lips close on whatever she might have said, as a secret; instead, moving on to survey the room though she stays within conversational range, "Not any more, thank ''goodness'. Though I only spent a night, well, part of a night here; that's not so bad. Have you been here long?"

Evanthe still has that expression of faint suspicion, whirring mind reading all the possible things that /could/ have come out of Telavi's lips before they cut her off. She watches the rider with narrowed eyes, though she relaxes back on her cot as the conversation continues - it isn't entirely unwelcome, see, despite her faintly gruff demeanor. "Just one night? Firstly, you're fucking lucky-" Oops, she forgot that time, and fails to notice until too late. "Secondly, how did you manage that? Not that the resident dorms are a grand and sweeping domicile, but this is so much more /close/. Been here a weekish. Seems longer though." Grouse, grouse, the role of the antisocial candidate.

"So lucky," Telavi sighs; maybe she didn't even notice Evanthe dropped the f-bomb. She picks at someone else's wrinkly cot before moving on, neatening it ''just because she can''... but only half of it. "Well, except for the part where everyone else knew each other and I had to learn everyone's names all at once ''plus'' their dragons'-- but I got over it. It didn't drag on this way, you know? I know how you feel about a seven seeming ''forever''." Tela glances back over her shoulder at Evanthe, smiling, her near cheek briefly showing a dimple. "See, that's when there was more Searching outside this place, I think? and we'd been celebrating, and she brought me in the middle of the night, ish." As you do.

"Oh man," Evanthe says, a groan elongating the words and her hand muffling them all at once as she drags it down over her face. "Of /course/. Why the hell didn't I wait to ask until the freaking day before? Didn't even occur to me, I got all worked up and-" She waves her hands expressively, chaotically. "/Twitchy/. Just ran into it without logicking it out." She sighs, but the look she gives Telavi is decidedly more friendly. As far as she's concerned, they're bonding now. "How long ago was that? And, if I can ask, how d'you like it? 'Cause I've gotten some pretty mixed reports of the glories of dragonriding."

"Well, they could have filled up," Telavi reasons sympathetically, if not necessarily ''accurately''. "You asked? Who did you ask? It was... oh, Faranth. Nearly four Turns ago. Ish. So not that long except that's forever too." She begins to wander back towards the younger girl, if indirectly so with her fingertips ''nearly'' grazing the other bunks as she walks by. "How did I like which part?" There's so ''much''.

"I asked Aishani," Evanthe says, eyes widening faintly to lend appropriate import to the words. "Acted like a total moron, but I asked her... or told her I wanted to... and she pretty much said ''yeah, ok.'' /Days/ of stressing over it, and that's all it took." Still disbelief, even an interminable seven days later. But the actual rider is far more relevant to the moment - at Telavi's question, Evanthe shrugs, waving her hand to encompass everything. "Do you feel trapped? Is your dragon your forever onetruelove soulmate who you never tire of? Do you ever regret it, or wonder what-if you hadn't done it? Does it... does it ever feel /normal/? It's all so /huge/."

"Aishani?" Telavi has such wide eyes. "Just like that? Oh, you lucked ''out''. I've heard people having to ''do'' things," things upon which she might have elaborated if Evanthe hadn't continued. But she did. The greenrider's face grows solemn, something that suits her less than that charming smile, but what emerges is no less genuine; "I... we're more separate then most of them, I think. Which is just as well; too close can be ''really hard''."

"Just like that." And it would be difficult to miss that note of pride in Ev's voice now, inspired by Telavi's gratifying reaction. Yes. She has impressed someone. Or at least surprised them, and that's almost as good. The smile that was just quirking at her mouth fades though as Telavi moves onto the deeper topics, mirroring the rider's more serious expression. "Yeah. ''Really hard.'' That's what they keep saying, but it can be hard to tell if they /mean/ it, or if they're just trying to weed out the wusses." She considers, picking at a slightly frayed edge of her blanket - which is now getting only more and more frayed. "Has anyone ever just... failed at being a dragonrider? Like, not just /not/ impressed, but impressed and then just sucked at it?"

"Some of both," Telavi supposes with a more offhand shrug belied by her long glance. Even more lightly, make that melodramatically-- "Yes. Oh yes. I could name names but I ''shouldn't''." Melodramatic, but not without a kernel of truth. "Listen. Evanthe," and with that she's coming right to the girl, one hand lifting with the intent to touch her hair in sisterly fashion. "Good luck on the sands... but especially before the sands, all right?" With that-- and without a voiced reason-- she's liable to retreat.

Evanthe's eyebrow arches, curiosity piqued beyond all reason. She would ask. No, she would /press/ for more information, if at that moment a cluster of candidates comes shuffling, providing noise, distraction, and inspiring a close-eyed face of exasperation. Then Telavi is there, and Evanthe looks up at her thoughtfully, only nodding her appreciation for the gesture. "Good to meet you, Telavi."

}}
{{Categories
|Categories=RP_Logs
}}

Logs:Dirty Mouths and No Prospects

2014-06-13T05:16:55Z

Muchly:

{{ Log
| who = Evanthe, H'vier
| where =Snowasis, HRW
| what = H'vier has Tavi for the night, so of course he takes her to the bar. Lucky Evanthe!
| when = D16 M13 T34
| gamedate = 2014.06.12
| quote = From an outside perspective, I'm doin' pretty damn good at getting into trouble, old man.
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions = Tayte, Vana
| ooc = While Tayte is [[Logs:The_Ghost_of_Life_Long_Past|entertaining]] her visitor.
| icons = evanthe amused.jpg, h'vier.png
| log = It's snowing outside. The air is frigid, damp, and the fall is steady... a good evening to find pleasant refuge, away from cold and responsibility alike. Evanthe is doing just that, curled up in one of the booths with some hot steaming mug of something in front of her, half-numb fingers wrapped around it for warmth. She's a little incongruous in this place, youthful as she looks, but any comments she's gotten so far have been dealt with handily via dirty looks and impolite responses. Unsurprisingly, she's alone.

Evidently H'vier didn't get the note about leaving responsibility out with the cold. When he shows up, it's with his not quite even one turn old daughter in his arms, all bundled up in plenty of winter paraphernalia. Hopefully, ''hopefully'', this means he's not here trying to hit on women, at least. But it doesn't mean he doesn't stop at the bar and order himself a beer. He's got the one whole hand free, after all. It should be put to use. He doesn't stay at the bar, though, because it's hard to hold a baby on a stool. So he finds somewhere else. "Hey, kid," he says to Evanthe as he pauses near her booth. "Room for two more?"

Lots of women love babies. It would probably be a successful pick up tactic. Luckily for all involved, Evanthe is not one of them - the bundled up baby gets a furrowed brow of blatant skepticism, but she's already scooting around to make room for the two. H'vier was nice to her before. Instant free pass to sharing a table. "Not a kid," she says automatically, though there isn't much grumble in it. She's distracted, see. "That yours?" The baby. She's just doublechecking.

The bronzerider sits as he says, "Nah. I just borrowed her from the nursery to see how many women I could pick up before they noticed she was missing." He says it so seriously that someone might actually believe him. But once H'vier takes a drink and sets the beer aside, and out of reach, he sets the baby on the table, too, sitting on the edge, facing him. "You make up with the cooks? Or do you have to come here to eat now?"

Evanthe does eye him uncertainly for a moment after that claim, attempting to gauge sincerity. Whatever she concludes, she's apparently fine with it, as she gives a one-shouldered shrug and takes a swig of her drink. "Well. They haven't invited me back to the kitchens since then," she says wryly, tilting her head to watch the baby as it gets perched on the edge of the table. Aw. Lookit that. "Don't think they're trying to poison my food or anything. What's it's name?" It, not he or she, because either she can't tell or doesn't want to make assumptions... or doesn't really care enough to make such determinations. "The way you were talking to that other lady, Suireh, I figured you were single. Wouldn't have guessed."

"Always good to keep the people that make food on your side. Trust me." H'vier has Real World Experience with this sort of thing. He knows what he's talking about. "''Her'' name is Tahvra." He's happy to clarify as he starts to peel off some of the girl's layers now that they're inside and settled. "I was single. At the time. Still am, sort of. It's complicated. You wouldn't understand, kid. What're you doing hiding in here by yourself, anyway? Shouldn't you be getting into trouble somewhere?"

"Tahvra," Evanthe repeats, still sounding generally doubtful. The ''complicated'' that he describes peaks her interest, eyes going back to his face and eyebrows raised. "I understand stuff." If she says it, it must be true. "I'm hiding in here because it's fucking cold outside... I mean..." She sideeyes the baby. At what age do you need to be careful with language around those things? "Anyway, it's cold. 'Sides, I'm now sitting in a bar having a drink with an older man, a bronzerider no less, who has a kid with someone he may or may not be in a relationship with, so. From an outside perspective, I'm doin' pretty damn good at getting into trouble, old man." Yes, she heard him call her ''kid'' again. That is the result.

"She's mine." Maybe H'vier feels the need to point that out now, just to make sure that the girl knows he isn't kidnapping babies from the nursery. "It is fucking cold outside," he allows, grinning at the baby who seems, for the moment, to be enjoying herself. Watching people is fun! So is pulling on H'vier's well-groomed beard. He mostly ignores that. "Fair enough. Though I'd watch who you call old around here. Guys my age know a thing or two about getting pretty little things into trouble." He pauses for a moment, glancing toward each door briefly. "By the way, if her mother comes in, we're talking about..." Something that won't get him into trouble. It might say something about him that he can't think of what that might be.

"You want a pretty little thing, you should be talking to my sister. I'm the awkward screw-up with a dirty mouth and no prospects," Evanthe replies in a dry mutter - just taste that thinly veiled bitterness, then washed down with the dregs of whateveritwas she was drinking. She moves on quickly though, brushing the passing moment off as she matches his intent looks at all the entryways. "Right. What does she look like? We're talking about...commissioning shit from my ma. I mentioned to you that she was a weaver when we met the other day, and you wanted to inquire after prices... to get your lady a gift. Of something." The lies come rolling out easily, with a quizzical note as though asking if this lie is plausible enough. She's happy to be complicit.

"Just so happens, I think a dirty mouth is pretty nice." H'vier says that to Evanthe, but Tahvra jerks on his beard just then so his focus turns to her to point out, "But not from you. You're never allowed to let boys think you're available." Especially not boys like him. "That's actually... really good, kid. Your ma is actually a weaver? Is she good? Because my lady is pretty fond of gifts. And I could use the points." Relationships are points-based systems, after all. "What was your name again?"

"And that's why you're allowed to sit at my table," Evanthe replies, smiling despite herself at the baby's babiness - nothing like a tough little lady already showing her dad who's boss. "Yeah, she's actually a weaver. Vana. Fine fabrics, colorful textiles, elegant feminine clothes that drape the curves oh so flatteringly..." That tone is back, that faint note of bitterness, but it is left unexplained - unless her own relative lack of sumptuous curves is the reason in itself. "Evanthe. You're H'vier?" As though she doesn't remember for sure. Psh.

There's a hint of a laugh at being allowed to sit at her table, but H'vier doesn't actually comment. "Sounds like something Tayte would like. I might just have to meet with her, see what she can do." The bronzerider offers the girl a grin, one of his handsome, charming sorts of grins. "I take it you don't craft?" Then, "Right. H'vier. Reisoth's." He picks up his beer again, leaning up and a little to the side so he can drink without Tahvra sending beer up his nose.

Evanthe observes the oh-so-dashing smile with solemn appreciation, then drops her gray-eyed gaze to her empty mug, now being used as a tool for fiddling. "Nope. Don't craft. Shouldn't kitchen. Not terribly useful." She nods at the reintroduction. "H'vier's. Resioth's. What did /you/ do before him?"

"Fuck," is his first thought. Definitely not the parent that cares about corrupting his poor daughter's ears. "That seems like a lifetime ago. I wasn't a crafter, either, though. Mostly the same as now, just without the drills and sweeps and paperwork. I used to do some prize-fighting now and then. Sort of frowned upon for riders, though." Which doesn't really explain why he still gets in fights with no money involved. H'vier studies the girl as he talks, saying when he's done, "You could at least pretend to have some confidence in yourself."

"I never considered prize-fighting as a career move," Evanthe admits thoughtfully, and what an idea that would be. "Fucking bite their kneecaps. Is that permitted?" His observation there at the end though, that gets the half-smile that /had/ appeared to fade clean away, and she shifts a little uncomfortably. "Yeah, well. I've done that. I /do/ that. Sometimes. It's fucking exhausting." She eyes him, considering his features in return, lips pursed. "You ever have a time when you /didn't/ have confidence in yourself?"

"I bet a lot of people would pay just to watch a pair of girls like you fight. I know I would." Tahvra has decided to stop trying to pull the hair off of H'vier's face for now in favor of making noises that only sometimes sound like actual words while she watches a couple of people at a nearby table. "Far as I'm concerned, biting only belongs in the bedroom or when someone's trying to kill you." Those are pretty different things. "And, sure, I still have moments. Just don't let myself wallow in them."

Evanthe actually laughs, a rare bright sound from her, while shaking her head at H'vier's words. "/Shit/ you're charming," she says, admiringly. Possibly she's the only one that would find /that/ statement so, but it works. Her mug, empty and now cold, no longer serving its purpose as handwarmer is turned absently between her hands and then lifted. "'Kay. Fine," she says. "I'll work on not wallowing." And she's getting up, letting the cup dangle from her finger by its handle. "You work on finding another tiny blond for me to fight." All her problems will be solved. "Good talking. Promise I won't turn you in on account of babynapping," she adds generously, as some sort of untraditional ''good night.''

Charming. That has the bronzerider grinning again. Of ''course'' he's charming. "Good. You stop wallowing, I'll find someone for you to beat the shit out of." Fair trade. "I'll take that as a kindness, Evanthe. Don't freeze to death." His own good night, though he takes one of Tahvra's little hands and does that annoying thing where parents wave goodbye to people with their childrens' hands. She doesn't seem to mind, anyway.

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File:Icon evanthe really.jpg

2014-06-12T17:56:23Z

Muchly:

File:Icon evanthe amused.jpg

2014-06-12T17:55:51Z

Muchly:

Logs:Kinda Neat

2014-06-11T20:25:32Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Alida, Evanthe | where = Hatching Sands | what = Alida's firelizard has four eggs about ready to hatch, so Evanthe comes to try her luck. | when = D13 M13 T34 |..."

{{ Log
| who = Alida, Evanthe
| where = Hatching Sands
| what = Alida's firelizard has four eggs about ready to hatch, so Evanthe comes to try her luck.
| when = D13 M13 T34
| gamedate = 2014.06.10
| quote = Most people had enough sense ta go 'n eat...
| weather =
| categories = 
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = evanthe.jpg
| log = Though it's dinner time, Alida's not in the living cavern with most of the rest of 'Reaches weyrfolk. Instead, she's eating from a tray on the hellish heat of the hatching ground's sands, the woman clad in loose cargo shorts and a thin white cotton top to better bear the heat. Note the chair she's settled on and her thick boots upon feet...and the watchful presence of a tiny, sunflower-gold firelizard settled upon golden sands nearby. A small pack is situated on the back of the borrowed chair, the flap loosely closed.

Evanthe has abandoned the caverns as well, though she clearly was recently there - a roll in hand that she's tearing off pieces to pop in her mouth as she walks. However, as she approaches these unfamiliar and hallowed grounds, she slows uncertainly. Peeks down at the sand from the galleries above are enough to reassure her that she's in the right place, and the person she's looking for. Still, once descending the steps to the sands, she just pokes her head around the corner with an awkward, inelegant, "Hullo? You Alida?"

Usually the former guard is more alert and attentive to the comings and goings of people around her...but she might be forgiven for her current lapse of attention, given the heat she's bearing up under. A jerk of her braided and bunned-up head up to where someone greets her from the galleries transitions into a quick study of Evanthe, and then a laconic, hard-accented alto, "Almost wish I wasn't, right now." Snert. Green eyes meet greys from across the small distance, and the bluerider can't help but mutter in the quiet place, "Most people had enough sense ta go 'n eat, right now, instead'a waiting fer another one ta pop." Smirk, sweat.

Evanthe nods sympathetically, as she shuffles first one foot, then the other onto the sands. First time setting foot on them, first opportunity to appreciate the heat. "Can't say as I blame 'em," she replies, shoving her hands in her pockets. "I was compelled." By forces beyond her control. "My ma, she's a weaver. Thinks having one around would be useful, communicating about comissions and such." She pauses, and very nearly leaves it like that - however, an uncontrollable propensity for frankness wins out. "'Course, she doesn't want to take /care/ of the damn thing herself, so she sends me, saying she's too busy." The little golden firelizard is given thoughtful examination, and she amends a little more charitably. "They are kinda neat though. Do you suppose I might get lucky if I lurk around a bit?"

Someone as forthright as herself...? That's a little new to Alida, and so Evanthe's words find the often stoic or stony bluerider nodding a few times as she eats, then smirking at the other female's words. The overly-alert Pyrite knows when she's being watched, and - as the teen steps out on to those burning sands - the dark-sunflower flit gives a warning chip...sharp and rather commanding for such a little being. Alida's keen gaze shifts instantly from human to her pet, while she notes in aside to Evanthe, "Don't get any closer than I am. She's a little twitchy." Smirk. "Shell if I know... Maybe *she* does." Cue a point of her own meatroll to the little gold, who's currently nosing around one of the faint, small mounds beneath her protection.

Evanthe will take that as an invitation, then, to go somewhere about /as/ close as Alida. She picks her way over to the chair and stays a step behind, just to be on the safe side, eyes fixed on the gold firelizard with some combination of wariness and fascination. "It's funny... my ma was deadset against dragonriders, dragons, anything resembling 'em, even these little guys. Then my sister gets posted here, all of a sudden we're moving in, and I'm standing on actual hatching sands staring down one o' these little beasties... sharding weird." It's all said in a kind of low mutter, only half for Alida's benefit and half just thinking aloud. "How long have you been sitting here?" she adds to the bluerider. "If I'd realized it was this damn hot, I'd have brought you a drink or something."

Alida watches Pyrite's reactions to the new person on the Sands while she listens to Evanthe speak, green eyes flicking to the teen, from time to time, to keep everyone placed. "You'll see dragon eggs soon enough, then..." the palest-blonde comments briefly, then tossing Pyrite a very small chunk of her meatroll, which the little queen snaps out of the air with a trill. Nom. "Fuck if I know. A couple hours, maybe. Can't be with 'em every shardin' moment, that's fer sure." A rider has duties, after all. A slow sort of wicked smile draws itself over Alida's lips at Evanthe's last words, and she locks her cool gaze to the other female's before noting almost casually, "Wouldn't turn down a tall mug uv' juice..." Will the Weaver's daughter go get her such, or will she hem and haw, wanting to wait around more? Wicked bluerider.

Evanthe's own pale (if not /as/ pale) face has flushed with the warmth. Sweat can't be far behind, and she's gathered her blond hair in one hand to twist up on top of her head, getting it off her slender neck. Yes, if it was only here will, she'd be only too glad to go off in search of refreshments - but in light of a mother's edict... her gray eyes meet Alida's green. "Gonna make sure you get just that, then," Ev states, the ''later'' being implied. She's stubborn, she's been sent, and she'll tolerate the heat some little while longer before making good on a promise of beverage. A thought occurs to her then, and she awkwardly holds out a hand - being sure not to pass the invisible barrier that Alida's chair marks. "I'm Evanthe, by the way."

The seated woman bobs her head slightly as Evanthe makes her decision, something of dark humor in her eyes as she continues to eat, takes sips of water...and sweat. Oh well, at least someone else is sweating with her, at the moment. With the other woman's closer step and proffered hand comes an assessing look at such from Alida, and then, slowly, her own offer of a firm, somewhat callused handshake in return. "You might be waitin' a looong time, Evanthe..." the bluie's alto notes with a hint of continued dark humor and a tinge of causticness, even as she shifts her booted feet slowly, then stretches like a cat. "C'n take a couple'a days ta hatch out a clutch, sometimes." And, on the heels of her words, one of those mounds is suddenly stood over by the wee gold, who now peers at it quizzically, then starting up a soft, happy hum...accompanied by fast and blue whirling eyes. "Then again..." the rider comments with a snort.

Evanthe shrugs agreeably enough at the rider's words of caution, not seeming terribly perturbed by the prospect. "Gotta at least stay long enough that I can argue I made an effort," she says wryly, which probably says a great deal about her relationship with her mother. Then, so quickly after, that hum starts. Ev stands a bit straighter, head cocked curiously. "What's th-" Oh! "That's her? Huh." She leans forward a bit, peering towards that lump in the sand, interest restored in the whole process despite the stifling heat.

"Yep..." Alida comments wryly, setting down her tray upon the sands so that she can slowly rise, and even more slowly step towards her pet. She stops just outside of where the small mounds of those hidden eggs are, and thus avoids any potential wrath of 'momma.' Squatting down, the bluerider peers intently at the gold, and mutters, "Unbury it, twinkle toes." From far behind them, at the huge entrance to the Sands-proper, a large dragon head pops in - the blue's eyes whirling greenly - and he gives off a faint thrum of his own for a few moments while observing. Peeping with excitement, Pyrite apparently listens to Alida and Ilicaeth, for she's nosing sand away from that one egg, finally showing both rider and Evanthe a shell mottled with random splashes of dull color, like faded paint splatters. The splattery egg is already shimmeying, wriggling, and cracking. From Alida, "Ilicaeth said he'd inform others when another one started, so watch out fer other feet." Smirk. Pop! And there it goes... proving the woman wrong again in her supposition of the hatching taking a few minutes.

Evanthe hesitates at first, but after a moment takes a hesitant step after Alida - supposing that, if nothign else, the woman creates a human shield between her and the wee clutch mama. Given that she was warned not to approach, she now has all sorts of expectations of what these things are capable of. Imagine the start it gives her to see the great blue dragon's head poking in - makes it difficult to know what to watch. HOwever, once the egg is revealed, and begins its little dance of birthtime, she squats down too to watch with mouth slightly open. And... pop. There she is, the little thing. Ev's comment? A drawn out expletive, in an impressed sort of way. Followed by: "What do I do?"

There's no irritation or anger from Pyrite when Evanthe slowly moves in, but the little gold peeps pre-emptively to make certain the big human thing doesn't step on any of her other, buried eggs. Looking aside at the new resident, Alida simply murmurs, "Watch 'er - well, both uv' them - 'n move back if Pyrite's eyes go red. Wait a second..." And up the bluie slowly stands, to step smoothly arond her chair, and dip a hand inside that pack on the back of the seat. A few moments later, she returns with a pair of chilled meatrolls - now tepid from radiant heat - and squats back down to hand them to Evanthe. "Pretty green..." the guard comments when the egg-wet female stumbles out of her shell, looking around with ravenous red eyes. The newborn flit is the color of lush summer grass, overall, with splashes of golden highlights, and earthen shadows. "Just lure 'er to ya with tiny bits uv food."

The ''pretty'' comments gets a vaguely incredulous look - though after taking a longer look at the coloring beneath the damp and rumpled newborn look, Ev concedes. "Pretty." She accepts the meatrolls, nodded slowly as she absorbs the instructions. "Simple enough," she says, and starts breaking the meat down into firelizard-sized bitable chunks. Consistently shooting suspicious looks Pyrite's way, she sets about the task offering that first meal. As the green draws closer, Ev holds onto a piece of meat a little too long and gets a finger nipped, hard enough to draw a bead of blood - but it actually draws a smile from the girl, rather than dismay. "Fierce little thing," she says, sounding pleased as the flit tears at the bits of meat. "Hey, thanks Alida. D'you want anything in exchange? Don't have much myself, but my ma could probably offer... stuff. If you want payment."

The look on Alida's face is almost fatuous for a few moments, as the green nips into her new owner and the offered food, the hatchling's appetite ravenous, of course. "Most uv' 'em are fierce at hatchin'; they're practically starving." She won't elaborate on just how she acquired her own pet, and the pain involved in such. Recalling her former speech to wannabe Impressees, the blonde notes more firmly to Evanthe, "She'll need oiling right after she's done eating. I more than suggest you head ta' the dragonhealers cavern right after you leave here, 'n get all the proper instructions from them. She'll be like an infant fer some months...takin' up lots uv' your attentions." Smirkie. As for payment... "Hmm. Well, if funds 'r tight for yer family right now, you 'n yer mom can owe me some favor, later on."

Evanthe is, despite herself, getting a look of affection - that growing softness on a usually sullen face, as the green has tug its talons sharply into her knee in search for more food. So much for detached semi-interest - here she goes, tentatively reaching a finger (one not bleeding) to touch the green's head. What starts as a prod turns into a stroke, and it's all over. "Right... right. Ma's going to rue giving me this errand, I tell you," she says with deep satisfaction. "Terrible idea. I'll take good care o' her." She nods her appreciation at Alida's offer of favor-owing. "That'll work. Ma does textiles, makes clothes, all that. She'd trade services, no question. Thank you."

She knows that look, though Alida would never admit it was on her own face after Pyrite had curled up around the back of her neck after her own first feeding. the bluerider chortles softly as green and her new owner bond, and Pyrite goes back to being quiet, and nosing her eggs around some with a cheep of satisfaction. "Sounds good..." Alida comments about seeing some potential new clothes in her future, while beyond them, Ilicaeth gives a soft croon that echos around the huge cavern. "Uh-oh... incoming. You might wanna take one uv the longer tunnels back ta' wherever, if ya can. There's more people comin'..." And *they* didn't get an egg. "Welcome." She too, is rather hard and cold, even ornery, but for once, the balm of new 'animal' life emerging has slightly softened the guard.

Evanthe wrinkles her nose immediately at the promise of more people trampling in. The look she shoots at Alida, stuck out here in the heat with the hordes. "Right. We'll go then." She's uncertain, a little clumsy - like someone handling a cat for the first time - but in a moment has the little green tucked securely in the crook of her elbow. "After I get this one settled, I'm coming back with that juice," she promises over her shoulder, as she makes her hasty way off the sand. She will, too, make no mistake. And with that, Evvy and her new bitty friend are off.

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File:Icon evanthe laugh.jpg

2014-06-11T01:24:58Z

Muchly:

File:Icon evanthe lookup.jpg

2014-06-11T01:16:55Z

Muchly:

File:Icon evanthe.jpg

2014-06-08T18:31:45Z

Muchly: Muchly uploaded a new version of "File:Icon evanthe.jpg"

Logs:Two Moody Teens

2014-06-08T02:55:15Z

Muchly:

{{ Log
| who = Evanthe, Rh'mis
| where = Living Caverns, High Reaches Weyr
| what = Two teens, avoiding tasks, tell tales. Ish.
| when = Day 26, Month 12, Turn 34
| gamedate = 2014.06.05
| quote = "Dragonriders live in Weyrs. Whether they damn well want to or not."
| weather =
| categories = General
| mentions =
| ooc =
| icons = evanthe.jpg, rh'mis hood.jpg
| log = '''Living Cavern, High Reaches Weyr

''Stalactites hang high above this enormous cavern like a jagged chandelier or an inversion of the Spires themselves, but shadows cling to them instead of light. Below lie great tables arranged in rows, each large enough to serve a fighting wing, while in the nooks and alcoves around the cavern's edge sit more sensibly-sized tables, from six- and eight-seaters down to intimate spots for just a couple of diners. The only really open space is around the kitchen entrance, smelling of food and rarely quiet, and by the nearby serving tables with their long buffet of the day's offerings.

''Tapestries on the smooth walls -- some faded and others newly woven -- only slightly mute the sea of sound when a meal is in full swing, but they add cheerfulness augmented by the glowlight from wall sconces and the centerpieces of each table. Still, shadows always creep along the ceiling and into the mouths of the exits -- the myriad small hallways at one end of the cavern and, at the other, the twisting tunnel to the bowl near an array of coathooks and and hatracks -- and late at night, when the glows are allowed to dim, the chamber can seem very dark indeed.

----

It's late evening, well past the initial dinner rush with only those folks that really like to linger over their plates still left at the tables. One of those is Evanthe. She's at one of the center tables, which is otherwise empty, sitting with her chair twisted to the side so that her feet can be propped up on the one adjacent. In her hands she holds some shapeless pile of fabric... and a needle. On her face, she bears an expression of complete disgust.

It's Rhey's habit to avoid the busy times in the caverns (and everywhere else), and so it's not surprising (to anyone who knows him, at least) that it's now that he chooses to slide on in, perfectly content to fill his plate with remnants. His decision to take a seat at Evanthe's table is likely deliberate: he's far enough away that he clearly doesn't ''need'' to talk to her, and yet close enough that he doesn't stand out as being on his own and thus in need of company. Perhaps he's not noticed the disgust, though, as wrapped up as he is in staking out his place and lowering his face towards his plate.

Not noticed? That will soon be remedied. Only vaguely aware of another person at her table, Evanthe may as well be talking to herself - in fact, she may be, and Rh'mis just has the misfortune to have inadvertantly. "It isn't as though I meant to rip it, darn thing was so worn through that it's amazing that it... I mean, it's not that attractive either, I can't see that /me/ stitching it back up is going to particularly improve it." She jabs the needle half-heartedly through the fabric, succeeds mainly in stabbing her thumb, which makes her hiss and does little to improve her mood. "Ridiculous." Given the rate of her progress, she just /may/ have been sitting here since before dinner was even served.

The sound of Evanthe's voice turns Rhey's attention from his dinner, at least briefly; blue eyes turn sidelong to study the other girl, his expression a mask of utter indifference that is clearly aimed to keep interest away from him. Except. ''Except''. Somewhere beyond the girl, someone else has entered the caverns, and the brownrider has clearly noticed. His words are abrupt to the point of hurried: "You're not going to do any good like that. Maybe you should just spill something on it."

Any and all comings and goings are completely beyond Evanthe's interest at this point. All that is on he rmind is the whatever-it-is she's been put in charge of mending, and... condolences... her new conversational partner. His suggestion gets her attention truly, and her eyes flick up to his face with a look of exasperation. "Well, what good would that do?" The cloth is bundled up and expressively tossed on the table - apparently she is done for hte moment. "That's how this whole thing started. I spilled something on her-" Her, mind, not /it/. "Then I had to clean it, then it ripped, just poor craftsmanship if you ask me, well worn out, and now I'm supposed to fix it. Why, why, why they think I should have anything else to do with it..." She shakes her head, crosses her arms across her chest, and /looks/ at Rh'mis. He's providing her a distraction. He's not getting out of it now. "Who are you?"

Rh'mis is now occupied in conversation, and thus entirely unavailable to... whomever it was who just entered. Of course, he may well regret this momentarily - or indeed already. Too late. "You," he says, sounding utterly dubious, "Make absolutely no sense. Seriously." But he's stuck in this conversation now, even with his dinner to try and distract him. And so, "I'm Rhey. Who are you?"

Evanthe's faces scrunches up just a touch at the accusation of senselessness, but after a moment's consideration she just nods. It's fair. She probably isn't. "Well, it doesn't matter anyways. I'll have to stitch it up, then she'll be all... arrrr, because it's not like it's going to look good." Grump, grump. She drops her feet from the chair next to her, and turns to thump her elbows down on the table and squint over at the dragonrider, giving him a proper evaluation now that her griping has drawn to a close. "That's not illuminating at all," she says to his introduction. OF course, she doesn't offer much more information in turn. "I'm Evanthe."

No, that's not helping with the sense-making. Rhey... is pretty much at the point of staring, now, though he lifts his chin and manages not to scowl. "Who said I needed to be illuminating?" he counters, evenly. "Information is power." Actually, there's something akin to 'sulky teenager' in his expression as he says that last, his eyebrows drawing together like twin thunderclouds. "Evanthe. From Crom." Not a question. "Not very good with a needle, are you."

Then they'll stare at each other. Stare and sulk at each other. "Didn't say you had to be, just said you weren't," Evanthe points out archly, playing a that game of pedantry that's fun for no one. "Knowledge is power?" She snorts. "You an evil mastermind in disguise or something?" The information he gleaned about /her/ gets an instant look of suspicion, and she mulls on it for a minute. Going back over her conversation with herself. Did she mention... nope, and she's just foolish enough to bite. "How'd you know that?" Pause. "Where are you from?" Pause. A dark glower is thrown towards the crumpled garment. "I'm shit with a needle. You?"

Teenagers! So useless. "If I were an evil mastermind in disguise, I'd disguise my intentions much better," Rhey points out, dismissively, not bothering to disguise the disdain he obviously feels. He pauses, as if deciding whether to actually give her any information, or hold it over her, perhaps, all smug and self-righteous. Ultimately, however, he explains: "You sound like you're from Crom. It's in the vowels." Or maybe the consonants. In contrast, ''his'' accent is almost too neutral: he sounds like he could come from anywhere, or possibly nowhere. "Around," he says. "We're all High Reachian now, don't you know?" He sounds bitter.

"And I was using hyperbole to make fun of your dramatic pronouncement," Evanthe says belligerently - she's not going to go and let someone talk down to her without going and doing it right back - that's how healthy relationships get started, right? His explanation about her accent gets a disgruntled sort of snort, and she leans back in her chair. "Fine. Good trick," she says - and don't think she doesn't try to play it back on him, but indeed, comes up with nothing. That tone at the end though, that perks her interest. "Woo, yeah, weyr pride," she says very convincingly. "Don't like it here?"

"Big word for a little girl," says Rhey. He stabs his fork at a piece of tuber, mashing it rather than actually making any effort to eat; eating is clearly overrated, making him rather an unusual teenage boy. "It doesn't matter whether I like it here or not," he tells her, looking at his food rather than the blonde. "I can't leave." A carrot gets mashed into the tuber, gravy sloshed over the top of it. Very serious business.

Evanthe bristles. It's noticeable, really, the way she tenses up. If she had fur it would be standing on end. "I'm /not/ a little girl," she says sharply. "And how old are you, anyway? Can't be much older'n me." She scowls fiercely at the tabletop, arms tight crossed over her chest - but despite her piquedness she still persists in conversing. Distraction, after all, so she doesn't have to go back to doing what she was doing. "Didn't ask if it mattered, just asked if you did. And why not? Why can't you leave? Doesn't look like you have armed guards following you around, evil mastermind."

It's noticeable, and certainly noticed, though Rhey's expression barely shifts. "You're still littler than me." Trust a short man to pay attention to these things. As seems to be his wont, he bypasses the question about his age, focusing instead upon that last question, which does rather seem to be an overwhelmingly important piece of the puzzle. This time, he really does scowl. Something about the mention of armed guards has him flinching, too, despite himself. "Dragonriders," he announces, "Live in Weyrs. Whether they damn well want to or not."

For such a secretive guy, he's being altogether too interesting to escape curiosity. Evanthe is examining him again now, lips pursed, and has for the moment abandoned the ''little'' argument. "Why?" she asks again, this time with a note of actual interest rather than just being a general pain-in-the-buttedness. "Why do they /have/ to? And, for that matter, why this one? Dragonriders transfer, don't they?" She frowns. "Wait, you're a rider? What's that like?"

"I don't know, they just do." Rhey walked into this, and now that he's stuck under the headlights of Evanthe's questioning, he is very clearly regretting it. "Why would some other Weyr be any better? What's the fucking point?" The brownrider shoves his plate away from him, now, letting it slide dangerously close to the other side of the table. "It's a pain in the ass. ''He'' is a pain in the ass. That's what it's like."

"Why would anywhere else be better either?" Evanthe persists, as persistant people are wont to do, completely ignoring his obvious reluctance to talk about it. "Everywhere's the bloody same." Are they agreeing? Arguing? So hard to tell. Something about that last answer seems, improbably, to please her. There's a flicker of a smile that lightens that sullen expression, if only for a moment. "Well. That's honest."

Rh'mis studies Evanthe, now, making no bones about it: he steeples his fingers, then uses them to create a bridge for his chin to rest upon. "I used to have purpose," he says, coolly. "And now I don't." It would no doubt help if he explained that further, but he doesn't seem inclined to do so. How unsurprising. "You asked. I told. I'm allegedly an unusual case, though."

Evanthe straightens unconsciously under the blatant scrutiny, lifting her chin just a touch, all little automatic gestures to try to make herself look a little less... small. She doesn't buy his complaint, though. It's obvious, see, in the wrinkling of her nose. "If you had purpose before, why can't you have the same purpose now? Thought riders were allowed to do... crafts... and stuff." Stuff and things. "'Course, I've never had any purpose, use, or general function, so. I know it damn well sucks." She shrugs, reaching absently for the rumpled cloth now that she's given enough time for her ire to wane a bit. "Didn't say it was bad, said it was honest. Not all the whimsy and flutteriness that I would have expected. I mean, even if you're an unusual case, c'mon... there's no body I've ever met that I'd /enjoy/ having around All The Time." And most probably would feel the same about her.

"I'm not a crafter." Rhey delivers that blandly, without moving his chin from his hands. "And my cover is blown." He actually smiles as he says that, like it's all some colossal joke; it's hard to tell if it's intended to be anything more than that. More serious is his, "Dragons are... different." Except that with this, too, it's hard to tell if he's actually being serious, or just poker-faced. Perhaps it's not surprising that he makes no effort to insist that Evanthe just needs to find her purpose: he just gives her a long, sad look. It's back to condescending, at least in one interpretation of it. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Evanthe narrows her eyes at that sudden change of demeanor, trying to determine just that - how serious is he, was he, and how much is he pulling her leg? Evidence inconclusive, she settles back with blatant suspicion on her face. Her response to his question of her is... well, not nearly as combative as it could be. She just looks at the sewing project in her hands, and mutters, "Fuck if I know." Something catches her eye this time, something in the direction of the inner caverns, and she gives a low groan. "I gotta go." Poor him.

Rh'mis is, no doubt, deeply disappointed. Really. Actually, the way he blinks? He's a little taken aback by Evanthe's sudden desire - or at least ''decision'' - to depart. "Oh," he says, straightening, hands dropping back to the tabletop. "Well then. Go." See if he cares!

Evanthe pushes her chair back from the table with a loud scrape, shoves the sewing bits under her arm - managing to poke herself with the needle again, prompting a muttered curse, and starts to just walk away. She stops though. Just real briefly, for a glance over her shoulder. "Hey. Thanks." Watch out, his tolerance may be construed as burgeoning friendship. "Hope things work out for you." Then a somewhat impatient voice calls her name, Evvy grits her teeth, and with a last long-suffering look at her barely willing conversational partner... she goes.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr><br><h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

}}

<comments />

File:Icon evanthe.jpg

2014-06-08T02:53:19Z

Muchly: Muchly uploaded a new version of "File:Icon evanthe.jpg"

Evanthe

2014-06-07T22:49:34Z

Muchly:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=evanthe.jpg
|position=Doer of odd-jobs
|craft=
|birthplace=Crom Hold
|mother=Vana, journeyman weaver
|father=Athen, deceased
|siblings=Vanathen (M +10, jman smith), Thenan (M +7, jman weaver), Avetha (F +5, jman harper)
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Elle Fanning
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==
Light blond hair falls straight and slightly unkempt from Evanthe’s head, brushing just past her shoulders. The elfin face it frames still has the roundness of youth, with fair skin still showing the signs of blemishes here and there at the temples and hairline. Her face is expressive with gray eyes under dark eyebrows, a rounded nose, and a mouth whose natural sweetness is to often prone to sullenness. Poor girl looks even younger than the seventeen-turn-old she is, an impression that isn’t helped much by her short stature and slight build.

She wears, on a body that is all slim straight lines, a knit gray sweater that doesn’t fit, too large for her slightness – a hand-me-down, made to serve with sleeves rolled up to her forearms. The sweater hits her mid-thigh, over fitted brown pants tucked into cracked, worn ankle boots. As just a small nod to femininity, she has a thin chain around her neck, with a small gray stone in the hollow of her throat.

== WYSK ==
Something of a screw up. At this point she generally expects to fail.

== History ==
Born at Crom Hold to a miner and a weaver, along with several siblings who are notable overachievers, only making her own lot in life a whole lot harder. She didn't particularly excel at any one thing, and anything she did take an interest in, one of her siblings could probably do better - the most notable of these sibling rivalries was with her sister, Avetha, who was the golden child.

Evanthe was close to her father and had his support, and his belief. Her mother, Vana, on the other hand, gave up on her pretty early on, with such declarations as "I don't know what we'll do with you," and "Why can't you be more like 'so-and-so'." It was therefore quite a blow when Evanthe's father died in a mining accident.

Without much reason to stay at Crom, and her other children well-established and excelling in each of their individual crafts, Evanthe and her mother popped from place to place for awhile as Vana took weaving commissions. However, shortly before Evanthe turned seventeen, her big sister achieved her journeyman's knot at Harper Hall and requested a posting at High Reaches Weyr. Privately, Evanthe suspects it has something to do with bronze riders and the success her sister has with batting her eyelashes. Whatever the reason, Vana couldn't be more proud of Avetha, and soon had dragged Evvy along with her to High Reaches, where Evanthe is now settling in.

Or... trying to.

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Residents]]

Evanthe

2014-06-07T22:39:52Z

Muchly:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=evanthe.jpg
|position=Doer of odd-jobs
|craft=
|birthplace=Crom Hold
|mother=Vana, journeyman weaver
|father=Athen, deceased
|siblings=Vanathen (brother +10t), Avetha (sister +5t)
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Elle Fanning
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==
Light blond hair falls straight and slightly unkempt from Evanthe’s head, brushing just past her shoulders. The elfin face it frames still has the roundness of youth, with fair skin still showing the signs of blemishes here and there at the temples and hairline. Her face is expressive with gray eyes under dark eyebrows, a rounded nose, and a mouth whose natural sweetness is to often prone to sullenness. Poor girl looks even younger than the seventeen-turn-old she is, an impression that isn’t helped much by her short stature and slight build.

She wears, on a body that is all slim straight lines, a knit gray sweater that doesn’t fit, too large for her slightness – a hand-me-down, made to serve with sleeves rolled up to her forearms. The sweater hits her mid-thigh, over fitted brown pants tucked into cracked, worn ankle boots. As just a small nod to femininity, she has a thin chain around her neck, with a small gray stone in the hollow of her throat.

== WYSK ==
Something of a screw up. At this point she generally expects to fail.

== History ==
Born at Crom Hold to a miner and a weaver, along with several siblings who are notable overachievers, only making her own lot in life a whole lot harder. She didn't particularly excel at any one thing, and anything she did take an interest in, one of her siblings could probably do better - the most notable of these sibling rivalries was with her sister, Avetha, who was the golden child.

Evanthe was close to her father and had his support, and his belief. Her mother, Vana, on the other hand, gave up on her pretty early on, with such declarations as "I don't know what we'll do with you," and "Why can't you be more like 'so-and-so'." It was therefore quite a blow when Evanthe's father died in a mining accident.

Without much reason to stay at Crom, and her other children well-established and excelling in each of their individual crafts, Evanthe and her mother popped from place to place for awhile as Vana took weaving commissions. However, shortly before Evanthe turned seventeen, her big sister achieved her journeyman's knot at Harper Hall and requested a posting at High Reaches Weyr. Privately, Evanthe suspects it has something to do with bronze riders and the success her sister has with batting her eyelashes. Whatever the reason, Vana couldn't be more proud of Avetha, and soon had dragged Evvy along with her to High Reaches, where Evanthe is now settling in.

Or... trying to.

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Residents]]

Evanthe

2014-06-06T06:54:24Z

Muchly:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=evanthe.jpg
|position=Doer of odd-jobs
|craft=
|birthplace=Crom Hold
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=Vanathen (brother +10t), Avetha (sister +5t)
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Elle Fanning
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==
Light blond hair falls straight and slightly unkempt from Evanthe’s head, brushing just past her shoulders. The elfin face it frames still has the roundness of youth, with fair skin still showing the signs of blemishes here and there at the temples and hairline. Her face is expressive with gray eyes under dark eyebrows, a rounded nose, and a mouth whose natural sweetness is to often prone to sullenness. Poor girl looks even younger than the seventeen-turn-old she is, an impression that isn’t helped much by her short stature and slight build.

She wears, on a body that is all slim straight lines, a knit gray sweater that doesn’t fit, too large for her slightness – a hand-me-down, made to serve with sleeves rolled up to her forearms. The sweater hits her mid-thigh, over fitted brown pants tucked into cracked, worn ankle boots. As just a small nod to femininity, she has a thin chain around her neck, with a small gray stone in the hollow of her throat.

== WYSK ==
Something of a screw up. At this point she generally expects to fail.

== History ==
Born at Crom Hold to a miner and a weaver, along with several siblings who are notable overachievers, only making her own lot in life a whole lot harder. She didn't particularly excel at any one thing, and anything she did take an interest in, one of her siblings could probably do better - the most notable of these sibling rivalries was with her sister, Avetha, who was the golden child.

Evanthe was close to her father and had his support, and his belief. Her mother, Vana, on the other hand, gave up on her pretty early on, with such declarations as "I don't know what we'll do with you," and "Why can't you be more like 'so-and-so'." It was therefore quite a blow when Evanthe's father died in a mining accident.

Without much reason to stay at Crom, and her other children well-established and excelling in each of their individual crafts, Evanthe and her mother popped from place to place for awhile as Vana took weaving commissions. However, shortly before Evanthe turned seventeen, her big sister achieved her journeyman's knot at Harper Hall and requested a posting at High Reaches Weyr. Privately, Evanthe suspects it has something to do with bronze riders and the success her sister has with batting her eyelashes. Whatever the reason, Vana couldn't be more proud of Avetha, and soon had dragged Evvy along with her to High Reaches, where Evanthe is now settling in.

Or... trying to.

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

File:Icon evanthe.jpg

2014-06-06T06:44:31Z

Muchly:

File:Evanthe.jpg

2014-06-06T06:40:21Z

Muchly:

Evanthe

2014-06-06T06:39:17Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{HrwProfile |picture= |position=Doer of odd-jobs |craft= |birthplace=Crom Hold |mother= |father= |siblings=Vanathen (brother +10t), Avetha (sister +5t) |children= |friends= |..."

{{HrwProfile
|picture=
|position=Doer of odd-jobs
|craft=
|birthplace=Crom Hold
|mother=
|father=
|siblings=Vanathen (brother +10t), Avetha (sister +5t)
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Elle Fanning
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==
Light blond hair falls straight and slightly unkempt from Evanthe’s head, brushing just past her shoulders. The elfin face it frames still has the roundness of youth, with fair skin still showing the signs of blemishes here and there at the temples and hairline. Her face is expressive with gray eyes under dark eyebrows, a rounded nose, and a mouth whose natural sweetness is to often prone to sullenness. Poor girl looks even younger than the seventeen-turn-old she is, an impression that isn’t helped much by her short stature and slight build.

She wears, on a body that is all slim straight lines, a knit gray sweater that doesn’t fit, too large for her slightness – a hand-me-down, made to serve with sleeves rolled up to her forearms. The sweater hits her mid-thigh, over fitted brown pants tucked into cracked, worn ankle boots. As just a small nod to femininity, she has a thin chain around her neck, with a small gray stone in the hollow of her throat.

== WYSK ==
Something of a screw up. At this point she generally expects to fail.

== History ==
Born at Crom Hold to a miner and a weaver, along with several siblings who are notable overachievers, only making her own lot in life a whole lot harder. She didn't particularly excel at any one thing, and anything she did take an interest in, one of her siblings could probably do better - the most notable of these sibling rivalries was with her sister, Avetha, who was the golden child.

Evanthe was close to her father and had his support, and his belief. Her mother, Vana, on the other hand, gave up on her pretty early on, with such declarations as "I don't know what we'll do with you," and "Why can't you be more like 'so-and-so'." It was therefore quite a blow when Evanthe's father died in a mining accident.

Without much reason to stay at Crom, and her other children well-established and excelling in each of their individual crafts, Evanthe and her mother popped from place to place for awhile as Vana took weaving commissions. However, shortly before Evanthe turned seventeen, her big sister achieved her journeyman's knot at Harper Hall and requested a posting at High Reaches Weyr. Privately, Evanthe suspects it has something to do with bronze riders and the success her sister has with batting her eyelashes. Whatever the reason, Vana couldn't be more proud of Avetha, and soon had dragged Evvy along with her to High Reaches, where Evanthe is now settling in.

Or... trying to.

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

Logs:Quite Educational

2014-06-06T06:07:24Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{ Log | who = Alais, Leova | where = Infirmary, HRW | what = Alais's small circle of acquaintances expands. | when = Day 26, Month 13, Year 34 | gamedate = 2014.06.05 | quote..."

{{ Log
| who = Alais, Leova
| where = Infirmary, HRW
| what = Alais's small circle of acquaintances expands.
| when = Day 26, Month 13, Year 34
| gamedate = 2014.06.05
| quote =
| weather =
| categories =
| mentions = Madilla
| ooc =
| icons = alais.jpg
| log =
An afternoon lull has settled over the infirmary. Patients treated, and no one waiting, Alais has been left on her own for the time being with naught to do but tidy, organize, and familiarize herself with her new workspace. She's at work doing just that, presently going one by one through the neatly organized jars in the cabinets, making mental note of where everything is to be found.

One of the dragon infirmary's double doors swings open, not particularly wide, closing in a hush beneath the hand of the rusty-haired woman who enters. Rather than pass right through to the inner caverns in an illicit shortcut, however, the dragonhealer scans the cavern and then strides towards the journeyman: unhurried, without the urgency that might imply an emergency, but direct. When along the way she encounters an infirmary worker, she speaks briefly and conversationally with him before passing unquestioned.

Alais has just stepped down from the stool she was using to reach the higher shelves, and bent to make some notes on the counter. It's on a thoughtful glance up that she notices Leova's presence and progress across the room - her pen and paper are pushed swiftly to the side, and she waits with an expectant expression.

She's greeted with a smile, one that tips slightly more at one corner than the other with a certain quizzical quality. Up close, the woman might be in her late thirties, and doesn't seem to have made use of healers' lotions and potions for her skin. Or, for that matter, her hair. After a moment just to ''look'', she extends a palm to the younger woman, quiet and confident and welcoming all in one. "Journeyman Alais, hm? Well met. I'm Leova. Vrianth's. Madilla mentioned you," 'Madilla,' not 'the Weyrhealer,' "and I thought I'd look in from next door." There's no bracelet on that wrist, her russet sweater's sleeves pushed high enough up her forearms that it would have shown, nor does she wear rings.

All is noticed, observed, filed away with Alais's gentle, interested gaze as the older woman approaches, and as they exchange that moment of mutual evaluation. She reaches her hand out to take Leova's in graceful gesture with a firm grip, and a smile at the warm greeting. "Well met indeed, Vrianth's Leova, it is a pleasure." The mention of next door earns a glance in just that direction, with a noticeable look of interest widening her eyes. "Then you're a dragonhealer, I suppose? I admit I'm fascinated by the idea. I've done very little reading on the subject."

"I have that honor. Not full-time, Vrianth wouldn't have it," and that smoky voice of Leova's has shaded rueful. "Still. We get by. You're welcome to take up some studies as you like. Quite a few systems cross over, and our infirmaries do quite a bit of collaborative work. Have you covered much about working with riders in particular, yet?"

"Very little," Alais replies, a tone in her voice implying regret at the lack of knowledge - or, at least, how it seems to her. "They covered some measure of it cursorily before I came, to try and ready me, but it still seems... frankly, braffling." There's no hiding her curiosity, plain in her face and dark eyes. "How much does it affect the dragons themselves when their riders are injured?"

Leova's are amber, intent. Pleased, perhaps, at ''something''. A layperson might adopt a somber tone, but hers is matter-of-fact: "Quite a bit, can be. S'why control is so important for a rider. Minor things, not so much, but if worry and anxiety and pain bleed through," as it were, "most all dragons are troubled too. Which bleeds back to the rider, which oft makes things ''worse'', if you catch my drift. "

Alais nods thoughtfully, abandoning her usual impeccable posture to lean against the counter. She absently twists at the loose pieces of hair at her neck, while considering this information, this interaction between dragon and rider. "So odd," she muses quietly. "Like mirrors reflecting themselves. It's difficult to fathom." She looks back up to Leova, with a faint smile on her lips. "I expect I may be picking your brain as I settle in here, if it isn't objectionable to you. This is all quite..." Ah, the search for a word to describe it. After a pause, she settles for the vague, but descriptive, "Different."

"Aye." For all three, perhaps. "I'm there more days in the seven than not, one shift or another, so if it's not busy," the dragonhealer lifts a shoulder, lets it fall, her own slight smile returning. "U'sot," whom she might have heard by now is their senior dragonhealer, "sends his good wishes as well." Though those who know him might suspect he didn't use quite that phrasing. "You'll meet the others. Whereabouts were you assigned, before?"

Alais nods graciously, not knowing enough about U'sot to think anything amiss with his welcome. "Everyone has been quite friendly and accomodating. Madilla seems like a lovely person as well, and I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance. Before this I was at the hall. My first posting, and I suppose an odd choice... prior to the hall I was holdborn," she says, a touch dryly, as though the fact wouldn't be obvious enough without her pointing it out. "And I suppose it would have made more sense to return to one, but... I had reasons. I thought it would be quite educational, if nothing else."

"Can't argue with educational," Leova says, dry in her turn. Nor does she pry further into those reasons. "She is that, Madilla. Don't know as you could have a better mentor for a place like this. If she hasn't already, ask her to tell her story someday, hm? If you're so inclined." She doesn't glance towards her own infirmary's doors, but, "Meantime, reckon I shouldn't keep either of us further. 'Less you've a last question for me?"

"I'll do that," Alais promises, and offers another warm smile as the dragonhealer begins to make her good-byes. "No questions at the moment, just a thank you for stopping by. It is nice to have one less stranger to contend with," she says, with a breath of soft laughter. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Leova."

"Likewise." Leova's smile has deepened in return, and now she departs.

{{#ifexist: Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}} | <hr><hr><br><h2>Comments</h2>{{Logs_talk:{{BASEPAGENAME}}}} |<hr><hr>}}

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File:Icon alais.jpg

2014-06-05T16:29:14Z

Muchly:

Alais

2014-06-03T05:49:59Z

Muchly:

{{HrwProfile
|picture=rp.png
|position=Journeyman Healer
|craft=Healercraft
|birthplace=High Reaches coverage area
|mother=Alanna
|father= Lisarion
|siblings= Seven sisters
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Rosamund Pike
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

Perfect posture gives this graceful woman some presence, for all that she's slight of build and stature. Alais's hair is blond so pale as to seem near white, swept up from her slender neck into an elegant bundle of twists and curls, seemingly held there by nothing more than hope. Not a hair strays from its place, even the few tendrils that curl down her neck seem to be put there by art rather than chance. The paleness of her porcelain complexion contrasts dramatically with the darkness of her eyes, a gray so deep as to almost be black. She bears a sweetness of expression that implies naivety, though as they say, still waters run deep.

Her slim form is dressed modestly - a pale blue dress with long sleeves, and a neckline that exposes her collarbone from one shoulder to the other, but dips only slightly lower from there. It's a well made garment, though the design is simple; sewn from lightweight fabric, it's fitted close in the bodice to her narrow waist, and from there the skirts are loose. She wears high heels, plain brown, to add a little height - as hers barely exceeds five feet. In defense against the cold, a thick, finely knit brown shawl is wrapped around her shoulders.

== WYSK ==

== History ==

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]

File:Rp.png

2014-06-03T05:45:57Z

Muchly: PB for Alais

PB for Alais

Alais

2014-06-03T05:40:16Z

Muchly: Created page with "{{HrwProfile |picture= |position=Journeyman Healer |craft=Healercraft |birthplace=High Reaches coverage area |mother=Alanna |father= Lisarion |siblings= Seven sisters |childre..."

{{HrwProfile
|picture=
|position=Journeyman Healer
|craft=Healercraft
|birthplace=High Reaches coverage area
|mother=Alanna
|father= Lisarion
|siblings= Seven sisters
|children=
|friends=
|playedby=Rosamund Pike
|livejournal=}}

== Description ==

Perfect posture gives this graceful woman some presence, for all that she's slight of build and stature. Alais's hair is blond so pale as to seem near white, swept up from her slender neck into an elegant bundle of twists and curls, seemingly held there by nothing more than hope. Not a hair strays from its place, even the few tendrils that curl down her neck seem to be put there by art rather than chance. The paleness of her porcelain complexion contrasts dramatically with the darkness of her eyes, a gray so deep as to almost be black. She bears a sweetness of expression that implies naivety, though as they say, still waters run deep.

Her slim form is dressed modestly - a pale blue dress with long sleeves, and a neckline that exposes her collarbone from one shoulder to the other, but dips only slightly lower from there. It's a well made garment, though the design is simple; sewn from lightweight fabric, it's fitted close in the bodice to her narrow waist, and from there the skirts are loose. She wears high heels, plain brown, to add a little height - as hers barely exceeds five feet. In defense against the cold, a thick, finely knit brown shawl is wrapped around her shoulders.

== WYSK ==

== History ==

== Relationships ==

== RP Logs ==

{{RP Logs | name = {{BASEPAGENAME}} | columns = 3 }}

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

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

{{Icons}}

{{HRW}}

[[category:Characters]]
[[category:High Reaches Weyr]]
[[category:High Reaches Area]]
[[category:Greater Pern]]