NorCon MUSH - User contributions [en]

Main Page

2016-03-01T06:22:55Z

Rose:

__NOCACHE__
__NOTOC__{{Boxes
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|box-heading=Welcome to NorConMUSH!
|box-content=Pern, the third planet from the star Rukbat, was colonized by settlers from a far-future Earth seeking a less technologically-dependent existence. The ideals of the colonists were upset by the coming of Thread, a mindless space organism that eats everything it touches that isn't metal, stone or water. Currently set on Pern's northern continent in the Tenth Interval, NorConMush explores the fallout from a recent Comet Pass, an unexpected return of Thread ten turns into what was expected to be 200 turns of Threadfree skies. Our timeline originally picked up from the end of "The White Dragon" where a non-functional AIVAS was discovered and relegated to the dust heap of history. As such the events that took place in ATWoP have not occurred and our Pern continues to struggle with the cycle of Passes and Intervals and the push and pull of politics and social change that it entails. }}

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|box-heading=Quick Statistics
|box-content=In the past 30 days...
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Vignette]] |format=count}}''' vignettes posted
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In the past year...
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-365 day}}]] [[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
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* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
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Main Page

2016-03-01T06:10:28Z

Rose:

__NOCACHE__
__NOTOC__{{Boxes
|box-width=12
|box-color=danger
|box-heading=Welcome to NorConMUSH!
|box-content=Pern, the third planet from the star Rukbat, was colonized by settlers from a far-future Earth seeking a less technologically-dependent existence. The ideals of the colonists were upset by the coming of Thread, a mindless space organism that eats everything it touches that isn't metal, stone or water. Currently set on Pern's northern continent in the Tenth Interval, NorConMush explores the fallout from a recent Comet Pass, an unexpected return of Thread ten turns into what was expected to be 200 turns of Threadfree skies. Our timeline originally picked up from the end of "The White Dragon" where a non-functional AIVAS was discovered and relegated to the dust heap of history. As such the events that took place in ATWoP have not occurred and our Pern continues to struggle with the cycle of Passes and Intervals and the push and pull of politics and social change that it entails.

 The game is currently down for some SQL diagnostics. It should be back shortly.}}

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|box-content=In the past 30 days...
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Vignette]] |format=count}}''' vignettes posted
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* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-365 day}}]] [[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
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* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
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|box-footer=More statistics available [[Statistics|here]]!
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Main Page

2016-03-01T06:10:15Z

Rose:

__NOCACHE__
__NOTOC__{{Boxes
|box-width=12
|box-color=danger
|box-heading=Welcome to NorConMUSH!
|box-content=Pern, the third planet from the star Rukbat, was colonized by settlers from a far-future Earth seeking a less technologically-dependent existence. The ideals of the colonists were upset by the coming of Thread, a mindless space organism that eats everything it touches that isn't metal, stone or water. Currently set on Pern's northern continent in the Tenth Interval, NorConMush explores the fallout from a recent Comet Pass, an unexpected return of Thread ten turns into what was expected to be 200 turns of Threadfree skies. Our timeline originally picked up from the end of "The White Dragon" where a non-functional AIVAS was discovered and relegated to the dust heap of history. As such the events that took place in ATWoP have not occurred and our Pern continues to struggle with the cycle of Passes and Intervals and the push and pull of politics and social change that it entails.

 br>The game is currently down for some SQL diagnostics. It should be back shortly.}}

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{{Boxes
|box-width=12
|box-color=warning
|box-heading=Quick Statistics
|box-content=In the past 30 days...
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Vignette]] |format=count}}''' vignettes posted
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-30 day}}]] [[Type::Update]] |format=count}}''' updates posted
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In the past year...
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-365 day}}]] [[Type::Log]] |format=count}}''' logs posted
* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Has date::>{{#timel:Y.m.d|-365 day}}]] [[Type::Vignette]] |format=count}}''' vignettes posted
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* There have been '''{{#ask:[[Type::Update]] |format=count}}''' updates posted
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|?#
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|box-footer=More statistics available [[Statistics|here]]!
}}

File:Icon d'aeo.jpg

2016-02-28T16:18:00Z

Rose: Rose moved page File:Icon daemon.jpg to File:Icon d'aeo.jpg: Text replace - "daemon" to "d'aeo"

File:Icon daemon.jpg

2016-02-28T16:18:00Z

Rose: Rose moved page File:Icon daemon.jpg to File:Icon d'aeo.jpg: Text replace - "daemon" to "d'aeo"

#REDIRECT [[File:Icon d'aeo.jpg]]

Breirande/Mentions

2016-02-28T16:10:28Z

Rose: Redirected page to Br'and/Mentions

#REDIRECT [[Br'and/Mentions]]

Br'and/Mentions

2016-02-28T16:09:53Z

Rose: Rose moved page Br'andMentions to Br'and/Mentions without leaving a redirect

Br'and/Mentions

2016-02-28T16:09:23Z

Rose: Rose moved page Breirande/Mentions to Br'andMentions

Breirande/Mentions

2016-02-28T16:09:23Z

Rose: Rose moved page Breirande/Mentions to Br'andMentions

#REDIRECT [[Br'andMentions]]

Ay'zan/Mentions

2016-02-28T16:08:20Z

Rose: Rose moved page Ninwayzan/Mentions to Ay'zan/Mentions

Ninwayzan/Mentions

2016-02-28T16:08:20Z

Rose: Rose moved page Ninwayzan/Mentions to Ay'zan/Mentions

#REDIRECT [[Ay'zan/Mentions]]

Dragon:Zvaezdiyth

2016-02-28T02:52:02Z

Rose:

{{NorConDragon
|egg credit=Mirinda
|dragon credit=Dahlia, D'vro, edits by N'rov and Suireh
|puppeteer=Dahlia
|body=== Cream and Egg ==

Smooth and pale, the suggestion of softness prevails upon this egg though surely it is as solid as its siblings to the touch. Whorls of faint, warm cream dapple their way about elongated curves, unevenly patterning the egg's shell, whilst flecks of something darker-- black and tiny-- scatter themselves here and there as if they have been churned through.

''Cream and Egg briefly defies gravity as it leaves the sands fully for a brief moment after what must have been a monumental effort from the dragon within. As the creamy shell slaps back onto golden sand, the black flecks prove to be shatter points and the egg explodes on impact. In its wake is left a constellation-kissed bronze, dripping egg goo onto the sands, his look distinctly vexed. Ew. Goo.''

== Entangle the Stars Bronze ==

Kinetic energy radiates through this dragonet's youthfully exaggerated proportions, as though it might set the nebula of his hide-- its hazy clouds of light and contrastingly swart shadows obscuring a burnished copper-bronze backdrop-- into full-fledged and characteristically unpredictable motion. Gravity might well have drawn the darkest hues towards the central part of his frame, leaving his extremities bright and nearly golden at the tips of headknobs and claws, but for the billow of deep, dusted rust across his wingsails that escapes even that. Clusters of stars stipple pale constellations across his top-line, traversing from his muzzle over his neckridges and wingspars, all the way down to the spade of his tail.

== Temperament ==

Zvaezdiyth is an unpredictable force of nature. From your first moments together, D'aeo, you will be entangled in the great mystery that is your stubborn, elusive, magnificent and enchanting lifemate. He is at once your good luck and your bad; never will you need fear discovery again for he will be your guardian until the end of his days. Within him is a profound depth, an unparalleled appreciation for the universe and a vast well of emotion often too deep and mysterious for words. Vigilant, awe-inspiring and quirky, your Zvaezdiyth will doubtlessly enthrall and baffle you in equal parts.

Weyrlinghood will present you with a number of unique challenges, but worrying whether or not your lifemate will be a problem for your many secrets will not be one of them; despite the bronze's unpredictable and often wild nature. Zvaezdiyth possesses an innate understanding of the nature of secrets, though he's certain his decision to claim you has, forever, safeguarde your life and brought you luck without end (though some might argue that luck could also be spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E, and have the same meaning with him).

What trials you may face, however, begin in those days after the hatching, where you'll be assured a full night's sleep as your dragon fails to do more than twitch uncomfortably at both itchiness and starvation, only for both of you to wake and be faced with cracked hide or ''ravenous'', near vomitous, hunger that needs to be rectified ''now''. NOW. And given he (and you by extension) are starving, it may be hard to realize when he's actually sated, leading to an afternoon of tummy troubles.

Most attuned to his true nature in the outdoors, exploring the fascinating beauty and power of nature, the first half turn of weyrlinghood will be an exercise in ''your'' patience as ''his'' impatience at being ''indoors'' learning will anxiously vibrate to his (and thus, your) very core. Theoreticals are not for him, and sitting still listening to someone else speak (or lecture) will never be one of his strong suits. Do! Hunt! Fly! He wants to ''play''!

Zvaezdiyth finds his clutchmates both fascinating and baffling. Kahvaroeth's unwavering sense of duty to others, without exception, is a mystery. Riyoth's studiousness seems to draw out the desire to poke the proverbial bear to incite some reaction, though an unlikely camaraderie might grow. And for all her spoiled tendencies, his little sister, Yuanth, might become a favorite with her amusing quirks and predictable unpredictable nature. Social and playful in nature, hints of his future self surface in his sporadic need to find solace on his own, sometimes even without you or with you in companionable silence.

High-energy in youth eventually evens into something akin to laid-back, though there are always those moments of unpredictable activity and energy. The foolhardy might call it apathy. You, however, and those dragons Zvaezdiyth calls intimates, will understand that it is merely a maturation of his exploratory nature. He can observe just as well still, perched up high or down low, night or day: listening, observing, and ultimately hoarding nuggets of information his uncanny brain will be able to merge together into a bigger, more delightfully delicious picture of what he ''perceives'' are the secret machinations of the Weyr.

For all that his responses can be peculiar, << If you don't know where you want to go, D'aeo, it matters not which path you take, >> he is a wonderful listener with an uncanny wisdom about things one might swear he has no way of knowing. One such is his seeming innate sense of when you truly need him, whether for company, comfort or reassurance; when he's needed, truly, he's there for you-- you're ''his'' after all-- though his definition of when that is may vary from what you expect. However, this instinct doesn't seem to temper his sometimes erratic wants on your attention, or the sudden need to be 'on his own'.

It's in flight that Zvaezdiyth's tendency toward tactile comforts becomes especially apparent. The urgency of his chase is to touch, to twine, to curl himself so close to the object of his affection that they might as well be one. He's the sort to linger after a flight, even if you might get yourself gone from the winning bed quickly. It's just so comfortable there with his chosen green or gold that he's unlikely to be budged til he's good and ready. It's no surprise that he's a devoted clutchsire, and that he wishes you to be involved as well, sometimes to the opposition of the clutch's dam or her rider. He's a proud papa in the moment and then for a few months afterwards until the immediate memory of fatherhood inevitably fades.

Never simple, not quite straightforward or inclined to do things he doesn't want to, Zvaezdiyth compensates for the little and larger trials with a devotion that transcends simple speech. Even in those moments he needs time to himself and seems unreachable, and then in those moments he seems social you can't get a word in edgewise, there'll remain an undercurrent of absolute ''there''ness. His presence is at once familiar and otherworldly, haunting and ''home''; he is a brilliant star in the tangled web of life and whether you choose to take him as a guide or simply for the beautiful, fantastic creature he is, there can be little doubt that with a lifemate like Zvaezdiyth you find yourself lucky indeed!

== Public Impression Message ==

A twitching tail sweeping the sand betrays Entangle the Stars Bronze's impatience. Decisions aren't to be made lightly. This candidate or that? Her? No, him? It might seem a portent of doom that he's so still for so long with his gaze finally angled and fixed on a tall, muscular young man and those in his periphery. At last, a single forepaw draws up in what might be a beckoning gesture to encourage the man across the distance that separates them. That seems to signal decision, for rainbows swirl swiftly in the bronze's many-faceted eyes and Impression is made.

== Private Impression Message ==

The heat of the sands fades, plunging you into the consuming darkness of night. It might be only moments or it might be the age of the world that ticks by before there is one brilliant spark in that darkness, then another, and another, until the outline of Entangle the Stars Bronze's frame with his single upraised and beckoning forepaw is lit and slowly the light of the hatching cavern fills in the hazy outline. The bronze standing before you wishes you to see him, to ''go'' to him, his head drawn tall, his eyes sharp in his regard of you. He doesn't need words to claim you, that much is obvious in his rainbow regard. Yet, to you, he affords a word: you are that important. << D'aeo. >> In the sound of your name is the wonder of the universe, the secrets Zvaezdiyth innately knows and may never share. This first touch might overwhelm, so full is it of a sense of who this dragon is; did you believe in magic? In fate? In luck? If not before, you may well now: Zvaezdiyth is everything you could have wanted and ''more''.

== Mindvoice ==

Zvaezdiyth's mindvoice is a thing of awesome depth and variety; nothing is limited to one so shrewd. There are times when words are quite hard to come by, though he might use rich images, with a full complement of scents, sensations and feelings in those moments. Those that come easiest to him in this way and are most vividly produced are that which is natural: from the flicker of flames, ripples on the lake, and most prolifically, the twinkling stars in their infinite patterns. In social moments, words come easily, though often selected for the most meaningful effect; his mental voice a deep, rich thing that speaks of luxury and leisure at the best of times and becomes something uncomfortably grating at the worst.

== Itchyspots ==

It will become quickly apparent that there are spots Zvaezdiyth ''likes'' to have rubbed and scratched by nimble human hands, and others that he decidedly does not. His chin is a favorite, but his eyeridges and the base of his tail are more difficult for him to finesse on his own, so expect to spend a good deal of time helping him out. His paws are another matter entirely, even when he complains that they itch, even when they need to be oiled, he does not like them being touched. Then there are spots that he'll gladly welcome attention until he suddenly changes his mind; Faranth help you if you're too slow to stop scratching his belly when he does.

== Suggested Adult Description ==

Channeled energy radiates through this observant bronze's well-proportioned physique, as though it might set the nebula of his hide-- its hazy clouds of light and contrastingly swart shadows obscuring a burnished copper-bronze backdrop-- into full-fledged motion if only he willed it. Gravity might well have drawn the darkest hues towards the central part of his frame, leaving his extremities bright and nearly golden at the tips of headknobs and claws, but for the billow of deep, dusted rust across his wingsails that escapes even that. Clusters of stars stipple pale constellations across his refined top-line, traversing from his muzzle over his neckridges and wingspars, all the way down to the spade of his tail.

== Dragon Inspiration ==

D'aeo, your Zvaezdiyth is inspired by a mashup of many things you mentioned in your application (the elements, the natural world, an old world feel, and elements of cats, magic and folklore). As it happens, cats have a rich history being involved with magic and have varied and interesting roles in folklore. Among the sources pulled to make up Zvaezdiyth's personality are: cats as a witch's familiar (references: [http://www.moonsmuses.com/catlore.html here] and [https://www.petcentric.com/10-11-2013/cats-and-witches-the-origins-of-magical-felines here], cats in folklore ([http://www.onmarkproductions.com/html/maneki-neko.shtml Japanese], [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yule_Cat Icelandic], [http://freyjafirst.com/Cats.aspx Norse], [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat_s%C3%ACth Irish], [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barong_(mythology) Balinese]), cats in the stars ([http://www.space.com/963-find-felines-cats-night-sky.html constellations] and [http://vietnamesezodiac.com/vietnamese-year-of-the-cat/ Vietnamese astrology]) and a few references to famous cats (particularly [http://womanita.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/cheshire-cat-quotes.jpg this one] and [https://youtu.be/PKffm2uI4dk this one]). Of particular importance to the shaping of Zvaezdiyth is the Japanese concept of [https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/9d/fc/9e/9dfc9ebe55b98ee42b50757620cb1251.jpg yūgen]. The name Zvaezdiyth is derived from the Ukranian and Russian words for feline, cat and stars with the addition of the 'ae' you said you liked, and as a bonus it shares the '-iyth' ending shared with his dam.

'''Egg Inspiration:''' Home made vanilla ice cream. Cooking is a handicraft, right?
}}

Ninwayzan

2016-02-28T02:45:23Z

Rose: Redirected page to Ay'zan

#REDIRECT [[Ay'zan]]

Breirande

2016-02-28T02:44:24Z

Rose: Redirected page to Br'and

#REDIRECT [[Br'and]]

Daemon

2016-02-28T02:41:42Z

Rose: Redirected page to D'aeo

#REDIRECT [[D'aeo]]

Dragon:Yuanth

2016-02-28T02:37:54Z

Rose:

{{NorConDragon
|egg credit=Ka'ge
|dragon credit=Olivya, N'rov, edits by Suireh
|puppeteer=Olivya
|body=== Charcoal and Graphite Egg ==

Smudges are like smog curling over what could have been a pure white shell on this moderately sized egg. The heaviest charcoal line is striking, cutting the egg in two halves and splitting like a crack at either end. Twigs sprout from it further, the striations of it dusty and uneven, as if done by an unsteady hand or by the random perfection of nature itself. Over the widest breadth of the egg, what might be a rounded head and stark triangular beak grow from feathered sketchiness giving the likeness of some sort of bird perched upon the prominent line. Streaks create trenches of darkness within the image, swept lighter upwards and around, fading from black to grey to the haziest of off-whites to blend all together as one.

''The likeness of the bird etched in the colors of the Charcoal and Graphite Egg is pierced cleanly through its imaginary heart with one sharp dragonet claw from within. Then the egg begins rocking again as the hatchling inside continues the fight to tear apart the egg that cages her inside as the eyes of the world watch her. It is a luminescent green that emerges victoriously, if exhausted, from the confrontation as she tumbles out of her shell, setting herself free into the uncertain world.''

== As True As An Arrow Green ==

She isn't small, for all that she's green: all elongated curves rounded by baby fat, the more remarkable for the spirited way she holds her head and the brilliance of her hue. That luminescent green, spilt along her generous torso and over high arched and gently sloped back haunches, might appear grassy in another world; here, it's liquidly glossy as though just beneath the surface of a sunlit lake. A patterned braid is faint down the length of her spine, a matte relief amidst the fluid coloring, visible only in the ''right'' light. She's all the brighter for the darkness she does possess, near-mahogany shadows that stripe behind her swept-back neckridges and beneath the lithe length of her tail; dark as well are her tiny paws' claws, dark and ''pointed''.

== Temperament ==

Your Yuanth was shelled a brat, Ay'zan, but that is not the sum of her story, only the beginning. For now, yes, she is spoiled and rotten and selfish, yet with your guidance, she will become in time the true hero of her own story that she was meant to be. With maturity and experience, she will not be anything less than brave, and selfless, and smart, and kind, and honest. With you beside her, she will carve her own destiny out of the world, finding a place for herself and fighting for what she wants to see in both you and her Weyr.

The perfect moment of Impression is soon left behind for you and your green as you settle into the barracks. Yuanth may cry to you at the smallest provocation, even as early as choosing your bed that night if she doesn't get the ''exact'' one that she wants. She is picky as a dragonet, wanting her meat cut in this particular way or the oil applied ''right'' then (and no, she doesn't care that you have to go to the bathroom). She'll wake in the middle of the night, insisting a pebble is tucked somewhere midst the straw strewn over her couch and will make you either remake the entire bed (do this, pick this option), or sift through everything to make sure her resting spot is pebble and dirt free.

Her clutchmates both initially annoy and frighten her, the former when they refuse to believe and listen to every word that she says and the latter because Yuanth is simply afraid that she will say the wrong thing or make the wrong move. And she isn't wrong, your Yuanth.

Eventually, over time, Yuanth will find her bearings among her siblings, finding camaraderie in Kahvaroeth's steadfast honor and the indulgence he allows for her tempers, a little mistrust of Zvaezdiyth's erratic moods and youthful playfulness, and a grudging respect for Riyoth's natural intellect (and maybe a little jealousy that things seem ''so'' easy for him). It may take time, but she'll soon bond and perhaps even become friends with a few, though allowing anyone other than you to see her imperfections will likely always be something that is difficult for her.

She will have quite the struggle in weyrlinghood as she learns and grows into this new world, adjusting to the choice she made of you. Your first signs of what she will be will blossom under these trials, however; her refusal to give up or give in. She may be clumsy, but that only means that she will drag you out of the barracks at ridiculous hours to practice where prying eyes can't see or make you stay up late to go over drills with her. The precision she expected from you as a newly Impressed dragonpair starts to shape into a perfection that she expects of herself in all things and where natural talent may not exist, she will practice and practice some more until it ''is'' perfect.

It will all pay off in the end as she transitions from weyrlinghood into the wings, making her a better dragon and a better wingmate. All of that extra practice will make her skilled in flying, both solo and in wings, with a natural inclination to know exactly where to be and when. Fast, precise, strong; she will be any wingleader's dream green. She will also always be the first to step forward, to volunteer even if she doesn't know exactly what she is volunteering for. Despite this, Yuanth will never follow orders ''just'' because they are orders, always questioning what is best and what should be done. If there is a better way that she sees, a different strategy, she will suggest it. Unfortunately, a lesson she will have to learn, once finding her voice, is that there are ways to inspire confidence and ways that provoke defensiveness, but with your guidance, she should be able to learn how to navigate these nuanced waters of other dragons' emotions and egos.

In fact, she would make a good leader if you ever have your own ambitions for wingleader. She has a mind for it and she has the inspirational characteristics of any good leader. Even if the two of you never ride with a wingleader knot, she will always lead by example; she will always watch out for those weaker than her and stand up for what is right. She is encouraging of those who earn it, defensive against those who don't. She won't be able to stand injustice or cruelty in other dragons or humans, only dealing with people like ''that'' when it is needful.

Yuanth is a loyal dragon; this will hold true even when she feels the urge to rise to mate. When that time comes, she will tend to throw herself full-hearted into her flights, viewing it as a new romantic adventure. However, it is likely that the same dragon (or ''two'', really, with her attention and interest often being torn between) will catch her. After, too, she will remember her mate longer than most other greens, abjuring the attention of any other especially where others might be able to see. If she were to lose her mate, for any reason-- While she still has you and that is all she really needs, part of her heart might feel as if it died with him. While draconic memory is short, a lingering sadness, though she may not recall precisely ''what'' for, will come up now and then, bringing moments of reflection in her demeanor.

I hope that you are ready for the adventure ahead of you, Ay'zan; it surely is not going to be an easy one for you or for Yuanth. Whatever life throws in your path, whatever obstacles you overcome, you will do it together. And for the both of you, she will make sure that fear never shuts you down, it wakes you up.

== Public Impression Message ==

The adventure that As True As An Arrow Green has carried on with must come to an end eventually; there are, after all, only so many candidates to inspect with her thorough regard. There's the lower caverns girl paused at but walked past, and then the boy from Ruatha, who stumbles backwards and is dismissed. Then, it happens as she stops suddenly and quirks her head as if listening to something that only she can hear, before she just as quickly changes her direction with an abruptness that has her rushing off towards one last candidate. She stops in front of a baker, taking a deep breath as her eyes whirl up at him.

== Private Impression Message ==

A soft, hopeful array of whistled notes echo in your thoughts as that luminescent green stops suddenly on the sands, almost impossible to hear at first. Your vision clouds, and when it clears, sun-dappled leaves and the smell of forests and burble of clear water streams is interspersed between the more audible strains of that liltingly enticing melody. A spray of golden grains brings you to sudden reality, and there's a brilliant green standing right before you. << Ay'zan, I have been looking for you, >> is the soft, harmonious reverberation of her thoughts. But then, sudden displeasure dispels that singular moment of serenity into discordantly sharp black angles and piercing white lines, << Where were you? I am ''hungry''! >>

== Mindvoice ==

Yuanth's mindvoice is a creative collaboration between music and art. Her music is often in catching melodies, punctuated with times that she will whistle tunes to reflect her mood, whether short and sharp for angry or long and soft and sad. She also tends to be mimic others, echoing their own words and sounds back to them in her own melodies. Her art is all abstract, lines and angles, figures breaking into geometric shapes at the edges with all of them permeated by bold, contrasting colors. The actual 'tone' of your Yuanth's voice tends towards a sweeter, softer thing with the same melodic influence.

== Itchyspots ==

While Yuanth will often want to ease her growing hide in water to combat the feel of the stretching, the real spots that she will need you to attend ''all the time'' (and always ''right then'', because it will be an emergency veering on a tantrum) are her delicate paws and her calves.

== Suggested Adult Description ==

She isn't small, for all that she's green: all narrow, elongated curves, the more remarkable for the spirited way she holds her head and the brilliance of her hue. That luminescent green, spilt along her generous torso and over high arched back haunches, might appear grassy in another world; here, it's liquidly glossy as though just beneath the surface of a sunlit lake. A braid is faint down the length of her spine, a matte relief amidst the fluid coloring, visible only in the ''right'' light. She's all the brighter for the darkness she does possess, near-mahogany shadows that stripe behind her swept-back neckridges and beneath the lithe length of her tail; dark as well are her tiny paws' claws, dark and ''pointed''.

== Dragon Inspiration ==

Our dragon theme for this clutch was 'self-made', and can you guess what you got, A'yzan? Yes, self-made heroines! Your choices of Katniss and Tris paired so well with a development arch for Yuanth of Elspeth from Valdemar, with each of these three blending in to form parts of your dragon. The Brat aspect in weyrlinghood is most certainly Elspeth, while Tris is pulled in while she improves herself. With Katniss' all around awesomeness (skills and leadership abilities) pulled in for her time in the wings, with her love life as well as Tris' pulled in for the mating flights. Her name comes from http://betterthanenglish.com/yuanfen-chinese/ which I thought tied really well with the theme of your dragon, while her desc is heavily influenced by ( http://www.aquariumdomain.com/images/pl ... ulata1.jpg ) the sagittaria plant, from which Katniss draws her name.

'''Egg Inspiration:''' The abstract to ultra-realistic styles of graphite and/or charcoal art: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/23 ... 3200e7.jpg
}}

Ay'zan

2016-02-28T02:32:05Z

Rose: Rose moved page Ninwayzan to Ay'zan without leaving a redirect

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D'aeo

2016-02-28T02:30:52Z

Rose: Rose moved page Daemon to D'aeo without leaving a redirect

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Br'and

2016-02-28T02:29:23Z

Rose: Rose moved page Breirande to Br'and without leaving a redirect

{{Profile
|picture=BreirandeMain.jpg
|mother=Briealla (Jman Miner)
|father=R'oan (deceased)
|siblings=Half-brother and a half-sister (related through mother); 1 half-sister (related through father); lkely others he doesn't know of.
|children=none
|body={{wysk}}

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Dragon:Zvaezdiyth

2016-02-28T02:27:36Z

Rose:

{{NorConDragon
|egg credit=Mirinda
|dragon credit=Dahlia, D'vro, edits by N'rov and Suireh
|puppeteer=Dahlia
|body=== Cream and Egg ==

Smooth and pale, the suggestion of softness prevails upon this egg though surely it is as solid as its siblings to the touch. Whorls of faint, warm cream dapple their way about elongated curves, unevenly patterning the egg's shell, whilst flecks of something darker-- black and tiny-- scatter themselves here and there as if they have been churned through.

''Cream and Egg briefly defies gravity as it leaves the sands fully for a brief moment after what must have been a monumental effort from the dragon within. As the creamy shell slaps back onto golden sand, the black flecks prove to be shatter points and the egg explodes on impact. In its wake is left a constellation-kissed bronze, dripping egg goo onto the sands, his look distinctly vexed. Ew. Goo.''

== Entangle the Stars Bronze ==

Kinetic energy radiates through this dragonet's youthfully exaggerated proportions, as though it might set the nebula of his hide-- its hazy clouds of light and contrastingly swart shadows obscuring a burnished copper-bronze backdrop-- into full-fledged and characteristically unpredictable motion. Gravity might well have drawn the darkest hues towards the central part of his frame, leaving his extremities bright and nearly golden at the tips of headknobs and claws, but for the billow of deep, dusted rust across his wingsails that escapes even that. Clusters of stars stipple pale constellations across his top-line, traversing from his muzzle over his neckridges and wingspars, all the way down to the spade of his tail.

== Temperament ==

Zvaezdiyth is an unpredictable force of nature. From your first moments together, D'aeo, you will be entangled in the great mystery that is your stubborn, elusive, magnificent and enchanting lifemate. He is at once your good luck and your bad; never will you need fear discovery again for he will be your guardian until the end of his days. Within him is a profound depth, an unparalleled appreciation for the universe and a vast well of emotion often too deep and mysterious for words. Vigilant, awe-inspiring and quirky, your Zvaezdiyth will doubtlessly enthrall and baffle you in equal parts.

Weyrlinghood will present you with a number of unique challenges, but worrying whether or not your lifemate will be a problem for your many secrets will not be one of them; despite the bronze's unpredictable and often wild nature. Zvaezdiyth possesses an innate understanding of the nature of secrets, though he's certain his decision to claim you has, forever, safeguarde your life and brought you luck without end (though some might argue that luck could also be spelled T-R-O-U-B-L-E, and have the same meaning with him).

What trials you may face, however, begin in those days after the hatching, where you'll be assured a full night's sleep as your dragon fails to do more than twitch uncomfortably at both itchiness and starvation, only for both of you to wake and be faced with cracked hide or ''ravenous'', near vomitous, hunger that needs to be rectified ''now''. NOW. And given he (and you by extension) are starving, it may be hard to realize when he's actually sated, leading to an afternoon of tummy troubles.

Most attuned to his true nature in the outdoors, exploring the fascinating beauty and power of nature, the first half turn of weyrlinghood will be an exercise in ''your'' patience as ''his'' impatience at being ''indoors' learning will anxiously vibrate to his (and thus, your) very core. Theoreticals are not for him, and sitting still listening to someone else speak (or lecture) will never be one of his strong suits. Do! Hunt! Fly! He wants to ''play''!

Zvaezdiyth finds his clutchmates both fascinating and baffling. Kahvaroeth's unwavering sense of duty to others, without exception, is a mystery. Riyoth's studiousness seems to draw out the desire to poke the proverbial bear to incite some reaction, though an unlikely camaraderie might grow. And for all her spoiled tendencies, his little sister, Yuanth, might become a favorite with her amusing quirks and predictable unpredictable nature. Social and playful in nature, hints of his future self surface in his sporadic need to find solace on his own, sometimes even without you or with you in companionable silence.

High-energy in youth eventually evens into something akin to laid-back, though there are always those moments of unpredictable activity and energy. The foolhardy might call it apathy. You, however, and those dragons Zvaezdiyth calls intimates, will understand that it is merely a maturation of his exploratory nature. He can observe just as well still, perched up high or down low, night or day: listening, observing, and ultimately hoarding nuggets of information his uncanny brain will be able to merge together into a bigger, more delightfully delicious picture of what he ''perceives'' are the secret machinations of the Weyr.

For all that his responses can be peculiar, << If you don't know where you want to go, D'aeo, it matters not which path you take, >> he is a wonderful listener with an uncanny wisdom about things one might swear he has no way of knowing. One such is his seeming innate sense of when you truly need him, whether for company, comfort or reassurance; when he's needed, truly, he's there for you-- you're ''his'' after all-- though his definition of when that is may vary from what you expect. However, this instinct doesn't seem to temper his sometimes erratic wants on your attention, or the sudden need to be 'on his own'.

It's in flight that Zvaezdiyth's tendency toward tactile comforts becomes especially apparent. The urgency of his chase is to touch, to twine, to curl himself so close to the object of his affection that they might as well be one. He's the sort to linger after a flight, even if you might get yourself gone from the winning bed quickly. It's just so comfortable there with his chosen green or gold that he's unlikely to be budged til he's good and ready. It's no surprise that he's a devoted clutchsire, and that he wishes you to be involved as well, sometimes to the opposition of the clutch's dam or her rider. He's a proud papa in the moment and then for a few months afterwards until the immediate memory of fatherhood inevitably fades.

Never simple, not quite straightforward or inclined to do things he doesn't want to, Zvaezdiyth compensates for the little and larger trials with a devotion that transcends simple speech. Even in those moments he needs time to himself and seems unreachable, and then in those moments he seems social you can't get a word in edgewise, there'll remain an undercurrent of absolute ''there''ness. His presence is at once familiar and otherworldly, haunting and ''home''; he is a brilliant star in the tangled web of life and whether you choose to take him as a guide or simply for the beautiful, fantastic creature he is, there can be little doubt that with a lifemate like Zvaezdiyth you find yourself lucky indeed!

== Public Impression Message ==

A twitching tail sweeping the sand betrays Entangle the Stars Bronze's impatience. Decisions aren't to be made lightly. This candidate or that? Her? No, him? It might seem a portent of doom that he's so still for so long with his gaze finally angled and fixed on a tall, muscular young man and those in his periphery. At last, a single forepaw draws up in what might be a beckoning gesture to encourage the man across the distance that separates them. That seems to signal decision, for rainbows swirl swiftly in the bronze's many-faceted eyes and Impression is made.

== Private Impression Message ==

The heat of the sands fades, plunging you into the consuming darkness of night. It might be only moments or it might be the age of the world that ticks by before there is one brilliant spark in that darkness, then another, and another, until the outline of Entangle the Stars Bronze's frame with his single upraised and beckoning forepaw is lit and slowly the light of the hatching cavern fills in the hazy outline. The bronze standing before you wishes you to see him, to ''go'' to him, his head drawn tall, his eyes sharp in his regard of you. He doesn't need words to claim you, that much is obvious in his rainbow regard. Yet, to you, he affords a word: you are that important. << D'aeo. >> In the sound of your name is the wonder of the universe, the secrets Zvaezdiyth innately knows and may never share. This first touch might overwhelm, so full is it of a sense of who this dragon is; did you believe in magic? In fate? In luck? If not before, you may well now: Zvaezdiyth is everything you could have wanted and ''more''.

== Mindvoice ==

Zvaezdiyth's mindvoice is a thing of awesome depth and variety; nothing is limited to one so shrewd. There are times when words are quite hard to come by, though he might use rich images, with a full complement of scents, sensations and feelings in those moments. Those that come easiest to him in this way and are most vividly produced are that which is natural: from the flicker of flames, ripples on the lake, and most prolifically, the twinkling stars in their infinite patterns. In social moments, words come easily, though often selected for the most meaningful effect; his mental voice a deep, rich thing that speaks of luxury and leisure at the best of times and becomes something uncomfortably grating at the worst.

== Itchyspots ==

It will become quickly apparent that there are spots Zvaezdiyth ''likes'' to have rubbed and scratched by nimble human hands, and others that he decidedly does not. His chin is a favorite, but his eyeridges and the base of his tail are more difficult for him to finesse on his own, so expect to spend a good deal of time helping him out. His paws are another matter entirely, even when he complains that they itch, even when they need to be oiled, he does not like them being touched. Then there are spots that he'll gladly welcome attention until he suddenly changes his mind; Faranth help you if you're too slow to stop scratching his belly when he does.

== Suggested Adult Description ==

Channeled energy radiates through this observant bronze's well-proportioned physique, as though it might set the nebula of his hide-- its hazy clouds of light and contrastingly swart shadows obscuring a burnished copper-bronze backdrop-- into full-fledged motion if only he willed it. Gravity might well have drawn the darkest hues towards the central part of his frame, leaving his extremities bright and nearly golden at the tips of headknobs and claws, but for the billow of deep, dusted rust across his wingsails that escapes even that. Clusters of stars stipple pale constellations across his refined top-line, traversing from his muzzle over his neckridges and wingspars, all the way down to the spade of his tail.

== Dragon Inspiration ==

D'aeo, your Zvaezdiyth is inspired by a mashup of many things you mentioned in your application (the elements, the natural world, an old world feel, and elements of cats, magic and folklore). As it happens, cats have a rich history being involved with magic and have varied and interesting roles in folklore. Among the sources pulled to make up Zvaezdiyth's personality are: cats as a witch's familiar, cats in folklore (Japanese, Icelandic, Norse, Irish, Balinese), cats in the stars (constellations and Vietnamese astrology) and a few references to famous cats. Of particular importance to the shaping of Zvaezdiyth is the Japanese concept of yugen. The name Zvaezdiyth is derived from the Ukranian and Russian words for feline, cat and stars with the addition of the 'ae' you said you liked, and as a bonus it shares the '-iyth' ending shared with his dam.

'''Egg Inspiration:''' Home made vanilla ice cream. Cooking is a handicraft, right?
}}

Dragon:Yuanth

2016-02-28T02:26:32Z

Rose:

Dragon:Riyoth

2016-02-28T02:25:56Z

Rose:

{{NorConDragon
|egg credit=A'sran
|dragon credit=Olivya, N'rov, edits by Suireh
|puppeteer=N'rov
|body=== Midas' Puzzle Egg ==

Worn away in several spots, this egg's golden shell bears inky smudges, coarse lines, and long scrapes... unless it's actually black and patched with smatterings of striking vintage gold. It is an optical illusion that has no end, but however one sees it, it can be a mesmerizing egg, from its large size and thickness through the middle, down to the antiqued quality of its curved shell.

''Some of that blackness in Midas' Puzzle Egg proves that it isn't actually black at all, as that darkness seems to ''move'' from within that ever thickening middle and widening crevices. The hatchling is precise in their movements, however, as it works at the cracks until the egg falls apart to reveal that darkness as brown. Once he has achieved his new state, freed from the shell, then his attention turns to meditate on the vast array of sands and Candidates before him.''

== The Master Within Brown ==

Coltish to a fault, this tall, dark brown has a whimsical air about him from his muzzle's dished profile all the way down, and ''down'' to his small paws. Those extremities of his are even darker than the rest, as though he'd waded hip-high in ink and trailed his tail behind him too, even splashing it up the spars of his all too expansive wings. It's a second look that might find subtler variations, the depth polished away in his softer places to tawny warmth: the velvety curve of his muzzle and the vulnerable indentation behind his jaw, and indistinct dapplings along his underbelly and the fine sails of his wings like so many ghostly fingerprints. He has a lot to grow into, not just his bony frame, before he can approach anything like grace; in the meantime he carries himself with slow, careful movements.

== Temperament ==

If you were looking for direction and guidance when you stepped onto the sands, Catling, you have found the perfect dragon from the moment Riyoth settled directly into your heart. Some dragons might find this beast strange, given his meditative reserve, and the way that he seems to carry himself apart from the rest of the Weyr. Some might even consider him aloof and unapproachable initially. But for you, you can always find the answer that you seek in his wisdom, if you are willing to take the time to search the depths of your shared souls to find it buried there.

You might find that the following Turn of weyrlinghood will go much smoother for you than your fellow weyrlings, Catling; or at least, your dragon is a much easier dragon to deal with, even while you deal with the other struggles of settling into your new life as a dragonrider. You will soon learn that Riyoth is an intelligently sharp dragon, able to see overarching patterns and examine pieces to be put together. He will quickly figure out how one lesson builds on another, learning faster than most of his clutchmates. And if you are not quite as fast as he? Well, he will guide you and help you through with almost eternal patience, even if you cannot always understand the cryptic way his mind has grasped the lessons.

His patience extends to his siblings, though some, like Yuanth, may not take to guidance so well at first, and the larger egos amongst his clutchmates might have some difficulty ''understanding'' Riyoth's ways. The calm. The mastership of physical trials without complaint. ''How'' does he do that? He is unperturbed by Zvaezdiyth's attempts to cajole mischief out of him, though he might allow a more age-appropriate response to escape now and again. He is, after all, quite young in the scheme of things. There is more he has in common with Kahvaroeth, with the latter's duty-bound honor, but for many of his brothers and sisters, he will always seem just a little, well, odd. The bubble of weyrlinghood will make it seem like he's learned some social skills, as only enforced living and learning conditions can.

He tends to quietly endure hunger and itchiness and all of the little trials and tribulations of growing, only learning from those few mistakes he makes when he's allowed hunger or itchiness to progress too far. Even so, you won't often be subjected to interruptions during your sleep or during the day, except when he must, and even then Riyoth will make every attempt to work with you, helping and supporting you even when you are caring for him.

That doesn't mean life with Riyoth won't be difficult; instead, his difficulties and yours may come when you are transitioning out of that comfortable bubble of weyrlinghood into the wings with other, distinct and very different dragons, and settling into life as a fully-fledged dragonrider. It is difficult for your dragon to find himself at home among other dragons, with many of them not understanding his reserve and even more not ''getting'' his sense of sardonic humor if they've bothered to break through the former. In those first months after graduation, he may seek out those familiar to him to try and make sense of the broader draconic world. He struggles with commands and following orders, too independent to do any of it without first weighing every possibility. He's a natural leader, yes; but he doesn't seem to really ''look'' for opportunities to do so. They just seem to happen.

There are other opportunities within the Weyr that will be more suited to Riyoth's particular abilities, you'll find, Catling. One of them, of course, is in teaching those younger than he. If you choose to follow the path into weyrling training, your dragon will make an excellent partner, and together, you could make a cohesive team. Riyoth also has a particular knack for understanding healing and sensing the hurts of other dragons; a path towards dragonhealing for you both would also turn out well.

Even once it comes time for mating flights, Riyoth will still be slightly odd; he isn't prone to the fits of passions that govern other dragons. For him, there is no passion, there is serenity. That doesn't mean that he won't chase, just that he'll be methodical about who, why, and how he chases. He is a dragon that will be more prone to chase golds (for the good of the ''Weyr'', because his children would be the smartest, the strongest) rather than greens, though he won't entirely ignore the latter. If he ''does'' win a gold, you can almost guarantee that he will be attentive to the eggs, if not so much the dam, and even after, he will be concerned with his offsprings' education and training. After losses, he may return to the ground, both in the literal and emotional sense, and go over what went wrong in his blueprints to win. It may be difficult for him to comprehend that the most logical strategies won't always get as far as those emotional bursts of desire in the chaos of flights.

It is time, Catling, to let go of the past and embrace your future; to give up the emotions that tie yourself to the old you. Now, you are a dragonrider and Riyoth will guide you in this, if you will trust him to do so. And together, you will forge ahead to a new life.

== Public Impression Message ==

The Master Within Brown finishes with his intent study of one young Fortian boy only to turn away disappointed. His gait carefully picks across the sands, retreading steps already trod and taking a different turn at one particular juncture to inspect a candidate thus unnoticed. There is a method to his madness, a pattern discernible from aerial vantage points in the deep imprinted paths of his small paws. It's here, at this one, a petite girl with copper hair, that he perks up, suddenly interested. And then, for all of the world to see, there is the tell-tale sign of Impression as his eyes whirl in rainbow colors.

== Private Impression Message ==

It's so sudden. Tall, dark, and handsome, and he's standing in front of you, staring intently, and it's in those rainbow-faceted eyes, your vision and mind suddenly fill with an explosion of colors: bright, laser-like lights reflecting every shade of the rainbow as they cascade around each other with a soft reverberating hum that seems to physically shake your footing. ''Catch yourself,'' he's there with that deep brow muzzle stretching up to aid. << Catling, >> is a sound that buries itself deep into your heart, immovable once spoken in a sensation that's initially painful and then erupts into a thing of absolute comfort and familiarity. That single word, ''your name'', holds a wealth of warmth that radiates rapidly from your heart outward to the surface of your skin and the tips of your fingers, causing them to tremble. << It is time to cast our line out into the world. Are you ready? I am Riyoth. >>

== Mindvoice ==

For Riyoth, his mind voice is often more of a display, made of bright, colorful lasers. Often, there is a multitude at any given time, able to reflect any shade in the universe though often those shades will coordinate with his mood. How they move, interact, and even their colors themselves will depend highly on his mood, the show of lights changing between one word and next. They are often accompanied by a reverberating humming sound, a thing that can soften when he is feeling meditative and sharpen when he's feeling combative, that can disappear entirely into an overwhelming silence when he is withdrawn. When Riyoth 'speaks', he has a voice to lead a nation; His words tends to hold a wealth of feeling, passion and a bit of himself poured over each spoken word. And even when his words are serious, there is something appealing about his tone, something so ''alive'' and often, filled with warmth and humor.

== Itchyspots ==

You will find that Riyoth won't complain often of itchiness, Catling; instead, he will bear the discomfort with a quiet grace that other weyrlings might envy. When the time comes that he can't stand it any longer, though, his itchy spots will tend to be the curve of his ribs and the length of his spine, which you will need to oil with precise motions. (Wax on, wax off.)

== Suggested Adult Description ==

Leanly muscled and sure of limb, this tall, dark brown has a whimsical air about him from his muzzle's dished profile all the way down, and down, and ''down'' to his small paws. Those extremities of his are even darker than the rest, as though he'd waded hip-high in ink and trailed his tail behind him too, even splashing it up the spars of his all too expansive wings. It's a second look that might find subtler variations, the depth polished away in his softer places to tawny warmth: the velvety curve of his muzzle and the vulnerable indentation behind his jaw, and indistinct dapplings along his underbelly and the fine sails of his wings like so many ghostly fingerprints. It's grace he carries himself with, hard-earned with maturity, but tinted by his own ineluctable humor.

== Dragon Inspiration ==

For you, Catling, you have gotten a self-made mentor in the form of Mr. Miyagi meets Yoda, with a more lightened splash of Stephen Colbert. Miyagi and Yoda both lend their calm, level-heads, with Yoda especially playing into his feelings about flights and Miyagi with his future (remember when Miyagi healed a leg?). His humor derives, of course, from Colbert. His mind voice pulls its laser inspiration from Yoda, of course, with a more playful aspect than deadly, while the actual 'sound' of his voice goes to Stephen Colbert. I took your suggestion of Reyeth as a name and adjusted for both Mr. Miyagi and Yoda. With 'Riyo' for Nariyoshi which is Mr. Miyagi's given name in the Karate Kid, Part II, and the 'yo' also playing on Yoda, of course! And for his description: seal brown, like you wanted! And with the seal brown, N'rov pulled in the influence of horses that it is paired with, giving Riyoth that coltish appearance when young that will grow out into a fine, young master.

'''Egg Inspiration:''' The handicraft called Dhokra, which has been used in India for over 4,000 years, involves the lost wax casting technique and uses metals.
}}

Dragon:Kahvaroeth

2016-02-28T02:24:40Z

Rose:

{{NorConDragon
|egg credit=Ka'ge
|dragon credit=A'sran, edits by Suireh
|puppeteer=A'sran
|body=== Fire-Sculpted Egg ==

An egg of middling size, that is all it would claim of any mediocre element. It's shaped in seemingly perfect proportions, a wide-set base sloping gently to its softly narrowed apex. Brilliance rings it from top to bottom with thin strands of oranges, golds, yellows and reds. The horizontal pattern is wispy and unevenly intermingled together, yet artfully balanced in the hues like shifting sands or layers of ancient stone. Darks and lights, lights and darks, all have a warm fiery glow as if melted deeply into the shell itself. There's a glossy sheen which polishes it in its entirety, making the colors appear inset and not themselves on the surface: so smooth, so pure, it might as well be as delicate and eloquent as glass itself.

''The cracks on surface of the fragile-looking, Fire-Sculpted Egg grow and the shell simultaneously pulses, but then with a singular, heroic shove of darkened limbs, the dragonet within sets itself free and stands proudly in the remnants. He lifts his head resolutely, surveying his surroundings, not the least bit set aback by the sand and bits of shell stuck to his brown hide.''

== Till the End of the Line Brown ==

Rich chocolate hide stretches over the small bones of this runt-sized brown, though potential awaits in the wideness of his russet-tinged wings and the ungainliness of his large-footed amble. With his warm coloring and sleek, satiny hide, he carries himself with a certain self-assurance despite those youthful disadvantages. His large and bright eyes, overset by sooty eyeridges, are a focal point of his finely crafted head, and are at odds with the perpetual, resting smirk of his mouth. Dark smatterings of copper and carmine scatter across his flanks, deepening into a large deposit of rusted shadows that stretches upward from his gleaming slate claws into the hollows of his wings.

== Temperament ==

Your Kahvaroeth is a creature with a staunch sense of duty. It is his duty to ''you'', to his peers, to his queens, to the ''Weyr'', and even Pern in general, that keeps him so centered. He isn't prone -- often -- to frantic bouts of emotion and frivolity, but amongst flighty greens and territorial bronzes, he's steady and reliable. It's a quality that can both endear him to many and make him enviable to others, and though he much rather prefers the former, he's not habitually moved by strains of discord.

Fort is his home, and yours! Together, the both of you can conquer any challenge, and help the Weyr in any endeavor that it might need; which could be as simple as following protocol and being upstanding wingriders, or as complicated as assisting in the tithe collecting efforts. He sees no task as too little or inconsequential, not when the Weyr's future and reputation are on the line. With you at his side, your partnership can accomplish great things in the name of Fort and your (future) wing.

In the beginning, when he's still learning how things work and his role in the machine that is the Weyr, some of his more egregious tendencies will show themselves. He will test the boundaries and flaunt the unconventional, which may give the Weyrlingmaster and her dragon a bit of a headache. Rest assured, as he ages, too will he grow into his ''boots'' and focus more on honing his contributing skills than showing off for his clutchmates.

At times an impractical daredevil, as a weyrling, Kahvaroeth might need to take a trip to the infirmary, or two. He will test those boundaries, and stretch them, for as long as he is able. Those that result in victory will need to be gloated about, of course. << Look, Riyoth! Did you see what I did? You try! >> And the ones that result in failure will only further his desire to train and succeed in the future.

A large part of his weyrlinghood will also be spent dealing with his ''growing pains''. Being such a small dragon upon hatching, and ending up a middling-to-large brown, his growth will be rapid and at times painful for you both. He projects his feelings, and he isn't happy with the near-constant itchiness. It'll be enough to make you both exhausted by the end of each day, between training and oilings. Luckily, it's a phase that he'll grow out of, as with other things.

Fully-grown Kahvaroeth is less interested in show off and trying daring feats, and more on his position, and yours, in the Weyr and his sense of duty. It might very well be a load off your mind to not have to worry about what shenanigans he'll be up to, the older he gets. Your roles may also flip-flop as well, as he takes over the lead and moving force in your relationship. He has such a clear-cut sense of self, and your purpose, that he'll often attempt to give you advice and lead you in the right direction; your ''compass'', always pointing in the direction he (you?) may want to head towards. Sometimes, it may seem unclear just what his driving goal is and in those moments, he is not quite an open book to you except expecting your implicit ''trust''. Whether you question his motives and what erupts from there, whatever happens, when everything falls into place, perhaps you will have given in a little and he will have given in in only the best of compromises.

Outside of drills and duty, where he's prone towards trying to ''help'' others: << Zvaezdiyth, fall in line! You're weaving too far to the right! Are you even paying attention? >> and then << Yuanth! Fantastic job! >>, he's a nice guy with an easier way about him. Kahvaroeth is quite the social creature. He is the amicable sort, and enjoys small talk with others or even acquiescing to deeper conversation. Especially when it comes to his wingmates, he wants to know what there's to know: what the wingleader's report says, who got injured during drills, or what's happening in their sweep area. It's not nosiness per say, but a genuine care about his wing ''family'' and its concerns.

Flights see a completely different side of Kahvaroeth. In fact, with flights in general, he seems to have a sixth sense for sussing them out all over Pern. Greens? Golds? It's like their glowing forms are a homing beacon for some base, usually obscured, desires. In flights, cockiness replaces his nice guy demeanor, while flirtations overcome all attempts at polite conversation. He seeks out the jewel to be possessed and lets her know he plans to stake his claim, whether she be gold or green; golds hold slightly more significance than greens, so any dalliances he has there will be taken with a ''slight'' increase in couth. Otherwise, it's all sweet talk, all day, baby! He's not much a cheater, but he will show himself to be a clever chaser, using his brains instead of his strength or speed to outsmart his competitors.

Should he catch a queen, and it result in a clutch, his sense of duty will extend to his eggs. It's a boring endeavor, but he's duty-bound to serve at his mate's needs during the duration of her being sands-bound and to keep an eye on their progeny. Only once they've hatched, will he be released from said duty, and then he's not prone to linger at the gold's side or linger on his offspring's futures; they aren't his concern anymore.

Kahvaroeth is your partner in life, Br'and! At times, more like a partner ''in crime''. He's here to not only guide you and stand at your side, but to remind you that you aren't alone. Whether it's ambition, family, or simply ''finding yourself'', he's your compass to help you find your way. He's not a fair-weather friend, and will be here with you until the end of the line.

== Public Impression Message ==

Valiant effort though he has given the task, Till the End of the Line Brown grows weary of the search, his movements becoming sloppy and a little agitated as he wanders through the white-robed candidates. His frustration hangs heavy on his small shoulders and sags those wide set wing sails, and he trudges along dutifully. Then, something draws his attention from this march, brightening his countenance, his eyes, and lifting those drooped wings. He sprints forward and nearly runs headlong into a tall, blonde-haired teenager; his eyes are on ''the prize''!

== Private Impression Message ==

The heat surrounding you intensifies in increments, the warmth turning suffocating in heartbeats. One. Warm. Two. Warmer. Three. Warmest. Four. ''Hot''. Like the intense heat of the fires that smelt ore into iron. The sands are ''always'' warm, but even this seems a bit much. And then. And then, things suddenly get ''clear'', and the fog of that smoldering heat becomes a part of your nature, cleaving to the crevices of your mind and soul. It's as though it, and ''he'', have always been there, so familiar is his presence in your mind from the moment his eyes lock with yours. He is as comforting and firm as warm handshake. << Br'and, I've got you. Why'd you even worry? >> In his smooth baritone, an undercurrent of self-assuredness surges. << Do me a favor and show me where the food is. I'm starving! >>

== Mindvoice ==

Kahvaroeth is a complicated mixture of sounds and sensations. His voice is a smooth baritone, a steady hum, accompanied by the soothing lilt of woodwinds. It's in the moments when his mood is not in his neutral zone that any of this fluctuates -- from stormy pitch and clashing instruments in moments anger, to even thrumming, pulsing beats when he's excited. Colors and abstract ideas often accompany these sounds, picking off of his environment and his feelings in the heat of the moment. He has a straightforward manner of speech, even when he might be obscuring his true objectives from another, including you.

== Itchyspots ==

Everything itches Kahvaroeth all at once! Since he starts off unfortunately small and grows at such an accelerated rate, his limbs and tail are going to be particularly grievous. They'll remain spots of contention upon growing out of that ''growing'' phase, but he'll love the scritches between his head knobs more by then. It's going to be a constant battle to keep up with his itchy ways.

== Suggested Adult Description ==

Rich chocolate hide stretches over the small bones of this mid-sized brown, from russet-tinged broad wings down to large, capable paws. With his warm coloring and sleek, satiny hide, he carries himself with that certain self-assurance that maturity endows. His large and bright eyes, overset by sooty eyeridges, are a focal point of his finely crafted head, and are at odds with the perpetual, resting smirk of his mouth. Dark smatterings of copper and carmine scatter across his flanks, deepening into a large deposit of rusted shadows that stretches upward from his gleaming slate claws into the hollows of his wings.

== Dragon Inspiration ==

Kahvaroeth was based off of your suggestions for an amalgamation of characters, and in this instance it was the contrasting (but intersecting!) personalities of Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, and Tony Stark, aka Iron Man. He is based mostly on Captain America's more endearing, dutiful qualities, with a good dose of Iron Man's inescapable charm (see: bad boy behavior). As asked, he is Br'and's perfect partner, sometimes in crime, and compass, to steer him towards his future.

His mind voice is inspired by a mixture of songs from the soundtracks of both movies: from AC/DC and Black Sabbath, to the musical score, and everything in between.

'''Egg Inspiration:''' Glass blowing as seen here.
}}

Main Page

2016-02-16T19:01:59Z

Rose:

Main Page

2016-02-16T08:23:41Z

Rose:

__NOCACHE__
__NOTOC__{{Boxes
|box-width=12
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|box-content=Pern, the third planet from the star Rukbat, was colonized by settlers from a far-future Earth seeking a less technologically-dependent existence. The ideals of the colonists were upset by the coming of Thread, a mindless space organism that eats everything it touches that isn't metal, stone or water. Currently set on Pern's northern continent in the Tenth Interval, NorConMush explores the fallout from a recent Comet Pass, an unexpected return of Thread ten turns into what was expected to be 200 turns of Threadfree skies. Our timeline originally picked up from the end of "The White Dragon" where a non-functional AIVAS was discovered and relegated to the dust heap of history. As such the events that took place in ATWoP have not occurred and our Pern continues to struggle with the cycle of Passes and Intervals and the push and pull of politics and social change that it entails.
 We are aware the game is currently down. This is due to a billing snafoo and will be fixed shortly. In the mean time, please feel free to pcreate and log in to our temporary site: ncmush.net 5555 in the mean time.}}

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Main Page

2016-02-16T08:23:23Z

Rose:

__NOCACHE__
__NOTOC__{{Boxes
|box-width=12
|box-color=danger
|box-heading=Welcome to NorConMUSH!
|box-content=Pern, the third planet from the star Rukbat, was colonized by settlers from a far-future Earth seeking a less technologically-dependent existence. The ideals of the colonists were upset by the coming of Thread, a mindless space organism that eats everything it touches that isn't metal, stone or water. Currently set on Pern's northern continent in the Tenth Interval, NorConMush explores the fallout from a recent Comet Pass, an unexpected return of Thread ten turns into what was expected to be 200 turns of Threadfree skies. Our timeline originally picked up from the end of "The White Dragon" where a non-functional AIVAS was discovered and relegated to the dust heap of history. As such the events that took place in ATWoP have not occurred and our Pern continues to struggle with the cycle of Passes and Intervals and the push and pull of politics and social change that it entails.
 We are aware the game is currently down. This is due to a billing snafoo and will be fixed shortly. In the mean time, please feel free to pcreate and log in to our temporary site: ncmush.net 5555 in the mean time.}}

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FTW:Search Main

2015-12-09T23:22:13Z

Rose:

'''Fort's next Search cycle window is January-April 2016.'''

== Search Calendar ==

{|style="padding: 5px
|-
|style="width:300px" |'''January 6'''
|OOC Search Opens
|-
|'''January 3 - 9'''
|Flight Window
|-
|'''January 27 - February 3'''
|Clutching
|-
|'''TBD'''
|IC Search Opens
|-
|'''January 29'''
|OOC Search Closes
|-
|'''February 7'''
|Insta Candidates Open
|-
|'''February 10'''
|Dragon Preferences Due
|-
|'''February 20 - 28'''
|Hatching
|}

== Further Reading ==

* [[FTW:Search_FAQ|Search FAQ]]
* [[FTW:Gold_ Info|Gold Info]]
* [[FTW:Searchriders|Searchriders]]
* [[FTW:Candidacy|Candidacy]]
* [[FTW:Hatching_Day|Hatching]]

== Applications ==

* [http://fort-weyr.net/searches/applications Search Application]
* [http://fort-weyr.net/searches/dragon-preferences Dragon Preferences]
* [http://fort-weyr.net/join/transfers-and-instas/insta-weyrling-application Insta Application]

Estanei

2015-12-08T07:03:13Z

Rose:

{{Profile
|picture=Estanei.jpg
|body={{wysk}}

{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

== RP Logs ==

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

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

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

File:Estanei.jpg

2015-12-08T07:03:07Z

Rose:

Logs:Very Helpful

2015-12-08T07:01:37Z

Rose:

{{Log
|who=Dahlia, Estanei, Mirinda
|what=A discussion of the merits of N'rov.
|where=Living Caverns, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=24
|month=6
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.12.07
|mentions=N'rov, Olivya
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon dahlia.jpg, Icon estanei.jpg, Icon mirinda.jpg
|log=Leggy, striking, and holding court to a bevy of Sandstone riders. That's Estanei, fully aware of how she (and likely her swinging hips) looks when sauntering away from the wing table to the scant buffet line this much time after lunch, and picking through the remnants of food. She leaves behind a table of chatter, though not laughter, and amiable enough camaraderie, a welcome sound, surely, in the recovering days after such sickness in the area.

Having spent the morning-- and well into the lunch hour, too, by the looks of it-- attending to the caverns, Mirinda looks both a little tired and a little flustered as she joins the buffet line behind Estanei. It's likely she doesn't intend to engage; it's probable it was ''absolutely and entirely'' an accident that her foot slips upon some spilled gravy and sends her careening forward. She stops herself with the edge of the table, but if the sound of that slip isn't enough to attract notice, the slap of hand to table might well be. Red-faced, ''shame''-faced, Fort's weyrwoman ducks her gaze.

Faranth knows Dahlia and Mirinda have been seen working far enough away and on separate but complementary tasks often enough that it can't be said that they're joined at the hip, and yet with Mirinda's appearance come Dahlia as well. Dahlia's walk in from the kitchens, wearing weariness like an itchy sweater, sees her heading toward the buffet line, in time to witness (but nowhere near enough to assist with) Mirinda's show of grace.

"Hey! No need to get ''that'' friendly!" Estanei's voice is as striking as her looks, strident a little, for the perceived jostle and she darts a look back. It being Mirinda doesn't change her demeanor much, until she catches sight of the red face and shame visible on the edges of the Fort Weyrwoman's ducked gaze. "Aw, duckie, it's ok. These things happen when you're not blessed by natural grace." Sarcastically sweet in only the way she can, the wingleader holds out an arm, in case the other woman ''needs'' such assistance. Dahlia's arrival does not go noted just yet.

Mirinda does not, thank you very much, need assistance. It may be possible for a perceptive eye to see the way she bristles, ever so slightly, but her expression turns to something more neutral, and more ''composed'' even so. "I'm sorry," she says, simply. "But no harm done, I hope. Estanei, isn't it? Sandstone." She's evidently anticipated Dahlia's arrival behind her, because she glances over her shoulder to find the other goldrider and acknowledge her, though dark gaze returns to Estanei a moment later.

"Getting to know our new wingleaders, Weyrwoman?" Dahlia's opening remark is quietly delivered, no doubt with the intention of keeping the wry humor of those words, the tone even gently teasing. The younger goldrider's smile is small, but directed past the Monacoan to the brownrider, "Wingleader," has friendliness and something else that adds depth to her voice but isn't readily identifiable.

The hand extended to Mirinda, withdraws, coming to rest against the hip jutted out so obligingly as Estanei considers the approaching goldriders. A flicker of something, trepidation, disappears just as quickly as it appeared, and a bright toothy smile flashes in its place. "No harm. My ass always could use a gentle caress or two randomly in the middle of the day." Not that ''that'' happened, but hey, who's counting? "Dee," says the wingleader, unrepentant about utilizing the diminutive in lieu of the name. "Should I worry? There must be some joke about two goldriders and a wingleader in search of food. What's left of that sea hold fish is delightful if," she slants a glance at the torn apart carcass of fish, "Scant."

Mirinda's cheeks go pink again, at that mention of Estanei's ass, however unmolested, but she presses a smile into place and says, dryly, "I can't imagine there's a ''better'' way to do it than-- ''do'' worry. I'm sure we're quite fearsome, en masse. I've been known to tear a person apart to get the last of the," a glance at the table, "Salted fish?"

"Always nice to have a reminder," Dee will grin at Estanei. "''Fish''," is said as if Estanei gave name to the exact thing Dee didn't know she wanted. The scantness of the offering is observed and draws an uncertain but hopeful, "I think I saw another tray of that in the kitchen," from the young woman. Without explanation to either woman beyond, "I'll be back," Dahlia is retracing her steps. At least she'll be putting her fear inspiring to use elsewhere and reducing the overall load that faces the brownrider.

"Steamed," corrects Estanei pleasantly. "Just a touch of some salty sauce, ginger, scallions, and it's delightful. Well, as you can see, appreciated by all." Sandstone starts to disperse, as if by some invisible directive, or it's just that late and they have places to be, duties to do. It certainly might have something to do with the way the brownriding wingleader ''looks'' in that general direction preceding the departures. "How are you settling in, Weyrwoman? Fort's hospitality and all."

"Steamed," repeats Mirinda, acknowledging the correction with the glimmer of a smile. "I'll have to try some, then, if Dahlia comes back with more--" She casts a glance after the retreating goldrider, though seems content to fill her plate with ''other'' things, not paying their actual content much mind. "I'm managing, thank you. Fort has been very hospitable to me, of course." Partial truth or no, she says it with a straight face. "Dahlia has, of course, been a great help."

"Has she? I would take credit for searching her, but that honor goes to someone else, I'm afraid." Estanei manages this with the straightest of faces. Now that her ass isn't being groped and she's not in danger of losing her job with two goldriders converging on her, the brownrider relaxes, turning to go back to picking through the remnants of lunch. "Are you enjoying our Weyrleader?" So many different ways this could be taken, so many different ways that innocence could be construed, and yet. And yet, Estanei seems absolutely genuine in this, somewhat distracted, inquiry; a spoon is pooling together the leftover rice and vegetable dish to dump into her plate.

Mirinda, whose attention ''had'' been lowered towards the green beans, lifts her gaze in surprise. She falters. Then, "N'rov's been very helpful, too. He's been showing me around the coverage area, which has been..." A pause. "Very helpful." That this is a very neutral comment on the weyrleader has certainly not escaped her notice; her smile, as she says it, is bland.

That Dahlia returns, accompanied by fish means she won, that that fish is carried by a kitchen assistant and not the weyrwoman herself means she also lost. Clearly, she still has things to work on in the way of asserting her authority. "It would've been out even if I hadn't gone looking. There might be a life lesson there," Dee murmurs, amused, as she rejoins the women. "I didn't miss anything exciting, did I?" It's asked so innocently, one might even buy it.

"The only times I rue Reyarith wasn't born green is when I think of how delightful flight coitus must be with our dear Weyrleader," says Estanei, ''just'' as Dahlia arrives, how about that. "He's pleasant on the eyes to work with, I'm sure. Very helpful indeed." With new fish here, the wingleader pauses, just long enough to consider whether to let someone else have first crack, and then reaches for the spoon herself to scoop out some of the white steamed flesh onto her plate.

Lucky Dahlia: she can see Mirinda's expression tighten, ever so slightly. She's not ''embarrassed'' by this, weyrbred as she is, and yet... "Yes," she says, simply, setting down the serving spoon from the green beans in order to pick up a piece of bread, instead. "Very helpful."

It's... ''really good'' that Dee isn't drinking something. She chokes anyway and is overcome with a coughing fit, her cheeks flaring into a blush for all that she's as weyrbred as the next girl. It's probably the delivery that does it. Dahlia is ''no help'' here as her eyes tear up from the coughing, even as she makes gesture that she's okay-- no really, she's ''fine''!

"Are you ok?" asks Estanei with all due politeness, if impishly amused politeness. The only non-weyrbred woman here, folks. "I'm not saying anything ''noone'' is aware of, am I?" N'rov ''is'' a pretty boy after all. "Well, I'll leave you two to your weyrwomanly work," how she manages that to sound just a little disparaging is emotive vocal skill, "I've some shuffling to do with my wing and a table of hidework waiting for me in my weyr." Wingleader, plus plate, and an extra step of sass in her swinging hips, simply walks away from the goldriders after sharing her thoughts on, well, nothing.

Mirinda opens her mouth to respond, but truthfully, the fact that Dahlia is coughing so hard is by far a priority over actually saying farewells to the impish, terrifying Estanei. "Are you...?" going to die? Gestures or no gestures, this is a serious concern!

Dahlia's fit is helped to end by her surprise at the brownrider's slightly disparaging tone, brows lifting slightly as her coughing settles and she gives a mute nod to Mirinda. Her brows swoop down in confusion and she leans a little bit toward the older woman to ask quietly, "Did she just dismiss ''us''?" The words are colored by both uncertainty and mild disbelief. "She should've been a bronzerider," seems to slip out on the heels of the question, doing nothing to help the blush in her cheeks.

Wryly, "I do believe she did." Mirinda's at least half amused by this, shaking her head. "Remind me not to introduce her to Olivya, mm? Have you enough to eat? Let's sit, before someone else..." Really, the living caverns are ''dangerous''.

The look Dahlia has for the idea of a force that would be Estanei and Olivya together (or the explosion of those forces being opposed) is writ expressively of horror. It's quickly dismissed though, glancing once more after the brownrider's exit before she hurriedly gets a small helping of that fish she was after, and a few other items to put on her plate before moving to where there's seats at one of the smaller tables. Fewer chairs mean fewer potential dangers. "Are you up for talking work or do you need a break?" It's not unusual for Dahlia to be thoughtful this way; goodness knows people ask ''her'' enough and she's been good about taking afternoon naps (or at least periods away from work) when she needs them, looking to her health in her continued recovery.

"To be honest," Mirinda admits, "I'd rather take a break. Sometimes I feel like I'm ''swimming'' in work, all the time, every day. I think I need to start instituting a policy with myself that mealtimes are not for working through, unless it absolutely cannot be avoided." She eats the way she always does: one forkful after another, barely even seeming to taste the food.

"Does that mean you want to talk about N'rov's ''assets''?" Dahlia asks this as she places elbows on the table, bridges her fingers and places her chin daintily atop them. It's obviously a joke, one she doesn't even hold for too long. "They keep bringing me furniture," seems to be a much more real and non-work related conversational topic. "I tell them it's fine, the workmen bringing it tell me they have orders, they tut when I try to tell them otherwise, it's ridiculous. Are they doing the same thing to you?"

Mirinda chokes, just quietly, for that reference; clearly, this is a ''no''. Head tipped to the side, however, she gives Dahlia a more thoughtful glance. "No," is her answer. "But then, my weyr was largely still furnished when I arrived-- I suppose the furniture comes with it. ''Do'' just have it sent back to stores if you need to. There's no need for you to fill the space up with anything unnecessary."

"I will," Dahlia sighs, "I just wish-- no," she stops herself. "That's going to get too self-pitying. Poor goldriders." For this, she has to flash a grin at Mirinda. "Want to take our food outside? It's a beautiful day and it's probably the only chance we'll get before dark." That last is rueful, but already Dahlia is pushing back her only just taken chair to move to just do it.

In this, at least, Mirinda is willing to allow Dahlia to take the lead; outside, then, to enjoy the sunshine while they can.
}}

File:Icon estanei.jpg

2015-12-08T06:59:27Z

Rose:

Logs:Catharsis

2015-11-10T07:50:29Z

Rose: Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh, N'rov |what=N'rov takes Suireh on a cathartic journey. There is a lot of yelling involved. |where=Classroom, Fort Weyr |involves=Fort Weyr |day=25 |month=2..."

{{Log
|who=Suireh, N'rov
|what=N'rov takes Suireh on a cathartic journey. There is a lot of yelling involved.
|where=Classroom, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Weyr
|day=25
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|mentions=R'hin
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon suireh pensive.png, Icon n'rov.png,
|desc=>---< Classroom, Fort Weyr(#2034RJs$) >--------------------------------------<

In the classroom, a solid wooden door keeps most of the noise from the
Commons at bay as well as any overflow noise from kids practicing their
Teaching Ballads. The whole back wall of the room is taken up by a massive
chalkboard, often covered with bits of grammar, math, and snippets of
music or poetry. Both side walls are lined with shelving that contains
kid-sized instruments, books, scrolls, stacks of practice slates and other
'school' supplies for the children to use for their lessons.

Rows of benches and desks fill up most of the room leading up to a massive
desk for the Weyr's teaching harper to use. Colorful drawings are pinned
up on the wall behind the desk and another chalkboard contains the week's
assignments. A precious globe of the planet Pern takes up the corner to
the right hand side of the desk beneath a moldering and somewhat
frightening stuffed feline's head.

-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
N'rov M 32 6'1" lean, dk. brown hair, gray eyes 0s
Suireh F 27 5'7 regal & slender, raven hair, gray eyes 0s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Out
>-----------------------------------------< 25D 2M 39T I10, winter night >---<
|log=It's later in the evening when the strains of fingers dancing over an aging keyboard in the harper teaching wing echoes down nominally empty tunnels. A miskey and an expletive is followed by a restart, this time slightly different than before, as if the player is improvising something and not satisfied with each iteration. It's a light, airy melody, meant for toe tapping and clapping.

Miskeys deserve whiskeys, but whether the man treading down the hallway ''has'' some, that's between him and his leathern jacket. It does make him laugh, low, and ease the door open just as quietly as it will go, the better to knock... but ideally from the ''inside''.

Her back is to the door, shoulder hunched as she stops playing for a moment, just after he's entered but before he's knocked. Her right hand reaches to the higher keys and sounds a gentle trill between two notes, as if testing ''how'' something sounds before putting it in with the rest. Then, there's the knock, and it's most certainly not something ''she's'' put into her music and she turns, Suireh's pale eyes suddenly unblinking upon N'rov.

"Do it again," is definitely an invitation, but it might also be a challenge. There are goggle marks still visible at N'rov's temples, and windburns to his cheeks, but he doesn't let tiredness enter that saunter over to her: to brush a touch along the back of her neck... and then lean against the upright's side.

"It doesn't sound right," demurs Suireh, her body pivoting back, once her eyes have had their fill of N'rov, to study her fingers upon the white keys. Her right ring finger lifts, shifting its position up and to the right, onto a slender black key. She plays the air above the actual keyboard and rolls her shoulders back. "I didn't find tea outside my door this morning," she remarks, as if she finds tea other mornings.

He considers her fingers, too; the pads of his lift and fall, but playing air makes his smile lift too. "Clearly your ''helper'' needs another bribe," N'rov says, as if he needs to get right on that. "Has she brought up her young nephew yet?"

"Nephew?" Rather than looking pleased, Suireh now just looks confused and her fingers, above those keys, still, then press down in a cacophony of sounds. "N'rov, are you, by chance, making a joke at my expense?" Amused.

He winces, his hands going dramatically to his ears, only to slide over his eyes so he can look out at her between his barely-spread fingers; "This isn't fair," the bronzerider notes. "You can provide ''accompaniment''."

Suireh's eyes express what she does not say, ''and what are you going to do about it?'' The sass inherent in such a thought, unspoken and suddenly bright in her grey eyes. Her right hand plays a short, six note ditty. "And you live far up somewhere that to visit ''you'' I would have to ask someone. Life's not fair." ''Highness'', if only.

N'rov reaches around, looking nowhere but at her, and dares to clunk knuckles onto grumbling bass keys. "My weyr, dear Suireh, hasn't one of ''these''."

"Do you play?" asks Suireh, the question genuine and her expression clear of the heaviness so apparent in the last few months. "What would your life's accompaniment be, N'rov?"

"This, no. There ''was'' a nudge for Smith," but N'rov gives it a clunk-clunk in turn; seeing that clarity, he looks for something to give her. "The wind, I suppose. I like to think it would be ''something'' dramatic. You know, the high notes and the low notes and going up and down and up and down and eventually up until... this is sounding like flying, isn't it. But let's say, nobody's falling asleep in his seat."

Suireh takes the measure of N'rov, all leaned against the piano, looks at her fingers and flexes them. They stretch and a few sound like they even crack, and then they're flying octave after octave from the low to the high in unison and she has, in the end, a cheeky smile for him. "So boring?"

''He'' has applause for her, if the tapping of fingertips against wood rather than his other hand; "Apparently," N'rov drawls. "Design me a better one," haughty as any Lord-commissioner.

"It's a cliche fit for a dragonrider," replies Suireh. Her fingers pull the cover over the keys slowly, so it doesn't even thud when it closes and her hand rests on top of the worn wood. "Thank you," says the harper, inhaling deep and exhaling shallow. "You must be incredibly busy with all your duties and-, thank you."

N'rov withdraws his hand just as gradually, just behind this different clunk. "Is that a farewell?" he checks.

Suireh tenses, the easiness of the prior banter not ''quite'' disappearing. Her shoulders lift just visibly and she seems to ''force'' herself to move in this moment of stillness. Bright eyes, shining with tears that won't shed this time, look up at N'rov and ultimately, several minutes later, if he'll allow her that silence, she asks, "Will you walk with me?"

He does, his expression torn when she looks up, when he sees what he sees; he stays for her, folding his arms atop that upright and so they don't reach. In the end, "Of course." Then N'rov can offer Suireh a hand, that hand that she may not need.

Suireh rises and takes the hand, only for a moment, lifting it along his arm to his elbow and curls it into the crook there. "Tell me about your life here, N'rov. What do you do with your days?" asks the weyrbred harper of the holdbred wingsecond.

N'rov knows that angle, at least, elbow long-ago trained; he walks her obligingly toward the door, with a nod to that used to be ferocious feline along the way: obligingly and unhurriedly, as though they'd sightsee around that mass of desks and benches like some old architectural sight. "Cliches fit for dragonriders. Flying, washing, oiling. Passing out instructions, compiling their fruit. Talking to people about taxes and stipends and the like, whatever else is on their minds. Not setting anyone on fire."

"Does that happen often?" Suireh asks, with all the contrived innocence of an ingenue. "If it did, my father would probably be the rider that tops the list of how many they've set on fire." She ''just'' manages this side of throwaway comment and not about to burst into tears, but her grip tightens.

"I wasn't Acting long; I may have missed my chance," N'rov... not ''mourns'', not that. Not over that. When they reach the door, he doesn't open it, but rather turns to lean back against it and wrap his other arm about her.

What Suireh doesn't do: tense up, stiffen, pull away. What Suireh does do: walk into his chest, at first accidentally; leans her forehead into him; sighs. "Are you ''trying'' to get me to cry again? It's taken me a seven of bags of tea on my eyes to reduce the swelling from before."

N'rov gets to exhale now more slowly, silently; her hand's freed, but only so he can wrap her up that way, too. "If you want," he says to the crown of her head, steady .and strong beneath her lean. "We could try for a sevenday and two. ''Suireh''."

"Two," she echoes his exhale, her breath warm though it doesn't penetrate through his jacket. Given the ''okay'', Suireh still has yet to shed a tear. "You're horrible," but she doesn't mean it, a hysteric note of some brand of amusement catching in her voice. "Horrible." And yet she doesn't pull away from ''horrible'', and manages a steadying breath before tipping her head backwards. "The moment's passed."

"Horrible," N'rov agrees. "Goodbye, moment." This moment appears to be for brushing her hair back from her forehead, for tracing her eyebrow with his thumb. "When was the last time you screamed," he asks her then, "on purpose?"

Suireh's brow, the one his finger traces, rises. ''On purpose?'' This should be answer enough.

"Shout," N'rov says, in case she likes that variation better, and outlines that brow just a notch up. The next isn't just a synonym either: "Yell, just as loudly as you can." Humor briefly lightens his expression, but instead, "I'll take you."

"I heard you. I understood." Understanding, however, does not equate comprehension of-, well anything. Suireh is just ''not'' sure of this. "A child? It's not good for my voice," she protests. Not that crying is much better.

"When do you have to be at Harper next?" N'rov asks, only he doesn't wait to say, "Not tomorrow. It can be just as loud as your voice likes. Let's grab you a coat," grinning down at her, like it makes perfect sense to whisk her off ''right now'', "and go."

The whirlwind of his thoughts isn't one Suireh can rightly frame her mind towards, especially when she's started this new conversation already confused. Her brain just does not work that way. She's still stuck on, "Not tomorrow," and how he knew that, to, "Coat?" But her body is good at doing what her brain can't figure out yet, and she's moving with him, or is she leading, to her room so she can grab that coat.

Room, coat (though N'rov might have been satisfied with 'borrowing' someone else's along the way), caverns, cold, ''dragon''. Vhaeryth's amused or maybe bemused, dropping his head to rumble at the harper, who gets hoisted unceremoniously up: in front of N'rov as usual, but also because (as he'll explain into her ear just as soon as she's buckled), "I bet you can yell really, ''really'' loud." Whether her voice likes it, or not.

Borrow? And get other people's cooties? It's not hard to imagine Suireh does not/has not ''borrow''(ed) clothing from storerooms or other people at any point in her life. "Oh, N'rov-," whatever protest she might have is lost when the final buckle is secured and she's leaning in towards the bronze's neck a gloved hand somehow gentle in its caress against his head. Hello, Vhaeryth.

Borrow? And get other people's cooties? It's not hard to imagine Suireh does not/has not ''borrow''(ed) clothing from storerooms or other people at any point in her life. "Oh, N'rov-," whatever protest she might have is lost when the final buckle is secured and she's leaning in towards the bronze's neck a gloved hand somehow gentle in its caress against his neck. Hello, Vhaeryth.

He leans in, familiar, his rumble vibrating beneath leather and skin; N'rov finds a pressing need to cast his gaze heavensward. To... check out the stars, of course. But in the next moment there's the flex of muscle and press of gravity and rush of wind that's his leap, the leap and the not-fall that's his wings catching, claiming the air and chasing it up. Another rumble's met with the watchdragon's treble warble, and then just when there's a good look around there's cold. Cold. Cold. Not so cold. ''Stars'', like tinted diamonds tossed across the sky.

Refreshing. Suireh says as much, though her words get lost in the upward flight noise of air moving. Perhaps Vhaeryth heard her though. The harper, who has not cried up to this moment, tears, the salty water chilling in the high night's sky. Her back to N'rov shifts away, a pocket of air flowing between them, and then she's again pressing backward into the dragonrider's body, with eyes that gaze up. "Where are we going?" Maybe these words are easier to hear with height already gained.

He doesn't drag her towards him in that distance, but N'rov does welcome Suireh's return, tucking an arm about her waist before resuming his grip of the neckridge in front of them. Vhaeryth ascends, steepening their angle, giving a better look at that night sky. "Higher," the bronzerider calls forward, as though that were a destination all its own. "Try a shout. ''Something''."

''Something''. Suireh sucks in the cold air and coughs down into a glove. Her body squirrels backwards some more, seeking the heat of the dragon beneath her and the man behind her. Warmth, and maybe a little courage as she starts taking a succession of breaths that are deeper in progession, more gut-reaching. Her eyes close and her shoulders lift, and then, her mouth throws open and she lets out a yell that's more akin to a scream, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" into the night's sky.

That rings out, and the baritone, "Yeah!" Not ''loud'', not with her right in front of him, but urging her on.

She yells again in a similar vein, wordless and all vowels, and then, before she can ''think'', as thinking is a dangerous task for Suireh particularly when it's self-drected, she yells out: "I hate you. I hate YOU. I HATE YOU! WHY?! WHHHHHHHHHHHY?" Ineffectual fists ball against her knees and she's crying again. Good job, N'rov, good job.

That's what he's here for: making her cry. Also, hugging her one-armed again, Vhaeryth slanting into a turn; amid the encouraging words might be,'' 'Louder''.'

Her hands suddenly cover her face, the leather gloves not soaking in the cold tears streaming again and her head shakes, much like a patient who is furiously denying another dose of some ill-tasting medicine. Certainly, it can't be heard, Suireh's repeated ''no'' into her gloves, but surely the shuddering of her torso can be felt.

''Not'' louder, then. N'rov just holds her, then, possibly a little haplessly, as gradually they get to circling downward. Downward, where it's warmer, even if it's also still a ''downer''.

In the ''downward'', her weeping gradually subsides, though her hands don't move from covering her face. When they reach complete ''down''ness, Suireh rubs at her face, one hand coming down to her leg and the other still at her face. "I'm such a failure at being entertaining," a hysterical little giggle laugh, snort thing emerges, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. She might also be snotty about her nose, but that's hard to tell since her hand is there covering her splotchy face.

"Right, because I take you places so you'll entertain me," N'rov says, the habitual wryness ''and'' the concern audible in his voice; there's some moving, some adjusting, and finally a handkerchief poked toward her hand. Maybe Vhaeryth doesn't want to be dripped on.

"You don't?" Suireh chokes again, in that weird laugh-sob thing, reaching blindly for the cloth shoved in her hand and brings it up to her nose to ugly blow. Ugly blow; where a nose can sound more like a fog horn than something a twenty-something woman is capable of. Face wiped. Nose blown. Her hands, one with the handkerchief in hand, come to press into her cheeks. "Oh. Catharsis. Cathartic. Yelling into the night. Let's do this again some day."

"Maybe next time it'll just be an up-and-coming journeyman with aspirations toward your cubby," N'rov deadpans. Speaking of, "''Will'' your wine be safe without you?"

Still astride Vhaeryth, but starting to move towards getting down, N'rov's comment puts a pause in all that movement and, instead, Suireh swats the bronzerider with the snotty handkerchief. "''You''," is a little accusatory, a little reproving, and a lot resigned to the incorrigibleness. A big sigh is followed by the telltale aftershock shudders that sometimes happen after big cries, and then a less forced, "N'rov. Thank you." She twists, pushing her dark hair out of the way, to ''look'' at the dragonrider and leans forward to dare a kiss to his cheek, but also sort of his lips by just catching the corner of it. But mostly his cheek, definitely.

N'rov gives her a pained look. With that handkerchief? ''Now?'' '''''Really?''''' Maybe ''that's'' why he eyes her and her mostly-cheek kiss the way he does... or maybe it has more to do with the way the moonlight's catching the slow upturn of a grin, not to mention the moonlight on waves. ''Waves''. "Welcome, Suireh," he says. "Watch your step."

''Waves''. Waves Suireh doesn't even notice until she's continued in her downward trek and realizes, too late, that her feet aren't on Fort's hard bowl floor. "''N'rov!''"

"Yes, ma'am?" If it's any consolation, Vhaeryth doesn't move a hair, and not just because he doesn't have any. When his rider leans down so he can grin at Suireh, that grin has gotten ''brighter''. "Do you want to come back up?" He'd take her, her and her (his) snotty handkerchief too. At least the footing isn't overloose: gravel rather than sand, with narrow-leaved plants grown up here and there.

One ineffectual foot stomps on the ground, made even more so by the shifting gravel beneath the boot's heel. The slim hand that reaches up immediately to be drawn up again hesitates, Suireh's look of indignation turning into a toss of her dark hair and a sour look cast away from N'rov. Might as well. She's ''down'' here and he's ''up'' there, and so she traipses away, away from the gravel-footing towards looser ground, allowing her boots to sink down into the rocky beach.

As long as that hand's aloft, N'rov's fingers tickle at hers without truly ''reaching''; then he's sliding down after. ''Whistling''. It even bears some resemblance to her tune from earlier.

Some measure of the adolescent girl, so hyper-aware of herself, ''so'' sure, reappears in a tart look that sneaks back to N'rov, though not sneaky enough not to be obvious. Then again, it's unlikely she's trying ''not'' to be obvious. He's ''supposed'' to see her look after all. He whistles in his approach. She... yells? She yells when he gets close, a loud, bright sound out towards the water, that hints at some sort of laugh that is otherwise held in close.

It takes time; it's not a ''quick'' approach, but that look of hers doesn't go unrewarded. Neither does the yell; ''he'' laughs, freely given, even as Vhaeryth shakes out his wings with a heaved yawn and makes for higher ground. For that matter, N'rov yells after her, deeper, echoes ringing out for the pair of them. After a few moments, the bronzerider cocks his head. "I don't ''think'' we managed to summon anything, do you?"

The waves move, their rolling audible and the white froth visible in the moonlight. Her cheeks are flushed due to a combination of the exertion of yelling and winter. "A monster? A ''sea'' monster?" Suireh says after a while. "Something that will come up and reward us for giving him our troubles. He feeds off of the troubles of landwalkers." She spins this with utmost sincerity in her pale eyes.

N'rov stays to the side, so the moonlight can better catch those eyes, and he can see it; his voice is low. "Is that its own reward? 'Landwalkers.' I like that." Go on.

You ''would''. There's so much she could say and yet ''that'' is what can be gleaned from the high brow arc of one eye that spares N'rov a look. Suireh is silent for a little bit, her breathing uneven as a sharper bit of cool air comes their way from the water.

N'rov rolls his shoulders, comfortably, meeting her gaze (and her lack of ''going on'') with aplomb; if it's also cover for reaching inside his jacket pocket, and later for surreptitiously ''pinging'' whatever it is towards the water... ''plop''.

It would be the side of her face that isn't visible to N'rov, now that she's looking back at the water, that rises upward in a crooked smile. It can't be coincidence that shortly after the ''plop'', she begins speaking again. "He's coming," is her hushed whisper. "What reward will ''you'' seek?" Suireh tucks her hands against her sides, pressed down by her upper arms and finally looks over to the man still to the side to catch and hold his gaze.

It's N'rov's turn to be silent, his mouth turning up slowly, slowly, that darkened gaze on Suireh the invoker in a way that lasts; that might even ''speculate''. After one quick breath, he waits.

She waits too. Her pale eyes fixed to him. It's a long time, measured only by the sound of the waves rolling in and then out, retreating back to the deeper ocean. One. Two. Ten. Fifty. "He came," Suireh says, finally, the tense of her words implying ''he'' has now left. She stands for two more breaths and then turns to start walking back to Vhaeryth, that whistle of his with that song of hers pushed out of her pursed lips.

It's a long time to be looking. N'rov might not have started counting immediately; any press of fingers into the outer folds of his jacket pockets is subtle, and even that, if it happens at all, gradually disappears into looking at her. And past; and to her, really to her. He doesn't move to Vhaeryth likewise, not immediately, despite the song; rather, he crouches to pick up, from the gravelly ground, what comes to him. Then he straightens; then he accompanies her on. It's when he too arrives that Vhaeryth lowers himself to be mounted.

She's made it to Vhaeryth before him, by not much, but enough for the young woman to be holding her hand up to the bronze's side, her pale eyes gently intent on the dragon. This is a look and these are eyes not meant for people. It's an odd combination of yearning and regret, resignation and a deep abiding love, and it all disappears when N'rov's feet in that gravel are heard too close behind. "Took you long enough," she finally says.

Vhaeryth's eye is reflective, that single one of his that she can see, that mirrors her in turn; he's dark in this near-lack of light but for those eyes, for the leading edges that only emphasize the shadows. It might not just be the lessened breeze that makes it warmer in his lee; it might be easy to imagine a seeing, a seeing ''her'', and welcoming her all the same. Whether it persists when hers disappears... His rider doesn't speak, though there's a low chuckle. The waves roll and froth without them, will wash onto the shore and take it away when they're long dead. But they're living, now. N'rov reaches for her.

Suireh gives him a look; a look of ''that's not how this works'', her head tilted and turned to try and see him without getting an eyeful of chin.

N'rov, catching that familiar tilt-and-turn, leans to make it easier; of course, he also brushes a kiss onto her eyebrow on the way down. ''He'' looks at her then, expectant.

''If you say so.'' Suireh radiates doubt, even though she steps away from N'rov's hand to reach up to the dragon. A hand to Vhaeryth's reddish-bronze side, she says something, soft into the dragon's hide and with the practice of a long ago weyrbrat who grew up among dragons and their riders, the young woman hoists herself up along the straps, only betraying her lack of more current practice in her landing at the top with an audible ''ooph''. "I might," she says as she tries to situate herself more comfortably, "Be tempted to run off with your dragon."

Vhaeryth mantles his wings, if ''slowly'', once she's settled on high: Suireh, master of all she surveys. N'rov ''is'' shorter looking down there, looking up at her. "You'd abandon me here," the bronzerider says. "With the ''sea monster''." Then, "You'd better buckle in."

She's still shifting around, but eventually does buckle. It's awkward sitting up here alone and the sense that she ''feels'' awkward persists in her continued slight adjustments. "Are you coming?" she asks, suddenly, looking down at N'rov. As if she'd leave him here for a sea monster. Then, a little less plaintively; "My back is getting cold."

It's awkwardness enough that Vhaeryth curves back around to nose towards her knee, if carefully lest he startle her in a ''bad'' way; N'rov's all too quick to remount, nigh as though released from a bow. "Can't have that," he assures, indulgent and yet somehow relieved in his own right. It's later, when they're aloft once more and he's not solely keeping her back warm, that he admits something further to her ear: that he'd asked Vhaeryth about taking her. Just for a short ride, the shortest of rides. That in the end, ''he'' wouldn't do it.

For that confession, or maybe it's just her back is warm now, Suireh smiles, attempting and subsequently failing to secret it behind thin pressed lips. Her reach to her hip then shifts to a blind one that tucks in between her back and his abdomen the shifting weight of her body pressing it close.

If he smiles, it's lost in her hair; N'rov leans in and over her, protective but also to feel that touch closer: to take that with them even through ''between''.
}}

Logs:Tall Tales

2015-11-01T18:38:54Z

Rose: Created page with "{{Log |who=Edyis, Kisva |what=Maryam meets Yesia. |where=Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr |day=25 |month=2 |turn=39 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gamedate=2015.10.31 |type=Log |icons-ne..."

{{Log
|who=Edyis, Kisva
|what=Maryam meets Yesia.
|where=Nighthearth, High Reaches Weyr
|day=25
|month=2
|turn=39
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.31
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon edyis.jpg, Kisva.jpg,
|log=It's late in the evening, and the nighthearth is sparsely occupied by the usual groups of people, some working on mending, others catching a late meal from the stew pot. Edyis herself is settled in one of the seats nearest the fire, still clad in her flight gear. A green firelizard sleeps on the back of her chair, and a still steaming mug of klah rests on a table close at hand. In her lap is a stack of what might be letters; Edyis leafs through them, but they only partially hold her attention. The dark-eyed woman glancing about on occasion to study those around.

"They were ''this'' big," exclaims a teenage girl's voice from the corridor outside, the arms that acccompany her grandiose words just as gesticulatingly big. It's a voice that interrupts the silence of a sparsely occupied room and garners a few eyes upward. Whatever happens outside, it's a lanky, nearly all-limbs girl sauntering in alone and with a heavy, exasperated sigh, she drops into a chair right next to Edyis. So close. There's no belief in personal space here. "Hey, hey!" says Kisva, in a way to catch Edyis's attention, "Ever have those friends you just wish you could throw into a lake some days? Faranth!"

Those dark eyes lift from the letters and focus, the faintest lift of both brows at the sudden introduction of noise. Even the dozing lizard peels back a pair of lids to study the girl. "I am almost afraid to ask what the transgression was." The former scribe notes with an easy smile curling on her lips. "Sounds like quite the story though."

All-Limbs tangles them all up somehow, arms crossed, legs crossed and then stretched oooooooooooooout, far away from her torso. "He won't believe that I killed a tunnelsnake ''this''," Kisva's crossed arms suddenly part, wide, "Big. Down in the tunnels the other night. Said I'd have kept a trophy if I had, but you tell me, why'd anyone want to keep a trophy of a tunnelsnake, right? I'm right." She's ''always'' right. "If he doesn't believe a word I say when I tell him, I swear on Faranth's golden arse! Then I ask you, why should we even be friends? Right?"

Edyis listens silently, appraisingly, and as the girl continues that smile grows a little sharper. "Truly? I'm surprised then, usually the ones that large stay together and tend to be rather poisonous." Leaning over the arm of her chair, the letters settled to the side for a moment. "The teeth actually make for a fine necklace. I have one that a friend made. We could find the skull and pry them out, He could weave them into something for you possibly." Her tone lacking any trace of skepticism or disbelief. "I suppose that depends, does it bother you that much that he doesn't believe you?"

"Oh, ''whatever''," says Kisva, shaking her head with exasperation at the sheer logic of it all. Her arms throw up too, and she's quiet for the shortest amount of time to look about the room. "Quiet in here at night, ain't it? Can't hear my own thoughts, it's so quiet."

Edyis doesn't bother masking her disappointment. Perhaps expecting more of a story, or perhaps not, when the silence is again pierced the brownrider gives a thoughtful glance around the cavern. "I suppose this late it can be a bit dull. What do you normally do when it's too quiet to hear yourself think?" She wonders placidly.

Kisva flashes Edyis something that's a cross between a broad grin and a smirk. "I hunt for tunnelsnakes." The girl gets up and stalks to study the hearth, her head poking towards the pot and flinching when steam curls right up into her face. "What d'ya do here? Why are you reading? ''What'' are you reading?" The last question reminds her of her companion, and she ambles over to try and peer over the rider's shoulder.

"Mm, you should be careful then." The papers are settled in such a way as the contents aren't easily glimpsed, "I fly Snowdrift typically." Edyis answers with a smirk, "And as to the why because it was quiet in here and I found it easier to concentrate." She laughs, "As to the what, just a few dusty letters about boring things like crops and trade. Nothing really interesting, and certainly not as interesting as tunnelsnakes." She pauses, "I don't think I caught your name."

Kisva shrugs. "Most people call me hey you, but I guess if you want, you can call me Maryam." But ''names'' are so boring. She ties to catch a glimpse of those obscured documents and when it seems a futile exercise, shakes her head, rolls her eyes expressively and reclaims her seat, but this time, turning the chair ''around'' so she can straddle it, tipping it forward to look at Edyis. "What's your name? You're a dragonrider?"

"Yesia of Green Aeaeth." The brownrider notes, with faint amusement. Watchful, studying. "So you hunt tunnelsnakes, and don't like the quiet Maryum what other things do you do for fun." Leaning in conspiratorially.

"I deliver the mail," says Kisva, giving up on Edyis's documents in its entirety. She puts her heads behind her neck, elbows out and whistles airily. "When they found out I could read good, they put me to work sorting out all the mail that comes in here. You lot get a lot of mail for people with mindreading dragons attached to your heads. Is it true your dragon can read your mind? Is it true that you have sex with anyone your dragon makes you once a month? You're a greenrider right? Are they ''really'' all whores?"

Something causes a faint twitch in the brownrider's smile, her eyes glittering with amusement. "I bet you read all kinds of interesting and embarrassing things delivering the mail." For the talk of dragons and sex there's a nose wrinkle, "More like four times a year usually, but Aeaeth has ''moods''." There's a flip of her braid with the assertion, "And of course ''all'' greenriders aren't ''whores'', are all mail people so nosy?" Putting on an offended air.

Kisva is unable to mask her absolute disappointment in Edyis's response, whether it's from ''what'' the dragonrider says or ''how'' it's spoken. She sniffs and tosses her head, the curls bouncing cheerfully. "Aw shucks, Yesia, I was just ''asking''. I mean, I can't help what I ''hear'' and," another sniff concludes that unfinished thought. "Well, I'll be seein' ya around." The lanky girl rises, pushing the chair back down and backing away from it.

Edyis seems determined to remain offended, but there's a shrug, "Maybe." Is the brownrider's only answer, but she does watch the girl as she departs shaking her head to herself and smiling when she thinks Kisva's not looking. The letters are shuffled and she resumes her reading.
|Categories=General Logs
}}

FTW:Search FAQ

2015-10-28T14:42:02Z

Rose: Replaced content with "Down for updates."

Down for updates.

Logs:Negotiating For a Body

2015-10-28T03:00:37Z

Rose:

{{Log
|who=Prinavi, Azaylia
|what=Telgar's Weyrwoman visits High Reaches to discuss Iskiveth and, more importantly, Teris.
|where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Weyr
|day=11
|month=6
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.12.03
|mentions=Teris,
|type=Log
|st=Rose
|log=Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Viyareth's intrusion is subtle, first a flicker of lights on a dark horizon and then gently creeping in from the side into the Reachian senior queen's thoughts. << Good afternoon, >> is Telgar's polite greeting. << Prinavi would visit High Reaches and see your rider if she might have the time. >> One might suspect that this is a far more coached requested than the rider might be capable of given the mild twinges of exasperation causing the most peripheral lights to flicker in and out.

Dragon> A foreigner on the borders of her thoughts brings about a low rumble from Hraedhyth's drums, the subtle touch reminiscent of stealth. At Viyareth's greeting she's much more amiable, fire lit in warm welcome, << You and Yours are welcome. >> It could be she's made the decision herself, for it's only now that Azaylia's presence weighs in, << Mine waits in the council room. >> Chambers. Whichever.

Viyareth's coming is swift, almost as if she was poised mid-flight for the acceptance of her request and just betweening. When she emerges high above, there's a rumbled greeting for the watchrider on the Spires and an immediate downward path. Once Telgar's queen lands, the rider pauses, poised at the top to survey her surroundings, a long, leisurely glance taking in the various openings and the types of people going into them. It's the stairs, however, that lead up towards the Weyrleaders' cavern system that Prinavi strides up, once she's dismounted, pausing there to regain her bearings. Making a best guess at it ends up with her backing out of an empty junior goldrider's weyr and it's the third guess that has her approaching the council room.

There's a roar from Hraedhyth, a greeting, while she remains perched on a high ledge and the blue it belongs to. Viyareth has landed, and her rider has dismounted, but Prinavi doesn't immediately appear in the council room. It's a few minutes before Azaylia stands, caught halfway out of her chair when the Telgar Senior arrives, "Oh." She commits to standing, pushing back her chair to approach Prinavi, "High Reaches duties to Telgar, Weyrwoman." Motioning to a chair, she returns to her seat only if the other woman sits as well. "I can only guess as to the reason of your visit." Not that she intends to voice it.

"I got lost," says Prinavi breathlessly, doffing her gloves as her riding cap's already at hand. Her dark hair's braided and coiled about her head in two doughnut-like spirals at the nape and the sting of between's chill lingers in a ruddy mask on her cheeks. "I've never visited High Reaches before." But that's not why she's here, and catching glance of that motion to sit, the young woman opts to stand for a second longer in, not quite insolence, but at least careful regard of the situation, the room, the woman she speaks to. Dark eyes travel the length of Azaylia up and down before settling on her face, and a small cat-like smile curves before it flattens into solemnity. "Can you?" The gloves tap twice on her leg before she moves, really slinks, to the chair indicated and sits in the one next to it. "Should we exchange pleasantries first, Weyrwoman? Prinavi, rider of Viyareth who was clutched out of Iskiveth turns ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." As if Prinavi's getting lost was her fault, and surely Azaylia can twist it to be. "One of those things-- been living here for so long I forget not everyone knows the ins and outs." It's obvious that the Reachian Weyrwoman is alert, bordering on tense, though that could just be nerves. She's still polite, and certainly genuine, whether it is to be believed or not. Azaylia couldn't have been far from the council chambers, but the unexpected nature of the visit is found in her sundress and the lack of prepared refreshments. They're likely on their way. There's a curl of her lips as Prinavi sits, an odd expression that is closer to curiosity than anything settling as she returns to her seat. "I thought I was, but... Azaylia, rider of Hraedhyth." She doesn't seem surprised at Viyareth's lineage, but there are only so many gold dragons on Pern. "I'm sorry this happened." To her dragon's dam, or at all.

"Frankly," Prinavi starts, her voice not bothering to lower in the tones of confiding. Instead, it's as frank as she starts out with. "Teris hasn't been an asset to Telgar in turns and this may have been a blessing in disguise." The tone and words are clinical, at odds with the youthful, pliably cuddly vision the physical manifestation the Telgar Weyrwoman makes. A long moment passes where the goldrider's eyes linger on the dress, and the smile suddenly floats back and ''this'', this Prinavi has the decency to aside in a lowered voice, "After all this is over, you'll have to tell me who your weaver is. I love that fabric."

Azaylia's startled by the words, by the blunt honesty of them-- or what she believes to be the truth. "That..." Yes, even after so long the Weyrwoman can be surprised when meeting with other leaders. And yet, "Is sad to hear." If not eerily familiar. Still, "Too much death. Too many ''golds'' going between." If Prinavi's goal is to keep her on her toes, mission accomplished. The compliment earns several blinks, and she smooths her hand over the thin, layered fabric. "O-oh. Thank you, I... I like to try different weavers. This is from Igen, actually." Wait. She gives a little shake of her head, "But, about Teris." Her hands fold in front of her, "I take it that means you don't want to see her, during your visit?"

Prinavi sits back, her gloves coming to be placed properly in her lap, draped across her riding cap. "But," lest Azaylia get too comfortable in the side note about clothes and the confession of Teris, "Whether she was addicted to fellis or not, or Impressed and birthed at High Reaches, she is ''our'' rider." She lets that statement hang in the air, succinct, for once in this conversation.

Addicted to fellis? Clearly news to Azaylia, her brows raising as she listens, though there is a knowing squint as it suddenly becomes clear. "You'd like her back at Telgar?" And if that's the case, "I have no objections. She was of your Weyr, after all."

"It's not a subject we care to bandy about in public." Prinavi says shortly. But in the next moment she's relenting and warmer, a free hand rising to rest on the table's edge. "I didn't learn of it until I became Weyrwoman and then J'sran let me in on the horrible little secret. Most of our riders are not aware. The ones who suspect well-," the young woman shrugs elegantly in spite of her riding leathers. "It is lucky it was not Iskiveth who rose after-," and her the Telgar Weyrwoman purses her lips and looks to Azaylia a long long long moment. "After the leadership vacuum left by Torani." Which is, apparently, another subject they don't care to ''bandy about in public''. "You won't mention this outside of this room, please?"

Azaylia is at a loss for words, not wanting to offend even as Prinavi has no qualms when it comes to Teris. "Yes," She finally decides, "It certainly sounds as though you and Viyareth were much better suited." Not just a compliment, but fact given what she knows now. The question for confidentiality comes just as she's becoming particularly pensive, thoughtful gaze lifting with surprise. "Oh! Of course not. You have my word." Though, "I'm... could that have been part of the reason? For Iskiveth being suddenly lost between?" It's still a mystery, after all.

Prinavi considers a spot on the table. Not a real spot, just a place her eyes latch onto. Her voice, this low alto begins slowly, as if words are being fed to her, or she has to think each one out word by word, "Telgar Weyr absolves High Reaches of ''any''," and on this word, she looks up to look at Azaylia, "Fault in this matter. Nor do we desire your Weyr to investigate further. It was an accident. We accept it as such. But Teris-," the young woman's face softens, her lower lip catching in between her teeth as she exhales out the corners of her mouth. "I remember when I Impressed and her dragon was the clutch dam. She was a striking, difficult to understand, woman. She deserves dignity and the accounts out of High Reaches are alarming. That the healers are denying her this last act. No matter what my personal opinion of her is, she deserves this respect. I thank you for being gracious in allowing our rider back."

For all of it, perhaps Azaylia is ''too'' genuine. More surprise, and then her expression fades into soft consideration as Prinavi speaks, until her face is set in regret. "Thank you, Prinavi. I am still very sorry you lost a queen." Her brows become heavy and she gives a curt nod, sudden and stern. "I'm glad to. I apologize for not offering sooner. The healers here... They don't understand. Or perhaps they can't. But you ''will'' have her back." Even if those same healers intend to make it a difficult task, it'll be seen through.

"You have your hands full with figuring out if one of your riders was involved in a queen's death. Tragedy seems to plague High Reaches, one way or another," says the goldrider who took over a Weyrwomanship with tenuous legality. "As I have your permission, I will visit the infirmary and speak with the healers about relinquishing her care to our Weyr. Thank you, Azaylia." Sincerity suddenly dissolves the formality of Prinavi's poise and once again she's glancing wistfully at the fabric. "I was needing an excuse to go visit with Nimae and get the gossip from her directly. Igen, right?" The curvaceous young woman stands and tucks her riding gloves and hooks her riding cap along her belt. "It was a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm only just starting to get my bearings. Clear skies to you and your Weyr."

Azaylia lets out a soft hum, more of a displeased grind when Prinavi first speaks, but she doesn't argue. "It does. But, tragic or not, it's still home." She gives a soft nod, standing as Prinavi does, manners not forgotten. "Igen, yes." It's not wistful, but there might be a hint of longing for the Telgar Weyrwoman's ability to visit freely. "You're welcome to visit as you like, Prinavi. If the healers are difficult, please let me know." She gathers up her things, looking to return to her work and the spot she's picked for herself ''outside''. "Clear skies."
|Categories=The Death of Teris Logs
|when=day 11, month 6, turn 36 of interval 10
}}

Logs:Negotiating For a Body

2015-10-28T02:56:03Z

Rose:

{{Log
|who=Rose{{!}}Prinavi, Azaylia
|what=Telgar's Weyrwoman visits High Reaches to discuss Iskiveth and, more importantly, Teris.
|where=Council Chambers, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Weyr
|day=11
|month=6
|turn=36
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2014.12.03
|mentions=Teris,
|type=Log
|log=Dragon> To Hraedhyth, Viyareth's intrusion is subtle, first a flicker of lights on a dark horizon and then gently creeping in from the side into the Reachian senior queen's thoughts. << Good afternoon, >> is Telgar's polite greeting. << Prinavi would visit High Reaches and see your rider if she might have the time. >> One might suspect that this is a far more coached requested than the rider might be capable of given the mild twinges of exasperation causing the most peripheral lights to flicker in and out.

Dragon> A foreigner on the borders of her thoughts brings about a low rumble from Hraedhyth's drums, the subtle touch reminiscent of stealth. At Viyareth's greeting she's much more amiable, fire lit in warm welcome, << You and Yours are welcome. >> It could be she's made the decision herself, for it's only now that Azaylia's presence weighs in, << Mine waits in the council room. >> Chambers. Whichever.

Viyareth's coming is swift, almost as if she was poised mid-flight for the acceptance of her request and just betweening. When she emerges high above, there's a rumbled greeting for the watchrider on the Spires and an immediate downward path. Once Telgar's queen lands, the rider pauses, poised at the top to survey her surroundings, a long, leisurely glance taking in the various openings and the types of people going into them. It's the stairs, however, that lead up towards the Weyrleaders' cavern system that Prinavi strides up, once she's dismounted, pausing there to regain her bearings. Making a best guess at it ends up with her backing out of an empty junior goldrider's weyr and it's the third guess that has her approaching the council room.

There's a roar from Hraedhyth, a greeting, while she remains perched on a high ledge and the blue it belongs to. Viyareth has landed, and her rider has dismounted, but Prinavi doesn't immediately appear in the council room. It's a few minutes before Azaylia stands, caught halfway out of her chair when the Telgar Senior arrives, "Oh." She commits to standing, pushing back her chair to approach Prinavi, "High Reaches duties to Telgar, Weyrwoman." Motioning to a chair, she returns to her seat only if the other woman sits as well. "I can only guess as to the reason of your visit." Not that she intends to voice it.

"I got lost," says Prinavi breathlessly, doffing her gloves as her riding cap's already at hand. Her dark hair's braided and coiled about her head in two doughnut-like spirals at the nape and the sting of between's chill lingers in a ruddy mask on her cheeks. "I've never visited High Reaches before." But that's not why she's here, and catching glance of that motion to sit, the young woman opts to stand for a second longer in, not quite insolence, but at least careful regard of the situation, the room, the woman she speaks to. Dark eyes travel the length of Azaylia up and down before settling on her face, and a small cat-like smile curves before it flattens into solemnity. "Can you?" The gloves tap twice on her leg before she moves, really slinks, to the chair indicated and sits in the one next to it. "Should we exchange pleasantries first, Weyrwoman? Prinavi, rider of Viyareth who was clutched out of Iskiveth turns ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry." As if Prinavi's getting lost was her fault, and surely Azaylia can twist it to be. "One of those things-- been living here for so long I forget not everyone knows the ins and outs." It's obvious that the Reachian Weyrwoman is alert, bordering on tense, though that could just be nerves. She's still polite, and certainly genuine, whether it is to be believed or not. Azaylia couldn't have been far from the council chambers, but the unexpected nature of the visit is found in her sundress and the lack of prepared refreshments. They're likely on their way. There's a curl of her lips as Prinavi sits, an odd expression that is closer to curiosity than anything settling as she returns to her seat. "I thought I was, but... Azaylia, rider of Hraedhyth." She doesn't seem surprised at Viyareth's lineage, but there are only so many gold dragons on Pern. "I'm sorry this happened." To her dragon's dam, or at all.

"Frankly," Prinavi starts, her voice not bothering to lower in the tones of confiding. Instead, it's as frank as she starts out with. "Teris hasn't been an asset to Telgar in turns and this may have been a blessing in disguise." The tone and words are clinical, at odds with the youthful, pliably cuddly vision the physical manifestation the Telgar Weyrwoman makes. A long moment passes where the goldrider's eyes linger on the dress, and the smile suddenly floats back and ''this'', this Prinavi has the decency to aside in a lowered voice, "After all this is over, you'll have to tell me who your weaver is. I love that fabric."

Azaylia's startled by the words, by the blunt honesty of them-- or what she believes to be the truth. "That..." Yes, even after so long the Weyrwoman can be surprised when meeting with other leaders. And yet, "Is sad to hear." If not eerily familiar. Still, "Too much death. Too many ''golds'' going between." If Prinavi's goal is to keep her on her toes, mission accomplished. The compliment earns several blinks, and she smooths her hand over the thin, layered fabric. "O-oh. Thank you, I... I like to try different weavers. This is from Igen, actually." Wait. She gives a little shake of her head, "But, about Teris." Her hands fold in front of her, "I take it that means you don't want to see her, during your visit?"

Prinavi sits back, her gloves coming to be placed properly in her lap, draped across her riding cap. "But," lest Azaylia get too comfortable in the side note about clothes and the confession of Teris, "Whether she was addicted to fellis or not, or Impressed and birthed at High Reaches, she is ''our'' rider." She lets that statement hang in the air, succinct, for once in this conversation.

Addicted to fellis? Clearly news to Azaylia, her brows raising as she listens, though there is a knowing squint as it suddenly becomes clear. "You'd like her back at Telgar?" And if that's the case, "I have no objections. She was of your Weyr, after all."

"It's not a subject we care to bandy about in public." Prinavi says shortly. But in the next moment she's relenting and warmer, a free hand rising to rest on the table's edge. "I didn't learn of it until I became Weyrwoman and then J'sran let me in on the horrible little secret. Most of our riders are not aware. The ones who suspect well-," the young woman shrugs elegantly in spite of her riding leathers. "It is lucky it was not Iskiveth who rose after-," and her the Telgar Weyrwoman purses her lips and looks to Azaylia a long long long moment. "After the leadership vacuum left by Torani." Which is, apparently, another subject they don't care to ''bandy about in public''. "You won't mention this outside of this room, please?"

Azaylia is at a loss for words, not wanting to offend even as Prinavi has no qualms when it comes to Teris. "Yes," She finally decides, "It certainly sounds as though you and Viyareth were much better suited." Not just a compliment, but fact given what she knows now. The question for confidentiality comes just as she's becoming particularly pensive, thoughtful gaze lifting with surprise. "Oh! Of course not. You have my word." Though, "I'm... could that have been part of the reason? For Iskiveth being suddenly lost between?" It's still a mystery, after all.

Prinavi considers a spot on the table. Not a real spot, just a place her eyes latch onto. Her voice, this low alto begins slowly, as if words are being fed to her, or she has to think each one out word by word, "Telgar Weyr absolves High Reaches of ''any''," and on this word, she looks up to look at Azaylia, "Fault in this matter. Nor do we desire your Weyr to investigate further. It was an accident. We accept it as such. But Teris-," the young woman's face softens, her lower lip catching in between her teeth as she exhales out the corners of her mouth. "I remember when I Impressed and her dragon was the clutch dam. She was a striking, difficult to understand, woman. She deserves dignity and the accounts out of High Reaches are alarming. That the healers are denying her this last act. No matter what my personal opinion of her is, she deserves this respect. I thank you for being gracious in allowing our rider back."

For all of it, perhaps Azaylia is ''too'' genuine. More surprise, and then her expression fades into soft consideration as Prinavi speaks, until her face is set in regret. "Thank you, Prinavi. I am still very sorry you lost a queen." Her brows become heavy and she gives a curt nod, sudden and stern. "I'm glad to. I apologize for not offering sooner. The healers here... They don't understand. Or perhaps they can't. But you ''will'' have her back." Even if those same healers intend to make it a difficult task, it'll be seen through.

"You have your hands full with figuring out if one of your riders was involved in a queen's death. Tragedy seems to plague High Reaches, one way or another," says the goldrider who took over a Weyrwomanship with tenuous legality. "As I have your permission, I will visit the infirmary and speak with the healers about relinquishing her care to our Weyr. Thank you, Azaylia." Sincerity suddenly dissolves the formality of Prinavi's poise and once again she's glancing wistfully at the fabric. "I was needing an excuse to go visit with Nimae and get the gossip from her directly. Igen, right?" The curvaceous young woman stands and tucks her riding gloves and hooks her riding cap along her belt. "It was a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm only just starting to get my bearings. Clear skies to you and your Weyr."

Azaylia lets out a soft hum, more of a displeased grind when Prinavi first speaks, but she doesn't argue. "It does. But, tragic or not, it's still home." She gives a soft nod, standing as Prinavi does, manners not forgotten. "Igen, yes." It's not wistful, but there might be a hint of longing for the Telgar Weyrwoman's ability to visit freely. "You're welcome to visit as you like, Prinavi. If the healers are difficult, please let me know." She gathers up her things, looking to return to her work and the spot she's picked for herself ''outside''. "Clear skies."
|Categories=The Death of Teris Logs
|when=day 11, month 6, turn 36 of interval 10
}}

Logs talk:To End A Man's Life

2015-10-15T02:28:11Z

Rose: Comment provided by Rose - via ArticleComments extension

<noinclude>Comments on [[Logs:To End A Man's Life]]
----- __NOEDITSECTION__</noinclude>

==Faryn (18:48, 14 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Damn.
==Moe (19:15, 14 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

Ouch.
==Rose (19:28, 14 October 2015 (PDT)) said... ==

I am surprised Edyis feels that way, even grieving.... Pern culture generally feels very conflicted about killing dragons.

Suireh

2015-10-13T15:23:23Z

Rose:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Suireh.jpg
|body=== Description ==
A steadiness prevails about this slight teenager, from the arch of slender brows over large, steadfast gray eyes and the way her thin lips are set in an ever-so neutral expression near constantly. Standing just shy of five feet, Suireh is a lithe girl, her thin carriage carried in what the kind might call regal, while the uncharitable might discern notes of an insolent arrogance, a certain better-than-you demeanor. Her glossy dark hair is generally kept in two plaits that fall down her back to her waist. Her attire is a predominately white shift dress with pale blue trim, over which she wears a fur vest that cuts just above her waist. On her feet are a pair of thin suede slippers dyed harper blue.

= WYSK =
* Daughter of former Weyrleader pair, Satiet and R'hin at High reaches. Twin to Riahla. Niece of Anvori and Leova. Was born at the Weyr and moved away just prior to her mother's death to live with her maternal grandmother until her uncle brought them back to the Weyr.

* Apprenticed at Harper Hall at twelve, but then quit after a year due to homesickness.

* Stood for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch and then the subsequent Monaco clutch and failed to Impress. It was no secret she was 'groomed' for gold at Monaco.

* Returned to Harper Hall with recommendations from Rorkes, her vocal instructor, and begged her way back in. Then tested well enough into automatic senior apprenticeship.

* Was promoted to Journeyman, a month shy of turning 19. Tapped initially as composition and vocalization Master Berme's special student.

* Ended up switching to being Masterharper Vesik's errand girl. There's a lot of gossip as to how she came into her position.

* Went off the grid shortly after her grandfather passed away and between the months 2 and 8 of turn 36, was seen in various small venues (small holds, cotholds, trading camps) from Tillek to Igen.

= Family =
{{Family}}
{{FamilyEnd}}

= Relationships =
== Harper Life ==
* [[Vesik]] - As you wish.
* Erablen - Making sense of the chaos of my mind.
* [[N'rov]] - You put me at ease. But.

== My Past ==
* [[Anvori]] - In retrospect, I'm sorry I shut you out of my life after I grew up.
* Jaspen - Life is simple with you, but I cannot stay simple for you.
* [[Leova]] - The mother I never had. The mother I wish I had.
* [[R'hin]] - Even in death, you're predictable, but I'd be lying if I said I thought it would happen now. Any time. I don't know, it's complicated.
* [[Riahla]] - We only have each other now. Let's try not to waste it.
* [[Satiet]] - My idol. But... I don't even know if I know who you were.

=Logs =

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

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

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

=Icons=
{{Icons}}

}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Harpers]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Monaco_Weyr]]

Logs:Leiventh's Gone

2015-10-13T15:08:41Z

Rose:

{{Log
|who=Leova, Anvori
|what=A lazy day off, sans kids, is interrupted by tragedy.
|where=Leova's weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|mentions=R'hin, Suireh, Riahla, Torani
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova.jpg, Icon anvori.png,
|log=Three children, one dragon, and a bar: it isn't always easy to get away, especially on a winter's day, but ''today'' the fire's burning merrily and it's just them, weyrmates. It might even be a Turnday present of sorts, instead of just the day before. Except. Leova constricts in Anvori's arms, the rasp in her throat a hard echo of Vrianth's ululating keen.

His hand runs lazily up and down her back, the very tips of blunted nails initially feather light against her skin until the firm set of his palm curves over her buttocks. He's about to pull her in closer, if that's possible, his face mussing her hair by burrowing in and the body, complacently soft with age, turned towards her for perhaps another- and yet no. He stills, the keening from outside all too audible and the woman inside, noticably ''not'' with him anymore. He stops moving, his own heart audibly thumping with the known, but unknowns. He even seems to stop breathing as he ''waits''.

She's keened for other dragons. When they're together. When they're apart. Not like this. Her back arches, Leova's, Vrianth's. It's Vrianth that knocks chairs over, the table, to ''get to her'': always demanding her rider, Leova, ''hers''. Vrianth grieves, and Leova lifts higher, to her knees over him now, reaching for the narrow muzzle that bumps down to her. "It's ''them'', Anvori," like he should know. He ''would'' know, if he'd left that fisherhold sooner.

''Them''. Anvori nods in that long practiced comforting way of his; the way he is with drunks who sob their stories, of people who ''need'' to confide their secrets to him. That nod and that cultivated calming ''shhhhhhhhhhh'', when he knows absolutely nothing. But there's no comfort in someone who is ignorant. His hands have slipped away, no longer embracing her as she reaches for her dragon, instead, his fingers have reached down to press lightly against her hip bone. Touching without being in ''her'' way.

Drunks. Confiders. ''Babies.'' Leova may be none of them, but she does ''need''. He's not in Vrianth's way, not in Leova's, the green rumbling uneasily downward into a note discordant with her earlier vocalizations' echoes. "Leiventh. He was ''killed''. Anvori? He was ''killed''." Her knees squeeze against him, her hand plants on his chest, somewhere south of his heart. Her shoulders lift upward like wings.

This type of conversation, where Leova holds all the pieces and Anvori is merely a spectator, is not foreign to them. Over the turns, it's gotten easier for him to manage and figure out what to do, or how to fill in those gaping holes that she doesn't think to fill until later. It's clear he's halfway to filling the holes ''before'' she speaks, when she does speak and that abruptly stills his body in a way it wasn't quite so still before. He's stone against her hand, that knee of hers squeezing against a wall and while his voice is calm in the name he names, "R'hin?" the swallows preceding and proceeding it speak to something deeper.

"R'hin," him too. Suireh's father, yes. Riahala's. Their not-quite-daughters'. Those amber eyes are dark, all pupils. "We. I don't know." It's not that her gaze goes absent, it's that those pupils hold the vastness of space, of ''everything''. "They're saying Monaco did it. That it caught up to him at last. But ''Leiventh''."

Some part of Anvori relaxes. Some part of him is now allowed to breathe. ''Leiventh''. Not R'hin. He swallows again and the finger at her hips warms slowly, and his body melts into that knee, his arms coming up to encompass her gently, still mindful not to get in Vrianth's way, and his lips crush into her forehead. "Leiventh and R'hin were killed." He is trying to muddle through the disjoint information to figure it all out. "''Killed''. '''Jays'''! Monaco had him murdered?"

Turns and Turns and she's drawn down into him, her other refuge. She squirms once: Vrianth has a cold muzzle, but at least it's nudging her hip, not his. She can still touch her dragon with one hand. "They had to go ''apart'', Anvori. He didn't get to go with him. It was Feyzeth's, with a knife. I... at the ''Gather''. So glad we didn't go. So glad."

"Feyzath's." Again with the knowing nod that is not knowing at all. It's something he can look up later and has no bearing now. Low words, "It was good to stay in," least of all because of murder and mayhem at Crom, but also- ''this''. This where he's holding her, on what had been a lazy, uninterrupted winter morning and afternoon. Had. "Do you-?" He hesitates, feeling her squirm and draping one leg over hers to calm her against him, bring her close. "Do you need to go see to anything?"

"I..." Leova softens further for her weyrmate, loosening, sliding to the side so it's not as ''close'' but they face each other still. "No. They're gone now. Oh, Vrianth. But I'll have to. The girls. Why did they have to die like ''this'', Anvori? I thought Leiventh was slipping, but that it would be a mis-''between''. Or..." Her lips press together.

Though ''thinking'' is so hard with a warm body within intimate proximity, or well, even ''more'' intimate proximity, Anvori somehow manages ''to'' think well enough to ask, "Slipping?" Though he doesn't sound to invested, his hand reaching to try and shift his hips closer and entwine their legs again.

Entwining is easy, familiar, welcome. There's still ''distraction'' to her, and not the warm-body warm-weyrmate kind. But. "He never was warm. Leiventh. Except maybe in his way. They'd spark, she liked that. But." Leova turns her head to look up to Vrianth, more of a canopy now. "They were having problems. Him and Leiventh. R'hin wouldn't admit to it. I saw... I asked around, some, on the quiet."

News to him, and he stops trying to distract her, giving up for now. "I didn't realize dragons and riders could ... have problems." The implication of his tone being ''with each other'' left unsaid.

"If it is... I think it ''might'' be what happened, over at Telgar," his weyrmate says very quietly. She's cold. "It's rare. A ''dragon'' being not right in the head, anymore." As though it goes against Nature: inherently, world-shakingly ''wrong''. "But we can't let it get around, Anvori. Not yet. Could be something else. And they're dead."

In normal conversations he might be drawn to that coldness, rub the warmth in, bring a laugh and a smile to her face for his continued incorrigibleness. Now, he just holds her, listening both to understand and just to be a listener for her thoughts. "No, we can't," he echoes, "I would like to go see the girls. It'll be hard for them with just the murder aspect, add in the fact their father was already dying and taken too early..."

"Give them the letter," Leova says bleakly. Had she mentioned the letter? "I don't know what else... but we should get there soon. At least Riahla has Zeth. Suireh. I don't even know if she's at Harper. But. They'd know."

"At the same time? Or separately?" The letter. Anvori's face sets in an inscrutable way, his mouth suddenly pressed firm and his glazed eyes looking directly at Vrianth. "When did he give it to you?"

"I..." She has no answer. Except sometimes he does, when she doesn't. "Whatever you think." Leova's hand tightens around his arm. "When? It was... ''sevens'' ago. But it's put away. I can find it." Vrianth's eyes are dark. Yellowed, still. Swift-whirling. Facets may reflect him, but as part of her rider. Any reassurance he draws is his own.

"Separately," decides Anvori, eyes averting from Vrianth abruptly, but not to look at Leova. It pains him, this subject, and the wince at ''sevens'' ago visibly contorts his angular face. "I am not sure the fact he left them one letter to share will sit well at this hour."

"No." Agreement, not disagreement. Then, "Vrianth says she is coping. That Zeth says. Riahla." Leova asks, near-silent, "What are you thinking?"

"Leova," his arms are suddenly crushing so he can bury his face in her neck and hair. He's ''not'' crying.

''She's'' crying, now. Can't get blood from a stone, but: this isn't blood. In this, she's no stone. She never really is. "Our girls."

"When you go," when, not if, Anvori, for once, is valiantly ignoring her crying, "Take me with you." But it's the despairing words of a man who knows it's not possible. No way. No how. He's just ''saying'' it to get it out finally.

That crying's so rough in her throat. It tears her up, and then he. He. She holds him like she could make ''going'' never happen. No. She holds him like she can't not.

He holds her in a crushing embrace and she cries, and they cling to each other, each with their own, slightly different, sorrow-filled reasons.

They'll have to get up. To wash. To clothe. To speak to their children, to explain what they can and that they'll be back, but their cousins have lost their daddy and their cousins need them now. To ''go''. There's Harper, and there's Suireh. There's Riahla, who in time will come. There's a letter to give, but not yet. Not yet.
}}

Logs:Leiventh's Gone

2015-10-13T15:07:39Z

Rose: Created page with "{{Log |who=Leova, Anvori |what=A lazy day off, sans kids, is interrupted by tragedy. |where=Leova's weyr, High Reaches Weyr |involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |day=18 |mon..."

{{Log
|who=Leova, Anvori
|what=A lazy day off, sans kids, is interrupted by tragedy.
|where=Leova's weyr, High Reaches Weyr
|involves=High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.11
|mentions=R'hin, Suireh, Riahla, Torani
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon leova.jpg, Icon anvori.png,
|log=Three children, one dragon, and a bar: it isn't always easy to get away, especially on a winter's day, but ''today'' the fire's burning merrily and it's just them, weyrmates. It might even be a Turnday present of sorts, instead of just the day before. Except. Leova constricts in Anvori's arms, the rasp in her throat a hard echo of Vrianth's ululating keen.

His hand runs lazily up and down her back, the very tips of blunted nails initially feather light against her skin until the firm set of his palm curves over her buttocks. He's about to pull her in closer, if that's possible, his face mussing her hair by burrowing in and the body, complacently soft with age, turned towards her for perhaps another- and yet no. He stills, the keening from outside all too audible and the woman inside, noticably ''not'' with him anymore. He stops moving, his own heart audibly thumping with the known, but unknowns. He even seems to stop breathing as he ''waits''.

She's keened for other dragons. When they're together. When they're apart. Not like this. Her back arches, Leova's, Vrianth's. It's Vrianth that knocks chairs over, the table, to ''get to her'': always demanding her rider, Leova, ''hers''. Vrianth grieves, and Leova lifts higher, to her knees over him now, reaching for the narrow muzzle that bumps down to her. "It's ''them'', Anvori," like he should know. He ''would'' know, if he'd left that fisherhold sooner.

''Them''. Anvori nods in that long practiced comforting way of his; the way he is with drunks who sob their stories, of people who ''need'' to confide their secrets to him. That nod and that cultivated calming ''shhhhhhhhhhh'', when he knows absolutely nothing. But there's no comfort in someone who is ignorant. His hands have slipped away, no longer embracing her as she reaches for her dragon, instead, his fingers have reached down to press lightly against her hip bone. Touching without being in ''her'' way.

Drunks. Confiders. ''Babies.'' Leova may be none of them, but she does ''need''. He's not in Vrianth's way, not in Leova's, the green rumbling uneasily downward into a note discordant with her earlier vocalizations' echoes. "Leiventh. He was ''killed''. Anvori? He was ''killed''." Her knees squeeze against him, her hand plants on his chest, somewhere south of his heart. Her shoulders lift upward like wings.

This type of conversation, where Leova holds all the pieces and Anvori is merely a spectator, is not foreign to them. Over the turns, it's gotten easier for him to manage and figure out what to do, or how to fill in those gaping holes that she doesn't think to fill until later. It's clear he's halfway to filling the holes ''before'' she speaks, when she does speak and that abruptly stills his body in a way it wasn't quite so still before. He's stone against her hand, that knee of hers squeezing against a wall and while his voice is calm in the name he names, "R'hin?" the swallows preceding and proceeding it speak to something deeper.

"R'hin," him too. Suireh's father, yes. Riahala's. Their not-quite-daughters'. Those amber eyes are dark, all pupils. "We. I don't know." It's not that her gaze goes absent, it's that those pupils hold the vastness of space, of ''everything''. "They're saying Monaco did it. That it caught up to him at last. But ''Leiventh''."

Some part of Anvori relaxes. Some part of him is now allowed to breathe. ''Leiventh''. Not R'hin. He swallows again and the finger at her hips warms slowly, and his body melts into that knee, his arms coming up to encompass her gently, still mindful not to get in Vrianth's way, and his lips crush into her forehead. "Leiventh and R'hin were killed." He is trying to muddle through the disjoint information to figure it all out. "''Killed''. '''Jays'''! Monaco had him murdered?"

Turns and Turns and she's drawn down into him, her other refuge. She squirms once: Vrianth has a cold muzzle, but at least it's nudging her hip, not his. She can still touch her dragon with one hand. "They had to go ''apart'', Anvori. He didn't get to go with him. It was Feyzeth's, with a knife. I... at the ''Gather''. So glad we didn't go. So glad."

"Feyzath's." Again with the knowing nod that is not knowing at all. It's something he can look up later and has no bearing now. Low words, "It was good to stay in," least of all because of murder and mayhem at Crom, but also- ''this''. This where he's holding her, on what had been a lazy, uninterrupted winter morning and afternoon. Had. "Do you-?" He hesitates, feeling her squirm and draping one leg over hers to calm her against him, bring her close. "Do you need to go see to anything?"

"I..." Leova softens further for her weyrmate, loosening, sliding to the side so it's not as ''close'' but they face each other still. "No. They're gone now. Oh, Vrianth. But I'll have to. The girls. Why did they have to die like ''this'', Anvori? I thought Leiventh was slipping, but that it would be a mis-''between''. Or..." Her lips press together.

It's a good thing they are not quite as close now, for without the distraction of her body warm against his, he can ''think'' well enough to voice sharply, "Slipping?"

Though ''thinking'' is so hard with a warm body within intimate proximity, or well, even ''more'' intimate proximity, Anvori somehow manages ''to'' think well enough to ask, "Slipping?" Though he doesn't sound to invested, his hand reaching to try and shift his hips closer and entwine their legs again.

Entwining is easy, familiar, welcome. There's still ''distraction'' to her, and not the warm-body warm-weyrmate kind. But. "He never was warm. Leiventh. Except maybe in his way. They'd spark, she liked that. But." Leova turns her head to look up to Vrianth, more of a canopy now. "They were having problems. Him and Leiventh. R'hin wouldn't admit to it. I saw... I asked around, some, on the quiet."

News to him, and he stops trying to distract her, giving up for now. "I didn't realize dragons and riders could ... have problems." The implication of his tone being ''with each other'' left unsaid.

"If it is... I think it ''might'' be what happened, over at Telgar," his weyrmate says very quietly. She's cold. "It's rare. A ''dragon'' being not right in the head, anymore." As though it goes against Nature: inherently, world-shakingly ''wrong''. "But we can't let it get around, Anvori. Not yet. Could be something else. And they're dead."

In normal conversations he might be drawn to that coldness, rub the warmth in, bring a laugh and a smile to her face for his continued incorrigibleness. Now, he just holds her, listening both to understand and just to be a listener for her thoughts. "No, we can't," he echoes, "I would like to go see the girls. It'll be hard for them with just the murder aspect, add in the fact their father was already dying and taken too early..."

"Give them the letter," Leova says bleakly. Had she mentioned the letter? "I don't know what else... but we should get there soon. At least Riahla has Zeth. Suireh. I don't even know if she's at Harper. But. They'd know."

"At the same time? Or separately?" The letter. Anvori's face sets in an inscrutable way, his mouth suddenly pressed firm and his glazed eyes looking directly at Vrianth. "When did he give it to you?"

"I..." She has no answer. Except sometimes he does, when she doesn't. "Whatever you think." Leova's hand tightens around his arm. "When? It was... ''sevens'' ago. But it's put away. I can find it." Vrianth's eyes are dark. Yellowed, still. Swift-whirling. Facets may reflect him, but as part of her rider. Any reassurance he draws is his own.

"Separately," decides Anvori, eyes averting from Vrianth abruptly, but not to look at Leova. It pains him, this subject, and the wince at ''sevens'' ago visibly contorts his angular face. "I am not sure the fact he left them one letter to share will sit well at this hour."

"No." Agreement, not disagreement. Then, "Vrianth says she is coping. That Zeth says. Riahla." Leova asks, near-silent, "What are you thinking?"

"Leova," his arms are suddenly crushing so he can bury his face in her neck and hair. He's ''not'' crying.

''She's'' crying, now. Can't get blood from a stone, but: this isn't blood. In this, she's no stone. She never really is. "Our girls."

"When you go," when, not if, Anvori, for once, is valiantly ignoring her crying, "Take me with you." But it's the despairing words of a man who knows it's not possible. No way. No how. He's just ''saying'' it to get it out finally.

That crying's so rough in her throat. It tears her up, and then he. He. She holds him like she could make ''going'' never happen. No. She holds him like she can't not.

He holds her in a crushing embrace and she cries, and they cling to each other, each with their own, slightly different, sorrow-filled reasons.

They'll have to get up. To wash. To clothe. To speak to their children, to explain what they can and that they'll be back, but their cousins have lost their daddy and their cousins need them now. To ''go''. There's Harper, and there's Suireh. There's Riahla, who in time will come. There's a letter to give, but not yet. Not yet.
}}

Logs:Visiting Grief

2015-10-13T06:15:26Z

Rose: Created page with "{{Log |who=K'zin, Suireh |what=K'zin visits a grief-stricken Suireh. |where=Suireh's Quarters, Harper Hall |involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr |day=24 |month=13 |turn=38..."

{{Log
|who=K'zin, Suireh
|what=K'zin visits a grief-stricken Suireh.
|where=Suireh's Quarters, Harper Hall
|involves=Harper Hall, High Reaches Weyr
|day=24
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.12
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon suireh bw.png, Icon k'zin mpathy.jpg,
|log=The evening of day six finds Suireh alone in her room, a tray of food by the door outside, untouched. Had it been summer, it's likely there'd be some sort of insects flittering about the cold, graying slab of herdbeast and the vegetables with the fat solidifying on the surface. The shut door is unlocked, and within the already slender woman seems thinner somehow, the weight of grief heavy on fragile shoulders. She sits at a chair pulled to the tiny, sliver of a window she has rank enough to warrant and looks out into the frosted Fortian landscape, with only the remnant slivers of sunset lending light to the room. For visitors looking for her, most everyone ''knows'' where Master Suireh is and the general reaction is that grimace where it doesn't seem they know quite how to act, but anyone will let K'zin know just where to find her. Someone might even be kind enough to take a visitor all the way up to the obscenely brightly lit Masters' residential corridor.

If one were keen of ear, it might be possible to hear the silence so pregnant with hesitancy that it's like to give birth to an anxious retreat any moment. Hands press to the outside of the door, brown eyes close and a deep breath is drawn before he knocks. "Suireh?" he finds his voice in the moment that follows, "It's Waki. Can I come in?" Were she to open the door for him, he's ''too close'', hands braced on either side of the frame, body having been close to the door itself as if the strength of the wood that made it could lend itself to him.

Some sort of sound sounds from within. Was it assent? The door doesn't open of its own accord at any rate, the woman within not moving.

If only she could see the way K'zin's eyes squeeze shut again, the way he takes the moment to probably draw whatever strength and bravery might be taken from the wood under his fingers into the domain of grief. Then, he reaches to the door handle and lets himself in, stepping in just far enough to slide to the side of the door and close it behind him. "Hi."

Suireh is still sitting, her gaze fixed to that point somewhere outside, though she does move enough, slight thought is, in a chin drop that shakes her hair and allows her to see who it is that's walked in. Her swallow can be heard, it's so silent otherwise, and the dryness of her mouth causes her to work her jaw, bringing up enough saliva to finally utter, "Hi," back. There's a bed, a desk, it's a lovely room with a simple, expensive elegance in its decorations. There's a fine layer of dust though and she- ... well, frankly, she smells a little.

Sometimes, it's the little things-- like smells-- that separate real friends from those trying to use a moment of weakness for some variety of personal gain. Still, real friends who aren't complete idiots don't start with 'take a bath, for Faranth's sake' and K'zin is not the most intelligent bronzerider in the bunch but he seems to have enough tact to take in the room, the woman, ...the smell... and still push off the wall to saunter over to where she sits and drop onto the floor next to her chair, seating himself as though he somehow belongs there (and perhaps many turns ago in another time and under very different circumstances, he did). He doesn't speak for some moments, perhaps trying to sort just what to say now that he's here.

Gray eyes flick down to catch sight of the man at her feet and a soft sound, somewhere between a snort and a grunt, acknowledges his presence. Her hair is unkempt and her eyes look swollen, but her voice, now that it's been allowed to speak one word into the air, tries again with a rote, "Thank you for coming. I'm fine." Suireh doesn't even waver at that lie, one last look for K'in turning back to the window.

"I was fine after my dad died, too." K'zin's grimace colors his tone. It's not that he doesn't believe her, it's just how it was for him. His hand rises, the thumb allowed to scrub across an eyebrow before more fingers join to rub across his chin. "I didn't know-- ''don't'' know if you would want people, and I can go, if you'd rather, I just-- I had to come, in case." In case she wanted people. In case he could help. In case-- something.

"No." There's a sigh. A loud, resigned sigh. "No, stay." She even sounds like she means it, and there's a hitch of emotion in her otherwise devoid voice. Suireh swallows, silently this time, and moves to sit on the edge of her chair, her hands folding primly over her knee. "Stay." Moving brings not only her to life, but the grief back, and she's crying once more, silent tears for now.

There's empathy in K'zin's expression, his eyes vulnerable and pained for Suireh's pain. He shifts up onto his knees, turning to reach and lay his hands on her knees.

Her body twitches at the touch, unused to ''touching'' in the last few days, and she looks at her knee with his hand on it before reaching out to place one of her callused one atop his. It is the oddest time for this question, given she's silently crying for her murdered father. "Why," she's so mystified, "Why do you still find me after all these turns?"

That the question is a surprise might be seen in the flutter of blinks that come as his mind processes the question and seeks an answer. Perhaps the question's never been asked. "I--" He stops because the answer isn't there, but it comes, helplessly, "care. Always have. And when you care, you go, when the person you care about might be hurting or might need you. You just ''go''." It's what you do, if you're K'zin.

It's unclear if Suireh is listening to his answer. Her hand absently pats his and she nods. "You've always been so sweet to me, even when I wasn't to you. I'd hoped-," the harper brushes away her tears with her hands, releasing his, and sits back into the chair. "Thank you for visiting. Master Erablen says it'll fade some day."

K'zin doesn't try to make sure she's heard him. It's not about him in this moment. His eyes linger on her, perhaps trying to garner some greater understanding of what she ''needs'', from the look of her face, from the words she chose (is she choosing, even? or are they just coming out?). His search leaves him with only a sigh. He sits back on his heels, hands finding his own knees where his eyes follow briefly before looking back to her. "Time heals some things." It would probably be nicer, sweeter if he left off there. "Sometimes, it just makes wounds older. Sometimes, it just lets you learn to breathe around the gaping hole in your chest where someone or something you love used to be."

She was with him up until a point and even in her blurred state, somewhere into the latter half of his thoughts, Suireh awakens enough to stare at him oddly. "Do you kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?" she asks, some small token of her personality pushing through.

K'zin's head ducks in embarrassment. No doubt there's a blush on his dusky cheeks. "It's the only one I have," is the only defense he can mount, shaking his head slightly as he looks back up at her. "Not Harper trained." Excuses, excuses.

"In another world," Suireh starts, looking back outside and not at the blushing K'zin. "If you didn't have a girlfriend, this would be the perfect time for us to have grief-driven sex." By stating it, this is obviously not going to be the perfect time to have grief-driven sex. "Isn't that what harper stories are made of? Missed connections, what ifs, dead fathers who only leave one letter to his two daughters."

If K'zin weren't laughing-- chuckling really, in an awkward way-- he might be crying. He rubs the back of his neck. "In another world," he agrees, "in this one, it might break my heart." He shifts so he can sit cross-legged again, but still facing her. "Tragedies," he acknowledges of the harper stories, "and redemptions," is added as his own thought. "One letter," is repeated in murmur, almost disbelieving.

"Do you have a letter?" Suireh asks, words spilling out far more readily now. "One for your girlfriend? For the people you love?"

"N-no?" It's questioning because, "I-- wow." K'zin's hand comes up to rub his face again. "I guess I'm not prepared." Then an odd look, "Was--" R'hin?

"Maybe only old people do that. Maybe only old dragonriders." Write letters to family preemptively. Suireh closes her eyes, unable to squeeze tears away. "I'm tired now. Thank you for visiting."

"Maybe," K'zin doesn't damage the idea with doubt. He gets to his feet slowly. If she were standing, she would probably be wrapped in an embrace before he takes his leave. As is, he steps beside her and reaches to her shoulder, seeking to rest his hand there a pair of moments before squeezing gently. "If you need me for anything, just call for me. I'll come."

"With my imaginary dragon," jokes Suireh, not bitter at all, even after all these turns. But her hand steals up to accept the comfort of his hand on her shoulder and leaves it at that. "Thank you."

"With your harper trained mouth to get an easy favor from the watchrider." The answer is out before K'zin's mind processes just how that might be taken. "I-- I should go." Before he dies of embarrassment or something like it.
|Categories=The Death of R'hin Logs
}}

Logs:Regarding Murder

2015-10-12T22:47:48Z

Rose:

{{Log
|who=Hattie, E'dre,
|what=A Discussion of the Impending Weyr Council Meeting
|where=Council Room, Fort Weyr
|involves=Fort Area
|day=22
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.12
|mentions=Azaylia, Aishani, Oriane, R'hin, Mirinda, M'kris,
|type=Log
|icons-new=Icon Hattie Worried.png, Icon E'dre Not Pleased.jpg,
|log=There could be any number of reasons why Fort’s Weyrwoman is seemingly progressively more grim as the autumn and winter months have worn on, but at least there is an evident explanation for today, given the subject matter that Elaruth shares with Wroth when she reaches for the brown. << She asks to talk about the ‘Reachian. And the idiot woman. >> It can’t be the little queen’s own phrasing that she uses, for it even has something of Hattie’s inflections about it, but the message is dutifully repeated nonetheless. She needn’t say where – Hattie doesn’t seem to manage much time beyond the council room and caverns these days.

Wroth is drowsy when Elaruth’s reach touches him and so his reply is far more subdued than it normally would be. << He will be there shortly. >> He fades from her then to return to his nap, his hide barely warmed in the winter sun. E’dre enters the council room, his face refreshed looking with the tan that his trip gave him. He’s dressed in his riding leathers, though he takes the time to strip his jacket off and toss it over a chair before he sits at his usual chair. “I’m unclear as to ‘’which’’ woman is the idiot, but otherwise,” he begins with a lifted brow directed at her, “I’m prepared for the discussion we’re set to have.”

“Are you?” Hattie near demands from her seat at the head of the table, the work stacked before her a neat little barrier between her and him – and the world – whether she realises it or not. “Ready, that is,” she clarifies. “If we’re to go to Council over this whole sorry affair...” She shakes her head. “Why none of this for Azaylia or Aishani... No-one questions how many ‘’queenriders’’ they lose...” is nothing more than bitter mutterings, still tainted by long-cold grief. “If we go to Council, you can’t just go saying any old thing you please. I think Oriane’s a fool, but I won’t be ‘’saying so’’ in so many words.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” E’dre counters, lifting both brows high. “I’m not going to run my mouth and lose my temper,” he clarifies, “but if no one else will bring up the obvious, I certainly will.” He leans back in his chair, arms folding in front of him as he scowls at her self-created barrier. “Our Weyrs are little better than the Holds, killing each other for whatever reason best suits the current mood. And you have to realize,” he continues, lifting his gaze back to hers as he smoothes out his scowl into a more neutral plane. “That the only reason ‘’this’’ is going to council is because of Monaco. There’s something to gain there, isn’t there?”

“Because if you show your hand, the next person anyone will be aiming to manipulate will be ‘’you’’,” Hattie warns lowly, reaching across the hidework to sip at the dregs of icy tea. “I highly doubt that it’s just a matter of High Reaches’ leaders wanting justice for R’hin,” she agrees. “Their ties with Monaco have been rather odd for turns now, not that I really have a leg to stand on there, with my former juniors now Southern’s leaders. If they can get a controlling interest in how the place runs, I doubt they’d pass up the opportunity. This is ‘’if’’ anyone agrees with their line of thought concerning the succession.”

“This is all based on the assumption that R’hin’s death was a plotted murder and the Weyrleader had no cause for committing it,” E’dre replies blandly, “we’re already asked to proceed like judgement has come to pass. That alone seems suspicious.” He shrugs a shoulder and moves to rest a hand on the table. He drums his fingers as he collects his thoughts. “We’re in an Interval,” he continues, tapping onto the subject of Ali’s position, “and there aren’t as many queens as there might be within each Weyr. It stands to reason that we shift them when the need arises. But since Oriane doesn’t feel capable to run her own Weyr under these circumstances, and the junior is the accused's daughter, I guess we’re in the position that someone must be placed there.” He shakes his head. “And if we’re going to be shifting a queen, why shouldn’t we go so far as shifting a bronze or brownrider? The leadership is too shaky as it stands now.”

“Oriane or Mirinda passing judgement are equally displeasing options.” Hattie lapses into silence, seemingly about to say no more, but then she shakes her head and murmurs, “There’s no telling how any of this will unfold until everyone’s arguments have been put forth,” with a twitch of her shoulders. “For Oriane to take M’kris into custody and have resigned her knot is foolish. No matter what she could be trying to protect of her reputation or morals, she’ll be remembered for the mess she’s made more than anything else.” She cannot quite hide the flick of her eyes towards the ceiling. “I don’t want Mirinda in charge any more than I want Oriane to keep her knot, even if she could hold onto it, but it might not be as simple a matter as moving in new blood. And truly, even ‘’that’’ will not be simple. We may be autonomous, but none of us are impartial, or oblivious.”

“I don’t want to pass judgement on someone’s decision made under extreme pressure and likely shock,” E’dre adds his thoughts following Hattie’s lapse into silence. “She may regret her rashness later or she may not.” He rubs at his temple with a forefinger. “It’ll be interesting to see how the Council unfolds and where people choose to stand. I think until we can suss out the rest of the Weyr’s reactions and discuss their motives, we really can’t do much.” He pauses, looking at the wall behind Hattie with a distant expression. “This isn’t the first time I’ve found myself feeling relief that I am no longer a Reachian. I imagine,” he adds sourly, looking back to Hattie with the same distance to his gaze, “it won’t be the last.”

“Or she might not have been shocked at all.” There’s no attempt on Hattie’s part to keep it from being a damning condemnation, whether she seems to believe that it’s true or otherwise. “As it is, there may be no time to discuss anything when the time comes,” she goes on, watching E’dre and not watching him at the same time. “You’re not bound to agree with me, should it come down to any rounds of votes. ‘’I’’ won’t hold it against you if you don’t.” The implication being that others might. “Whatever happens, it’s not a pissing contest. Too many goldriders may have lost their lives at the ‘Reaches for me to ever trust them, but I won’t vote against what they desire just to spite them. We need to do what’s best for ‘’us’’... And sometimes, what we can live with.”

“Before we head into that Council, we should consider what is best for ‘’us’’,” E’dre agrees, waving between the space between them and lifting a hand to wave over his shoulder to indicate the Weyr at large. “And it may very well be best for Fort to come out agreeing on this point rather than each of us casting a different vote. I see absolutely no reason to show anything but a stable leadership between the two of us. If you give me your opinion now, I’ll respect it and we can agree to what we may vote on prior to the meeting. If things change due to knowledge we gain, well, at least we tried. We can always have Wroth and Elaruth talk for us while we listen.” He shrugs, splaying his fingers out on the table. “I haven’t been to one of these before, so your guidance will be appreciated.”

“I’m not sure that I have any more of an opinion right now than what I’ve told you,” Hattie admits somewhat reluctantly. “But you’re right. It wouldn’t be a bad thing for them to speak for us, provided they can each deliver accurate information without colouring it with their own thoughts.” She leans back in her chair and lets her head drop back for a moment. “I don’t have any particular investment in Monaco, but I’d rather no-one else did either. If it’s a choice between making a move for us and letting someone else do the same...” When she straightens again, she grips the edge of the table and hauls herself forward, as if she needs the support. “I can make you notes about everything I know about the others Weyrleaders. Some of the juniors. If you don’t mind playing pretend, we can even run through what it’s like at Council.”

“I’m sure Elaruth is more reliable than Wroth,” E’dre admits dryly, “but if the stakes are high and it involves the strength of our leadership, he’ll behave as best as he can. Elaruth doesn’t offend him, so he should be fine.” He winces slightly and then rubs at his temple again with a grimace. “He says he will be.” The mention of pretend has him smiling, despite the gravity of their discussion. “I’ve just returned from spending time with my children. I’m well prepared to play more pretend. Especially if it’ll serve us well to do it. And yes, I’ve met all of the Weyrleaders over the turns but none of them have recently come calling to me.” He shrugs at this, unbothered by that admission, “so let’s haggle this tidbit out and then we can move onto more enjoyable pursuits.”

“Maybe you can,” Hattie says under her breath. “I’m beginning to forget what they are.” She’s not bitter, for all the darkness of her words, her answer matter of fact and nothing more. “I’ll need some time to write everything down and put into manageable segments, or you’re not going to remember any of it. I don’t suppose I need say that what I tell you doesn’t go beyond yourself. I might be up for gearing for battle, but I’m not going to give anyone else the means to harm someone else’s leadership unnecessarily.” Thumb and forefinger press to the bridge of her nose. “I can have everything ready by this evening, if you’re willing to dedicate the time.”

“That sounds reasonable to me. How about we have dinner in here then?” E’dre asks as he scoots his chair back with an audible scrape to the floor. “I’ll let you return to your work,” he continues as he heaves himself up with a small grunt for the effort. “I’ll see you for dinner and we can take as much time as you need,” E’dre continues and for someone who has been away from their weyrmate for the last few days, he seems a little ‘’too’’ eager for the opportunity. “Just have Elaruth send word to Wroth. We can practice that too,” he adds with a crooked smile, “and I’ll bring a meal here.”

Hattie’s only response is a bob of her head and a smile that doesn’t make it past a thin, strained thing. She directs her focus back to her work just as it seems E’dre is headed outside, but there’s little interest there for the tasks that lie before her. Hour upon hour will pass, and nothing much will change at all, save for the stack of hidework growing smaller and the appearance of a set of notes in its place. Upon his return, it might seem like the Weyrwoman hasn’t moved at all.
}}

Suireh

2015-10-12T02:12:00Z

Rose:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Suireh.jpg
|body=== Description ==
A steadiness prevails about this slight teenager, from the arch of slender brows over large, steadfast gray eyes and the way her thin lips are set in an ever-so neutral expression near constantly. Standing just shy of five feet, Suireh is a lithe girl, her thin carriage carried in what the kind might call regal, while the uncharitable might discern notes of an insolent arrogance, a certain better-than-you demeanor. Her glossy dark hair is generally kept in two plaits that fall down her back to her waist. Her attire is a predominately white shift dress with pale blue trim, over which she wears a fur vest that cuts just above her waist. On her feet are a pair of thin suede slippers dyed harper blue.

= WYSK =
* Daughter of former Weyrleader pair, Satiet and R'hin at High reaches. Twin to Riahla. Niece of Anvori and Leova. Was born at the Weyr and moved away just prior to her mother's death to live with her maternal grandmother until her uncle brought them back to the Weyr.

* Apprenticed at Harper Hall at twelve, but then quit after a year due to homesickness.

* Stood for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch and then the subsequent Monaco clutch and failed to Impress. It was no secret she was 'groomed' for gold at Monaco.

* Returned to Harper Hall with recommendations from Rorkes, her vocal instructor, and begged her way back in. Then tested well enough into automatic senior apprenticeship.

* Was promoted to Journeyman, a month shy of turning 19. Tapped initially as composition and vocalization Master Berme's special student.

* Ended up switching to being Masterharper Vesik's errand girl. There's a lot of gossip as to how she came into her position.

* Went off the grid shortly after her grandfather passed away and between the months 2 and 8 of turn 36, was seen in various small venues (small holds, cotholds, trading camps) from Tillek to Igen.

= Family =
{{Family}}

= Relationships =
== Harper Life ==
* [[Vesik]] - As you wish.
* Erablen - Making sense of the chaos of my mind.
* [[N'rov]] - You put me at ease. But.

== My Past ==
* [[Anvori]] - In retrospect, I'm sorry I shut you out of my life after I grew up.
* Jaspen - Life is simple with you, but I cannot stay simple for you.
* [[Leova]] - The mother I never had. The mother I wish I had.
* [[R'hin]] - Even in death, you're predictable, but I'd be lying if I said I thought it would happen now. Any time. I don't know, it's complicated.
* [[Riahla]] - We only have each other now. Let's try not to waste it.
* [[Satiet]] - My idol. But... I don't even know if I know who you were.

=Logs =

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

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

=Icons=
{{Icons}}

}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Harpers]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Monaco_Weyr]]

Suireh

2015-10-11T23:21:57Z

Rose:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Suireh.jpg
|body=== Description ==
A steadiness prevails about this slight teenager, from the arch of slender brows over large, steadfast gray eyes and the way her thin lips are set in an ever-so neutral expression near constantly. Standing just shy of five feet, Suireh is a lithe girl, her thin carriage carried in what the kind might call regal, while the uncharitable might discern notes of an insolent arrogance, a certain better-than-you demeanor. Her glossy dark hair is generally kept in two plaits that fall down her back to her waist. Her attire is a predominately white shift dress with pale blue trim, over which she wears a fur vest that cuts just above her waist. On her feet are a pair of thin suede slippers dyed harper blue.

= WYSK =
* Daughter of former Weyrleader pair, Satiet and R'hin at High reaches. Twin to Riahla. Niece of Anvori and Leova. Was born at the Weyr and moved away just prior to her mother's death to live with her maternal grandmother until her uncle brought them back to the Weyr.

* Apprenticed at Harper Hall at twelve, but then quit after a year due to homesickness.

* Stood for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch and then the subsequent Monaco clutch and failed to Impress. It was no secret she was 'groomed' for gold at Monaco.

* Returned to Harper Hall with recommendations from Rorkes, her vocal instructor, and begged her way back in. Then tested well enough into automatic senior apprenticeship.

* Was promoted to Journeyman, a month shy of turning 19. Tapped initially as composition and vocalization Master Berme's special student.

* Ended up switching to being Masterharper Vesik's errand girl. There's a lot of gossip as to how she came into her position.

* Went off the grid shortly after her grandfather passed away and between the months 2 and 8 of turn 36, was seen in various small venues (small holds, cotholds, trading camps) from Tillek to Igen.

= Relationships =
== Harper Life ==
* [[Vesik]] - As you wish.
* Erablen - Making sense of the chaos of my mind.
* [[N'rov]] - You put me at ease. But.

== My Past ==
* [[Anvori]] - In retrospect, I'm sorry I shut you out of my life after I grew up.
* Jaspen - Life is simple with you, but I cannot stay simple for you.
* [[Leova]] - The mother I never had. The mother I wish I had.
* [[R'hin]] - Even in death, you're predictable, but I'd be lying if I said I thought it would happen now. Any time. I don't know, it's complicated.
* [[Riahla]] - We only have each other now. Let's try not to waste it.
* [[Satiet]] - My idol. But... I don't even know if I know who you were.

=Logs =

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

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

=Icons=
{{Icons}}

}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Harpers]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Monaco_Weyr]]

Suireh

2015-10-11T23:18:49Z

Rose:

{{ProfileTabs
|picture=Suireh.jpg
|body=== Description ==
A steadiness prevails about this slight teenager, from the arch of slender brows over large, steadfast gray eyes and the way her thin lips are set in an ever-so neutral expression near constantly. Standing just shy of five feet, Suireh is a lithe girl, her thin carriage carried in what the kind might call regal, while the uncharitable might discern notes of an insolent arrogance, a certain better-than-you demeanor. Her glossy dark hair is generally kept in two plaits that fall down her back to her waist. Her attire is a predominately white shift dress with pale blue trim, over which she wears a fur vest that cuts just above her waist. On her feet are a pair of thin suede slippers dyed harper blue.

= WYSK =
* Daughter of former Weyrleader pair, Satiet and R'hin at High reaches. Twin to Riahla. Niece of Anvori and Leova. Was born at the Weyr and moved away just prior to her mother's death to live with her maternal grandmother until her uncle brought them back to the Weyr.

* Apprenticed at Harper Hall at twelve, but then quit after a year due to homesickness.

* Stood for Ysavaeth and Cadejoth's clutch and then the subsequent Monaco clutch and failed to Impress. It was no secret she was 'groomed' for gold at Monaco.

* Returned to Harper Hall with recommendations from Rorkes, her vocal instructor, and begged her way back in. Then tested well enough into automatic senior apprenticeship.

* Was promoted to Journeyman, a month shy of turning 19. Tapped initially as composition and vocalization Master Berme's special student.

* Ended up switching to being Masterharper Vesik's errand girl. There's a lot of gossip as to how she came into her position.

* Went off the grid shortly after her grandfather passed away and between the months 2 and 8 of turn 36, was seen in various small venues (small holds, cotholds, trading camps) from Tillek to Igen.

= Relationships =
== Harper Life ==
* [[Vesik]] - As you wish.
* Erablen - Making sense of the chaos of my mind.
* [[N'rov]] - You put me at ease. But.

== My Past ==
* [[Anvori]] - In retrospect, I'm sorry I shut you out of my life after I grew up.
* Jaspen - Life is simple with you, but I cannot stay simple for you.
* [[Leova]] - The mother I never had. The mother I wish I had.
* [[R'hin]] - Even in death, you're predictable, but I'd be lying if I said I thought it would happen now. Any time. I don't know, it's complicated.
* [[Riahla]] - We only have each other now. Let's try not to waste it.
* [[Satiet]] - My idol. But... I don't even know if I know who you were.

=Logs =

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

=Mentioned=
{{#ifexist: {{BASEPAGENAME}}/Mentions | {{:{{BASEPAGENAME}}/ST}} | }}

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

=Icons=
{{Icons}}

}}

[[Category:Characters]]
[[Category:Crafters]]
[[Category:Harpers]]
[[Category:Greater_Pern]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Area]]
[[Category:High_Reaches_Weyr]]
[[Category:Monaco_Weyr]]

Logs:Orphaned

2015-10-11T05:55:07Z

Rose:

{{Log
|who=Suireh
|what=Suireh reacts.
|where=Harper Hall
|involves=Harper Hall, Healer Hall, High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.10
|mentions=R'hin, Riahla, Satiet
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon suireh pensive.png,
|log=She found out while teaching a class of apprentices on the theories of chords and how they relate to compositions and emotion. It was fitting really that she was in the middle of a minor major seventh. It was something that would amuse her later.

She remembered overhearing the drums outside and some disturbance at Crom, but dismissing the rest of the message. Drums had never been her forte, and beyond knowing the codes for major events and areas, everything else could be a completely foreign dialect.

But it was the moments after the young drummer senior apprentice sent to her classroom with the message appeared at the doorway, that Suireh could not remember. She would later learn what had happened, but none of what happened seemed like it was happening to ''her''.

She was told she had let out a cry and had fainted.

She was told the class had been dismissed by one of her journeymen.

She was told that she had raved for hours before passing out and then woke up raving again about having to ''find'' her father and mother.

She was told she had been put in a healer's care for a few days.

She was told her sister had come to visit, but had left because-, well Monaco.

She could remember none of it in the wake of the seering, gut-wrenching pain when she finally could think straight. It hurt more this time around than when she remembered her mother passing.

She just hurt everywhere in places she had not realized she could hurt again.
}}

Logs:Orphaned

2015-10-11T05:42:38Z

Rose: Created page with "{{Log |who=Suireh |what=Suireh reacts. |where=Harper Hall |involves=Harper Hall, Healer Hall, High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold |day=18 |month=13 |turn=38 |IP=Interval |IP2=10 |gam..."

{{Log
|who=Suireh
|what=Suireh reacts.
|where=Harper Hall
|involves=Harper Hall, Healer Hall, High Reaches Weyr, Crom Hold
|day=18
|month=13
|turn=38
|IP=Interval
|IP2=10
|gamedate=2015.10.10
|mentions=R'hin, Riahla
|type=Vignette
|icons-new=Icon suireh pensive.png,
|log=She found out while teaching a class of apprentices on the theories of chords and how they relate to compositions and emotion. It was fitting really that she was in the middle of a minor major seventh. It was something that would amuse her later.

She remembered overhearing the drums outside and some disturbance at Crom, but dismissing the rest of the message. Drums had never been her forte, and beyond knowing the codes for major events and areas, everything else could be a completely foreign dialect.

But it was the moments after the young drummer senior apprentice sent to her classroom with the message appeared at the doorway, that Suireh could not remember. She would later learn what had happened, but none of what happened seemed like it was happening to ''her''.

She was told she had let out a cry and had fainted.

She was told the class had been dismissed by one of her journeymen.

She was told that she had raved for hours before passing out and then woke up raving again about having to ''find'' her father and mother.

She was told she had been put in a healer's care for a few days.

She was told her sister had come to visit, but had left because-, well Monaco.

She could remember none of it in the wake of the seering, gut-wrenching pain when she finally could think straight. It hurt more this time around than when she remembered her mother passing.

She just hurt everywhere in places she had not realized she could hurt again.
}}

Kisva

2015-09-24T05:00:18Z

Rose:

{{Profile
|picture=Kisva.jpg
|body={{wysk}}

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== RP Logs ==

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File:Kisva.jpg

2015-09-24T05:00:00Z

Rose: Rose uploaded a new version of File:Kisva.jpg

File:Kisva.jpg

2015-09-24T04:57:55Z

Rose: